From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
Subject: giving yourself the flavor of Marilyn Monroe's ear
Date: 14 Dec 92 18:39:45 GMT
Followup-To: alt.non.sequitur
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest)


        Using her magical powers she turned herself into a cauldron of soup
served at a diplomatic dinner (main course: roast diplomats) at the Pavlovian
Embassy in Ottawa.  But instead of being able to control the minds and bodies
of those who ate her, she was digested in the usual way and perished.  Her
identical twin brother became a piece of avant-garde art in the National
Gallery, and a janitor threw him away on purpose.  In the dumpster he devised
a device and a secret plan for planning secretions, but soon the beavers
drove their garbage truck up, emptied the dumpster into it, and compressed
him to debt.
        Their mother became the Mississippi River and sought revenge on
nobody in particular for the demise of her children and the rising cost of
funeral insurance.  She jumped her banks and savings and loans and created
hundreds of horseshoe lakes full of rusty horseshoes made of zinc alloyed
with commercially-valuable rare-earth metals, not to mention catfish, bulbuls,
and magical baseball caps that made their wearers think that they were
Winona Ryder's armpit hair.  She sent cold-resistant alligators as far north
as Minnesota, where they interbred with humans by projecting images of
themselves as nubile brunettes, producing remarkable hybrids with scaly skin,
long snouts, IQs of over 200, and a talent for needlepoint and counterpoint.
Many of them stitched twelve-part fugues onto burlap for fun.  Others retained
their powers of illusion and allusion, and assumed the identities of most
of the attractive brunettes in New York City, devouring their originals and
marrying fine young men.
        I missed most of this, being cleverly disguised as William Shatner's
best toupee for most of the period.  A nymphomaniac at a Star Trek convention
tore me off, despite the surgical adhesive that held me to the head of the
great overactor, and only by disguising myself as a Lt. Uhura impersonator
was I able to escape being torn to shreds.  I sneaked into a warehouse,
chased by a thousand sex-mad nerds who had all had Lt. Uhura fetishes since
grade school and usually had to resort to black prostitutes with straightened
hair because no self-respecting black woman would have anything to do with
them.  Fortunately there was a crate of crate costumes there, and I opened
it, put one on, and assumed the form of a crate.  As is usual in such cases,
I actually became a crate, and to my horror I was a crate of crate costumes.
I realized that what I contained were not merely crate costumes, but costumes
representing crates of costumes representing crates of costumes...on to an
infinite recursion.  The Uhura-mad men, unconsolable over the loss of a
youthful, living image of their dream-woman, opened up all the crates of
crate costumes (no use trying to write out the recursion), including me,
and put them on.  When they ran out they opened up some of the crates of
crate costumes, the ones that had been their fellows, until everyone was a
crate of crate costumes.  Within minutes we were shipped to novelty shops
around the world, where some sinister left-handed mind-controlling influence
caused the owners to give away our contents for free or at very low prices.
Millions of people put on crate of crate costumes costumes, and became
crates of crate costumes.  Nobody had any idea of how to take the costumes
off, for indeed the metamorphoses were permanent, and soon a large fraction
of humanity had become crates of crate costumes.
        Someone devised a Sarah Ferguson costume to put on the people who
had become crates of crate costumes, but whenever a crate was with difficulty
stuffed into one, the result was a dead dead ringer for Fergie.  Necrophilia
flourished for a bit, but thousands of dead Fergies were not much better
than crates.  Red-haired wigs became cheap and popular for a time.  Most
of the crates of crate costumes ended up mixed with coal and burned at
power and glory generating plants, even though the screams gave rise to a
disconcerting concert despite concerted efforts to muffle them with mufflers.
 
Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre