From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: steel artichokes breast-feeding the ewes
Date: 29 Sep 92 14:25:24 GMT
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest)


	As we crested the butte in her turbocharged jicama, the mountain
of used condoms, dental dams, and other such rubber goods came into view.
We were both overawed at the sight and vomited; fortunately it was not a
convertible and the windows were not merely shut but entirely opaque.
We plunged off the donkey path and down a steep cliff and were killed.
	Our new incarnations met in Schenectady in 1908.  I had been
reborn as a platypus in the zoo and she as a naughty little boy with
golden curls he had torn from his older sister's scalp.  He gouged my
right eye out with a stick late on Friday night, and was punished by
being impaled on a plowshare and dying of colon cancer at age 79 after
a rich, productive, and happy life.  I was reincarnated again as his
little sister whom he accidentally pitched into a cauldron of boiling
lye, then as his little brother whom he let drown in the ol' swimmin'
hole where the circus elephants defecated, then as his Gordon setter
which he shot dead while penguin hunting in the Adirondacks, as his
infant daughter for whom he put sugar of lead instead of sugar in her
baby formula, as his young son whom he accidentally stabbed dead and
then carelessly put in the meat grinder and made into sausages, and
as his stunningly beautiful second wife whom he poisoned with strychnine.
	Things settled down.  I spent a few years as the Peruvian economy,
and was then reincarnated as a boy in Kansas.  I would walk atop the
high sugar cane and burrow under the mango trees, replace little girls'
brains with my own and expose their bodies shamefully in public places,
design huge killer robots to massacre townsfolk in their beds, unleash
plagues of pink elephants to give public lectures on Nietzsche and
trample the crops, hide in people's nostrils, and deep-fry people's pets.
I was a melancholy but high-spirited young boy, and occasionally a wanton
and flirtatious young girl, and on public holidays a sententious old
hermaphrodite who played the fool and the sousaphone on the roof of the
First Church of Satan just off the lead-paved town square, and everybody
in town loved the thought of my dying horribly.
	In 1856 they disemboweled a gnu and stuffed me inside where I
suffocated, and so the town was rid of me.  I called out a curse with my
dying breath, and ever since then the town has been featured in newspaper
and magazine articles, mentioned on the radio, mentioned on television,
used as a test market by thousands of corporations, torn down and been
rebuilt annually, plagued with public-opinion hamsters, chopped up and
mixed with celery and croutons and used to stuff overstuffed furniture,
poured on troubled waters, sent to refineries and made into gasoline,
used as a feedstock for plastics, invaded by the Italians and Paraguayans,
and dusted with powdered sugar and fed to drunken Inuit on special occasions.
My current incarnation is upset that the curse has been so ineffective.

Mark., I can't sleep nights; days I stagger around
gooley@netcom.com