From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
Subject: Baku sings Irish excretion ceremony hymns, eleven at film
Date: 28 Dec 92 23:21:15 GMT
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley,alt.butt.harp
Organization: The Gorilla-Shaped Cookie Trust, GmbH


	Melanie became a blender rather than go out on a date with me.
I wept as her golden hair became the blender-jar's lid, and so forth.
Vanessa developed a snout and sharp teeth, and tore out her own intestines
rather than see _La Boheme_ with me, though she loved opera.  Michelle
had herself sealed inside a 15-ounce can of pinto beans, Sally grew a
beard and performed a double mastectomy on herself with the Girl Scout
pocket knife she still carried for cutting up Girl Scouts, Claire became
a Buddhist nun (aged 76), Conchita had her skin and skeleton replaced
with those of a large dog, Sheri became a case of Amontillado bricked up
inside a wall by a madman named Montresor, Valerie became s six-year-old
boy, Helen became a giant wooden horse, Laura became a bay tree.  I
was hounded from town to town because women I asked out on dates had
a way of changing into people or objects I found uninteresting.
	I tried asking out horseshoes, lumps of lead-bismuth alloy,
bottles of ketchup, motorcyles, sections of concrete sewer pipe, and so
on.  Some of the smaller objects seemed to have no objection to being
carried, but none of them metamorphosed into humans.  I thought that one
of my invitations stripped the gold plating from a cheap wristwatch, but
that might have been my imagination.
	I began to ask out abstract things: the nature of God, the concept
of liberty, equilateral triangles, infinite series.  Green's Theorem
became a magnificent Titian-haired beauty with a Scots accent and a
raunchy sense of humor, but thousands of enraged mathematicians beat me
nearly to death with chalk and Rubik's Cubes until the Theorem agreed to
become her usual self.  I was heartbroken: her pale woman-skin had been
impossibly soft and smooth, her alto voice arousing, her caresses entrancing.
	I hocked my diamond tiara and with the proceeds joined a radiocarbon
dating service.  The level of Carbon 14, the smarmy bearded balding man who
talked me into signing up informed me, was a certain measure of compatibility.
With a Geiger counter and a violinist and a group of Germans who got that
joke, he measured my radiocarbon and radio reception.  "You've been dead
for 5760 years," he informed me, stroking his hair back and causing a
handful of it to fall out.  "No wonder women are disgusted by you."
	"May I have a refund?"  I asked.
	"No," he said, grinning.  "You signed the contract, sucker."
	"I'll put a whammy on you," I said, and he just laughed.  The
goddess Athena, a personal friend, borrowed a thunderbolt from her daddy
and struck him and the others dead and set the building ablaze.  Unfortunately,
Athena was not such a friend of mine as to impersonate a human woman for
me, as happens in ingenious anonymous stories that I should have written,
so that I had to be content with the burnt-mutton smell in the air and
the hope of a timely death.

Mark., story of my life
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre