From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
Subject: tufted paradise from liquor-store pederasty
Date: 5 Nov 92 18:49:48 GMT
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest)


	She was spontaneously generated from a piece of Bologna (or
was it Padua?) bought at a Purple Chicken all-night discount hydrocarbon
convenience store and Scientology chapel, shipped by fuel-injected
scrotum to Paraguay, and left to rot in the Botanical Gardens by
a one-nostriled old woman of fifteen.  Apart from a persistent
smell of garlic that no changes in diet, hygiene, sexual habits,
government, computer vendor, malt liquor, religion, brand of condom,
type of handcuffs, or sense of aqueous or vitreous humor could remove,
she was an extraordinary woman, indistinguishable in any way from
millions of other extraordinary faceless people sprinkled over the
globe like so much talcum and gunpowder green tea.
	He called her on the tin-can telephone that fateful night.
She did not answer because she was a small glass paperweight in the
office of the flatulent Professor von Schlepp, the renowned transvestite
and injection-molding machine and expert on eating disorders: he himself
would eat at least six disorders a day, reducing the entropy of the
universe and oxidizing several tons of magnesium, carbon, and scrap zinc
when he felt like Edith Piaf or a dish of Edith's pilaf.  She sat or lay
there atop a stack of papers, including Pudendum's on the joys of necrosis,
Ciccone's on chutzpah and marketing and hair bleach, Quixote's on charging
windmills of up to 150 farads, and Hitler's on personal experience of the
eternal torments of Hell.  Presently a quick-change artist disguised as
the professor`s buxom secretary smashed the office window and levitated into
the room through the tiny opening.  He fell with a crash to the floor,
causing it to give way, and in fact the entire building, put up in the
1640s by a corrupt contractor from 23rd-century Styria in return for a
handul of flawed zircons and roast maidenheads, was so shoddy as to collapse
inward into a tidy little pile of debris; a quick change into a piece of
coagulated rubber latex saved the false secretary from death by being
crushed but ensured his death by becoming latex.  The paperweight shattered,
but the shards wrapped themselves up in plain orange paper and mailed
themselves to Kuwait in time for the Bock Beer Festival, which the Shi'ites
protested by encapsulating in acyrlic and sealing inside a vastly oversized
copy of the Kaaba.
	The blonde refused to return my calls, and I guessed rightly that
she had metamorphosed into a male model and wanted nothing to do with me.
I bought a pair of her dainty steel gauntlets, now far too small, at the
Coprophagy Society's rummage sale on Yonge Street in an alternative universe's
Toronto: in that universe, Canada is a monarchy ruled by a Royal family
of dwarfs (none over 4'0"), Margaret Atwood is a piece of pig iron, George
Bush is named not George Herbert Walker Bush but George of the Jungle Bush,
the most common automobile engine in North America is a 15-cylinder radial,
the National Football League is a religious organization, I am married to
a nice, devout, dark-haired, slightly homely Italian girl named Madonna,
and I am not circumcised.  Unfortunately, the me in that universe won't
let me stay.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
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