From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: freeze-dried gullibility in plethora sauce
Followup-To: alt.non.sequitur
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 
Date: Mon, 5 Oct 1992 02:02:19 GMT

	Misunderstood, maligned, minced into tiny little morsels ready to
be sauteed in mineral oil and carnauba wax, fed to rotary-toothed piranhas,
excreted by giant sloths and hubrises and pigmy lustfulnesses, I endured for
long hours (sixty-three minutes and forty-seven point five three seconds
approximately) the pain and suffering and joy and deep-fried angst of being.
At length -- about six foot one -- I came out of the Costuming Department
in my tapir costume and proceeded to Garbage Dump No. 17 on the south shore
of Long Island.  The bounty hunters were after me at once after a few days,
and eventually I was in the zoo, behind the tantalum-tungsten-alloy bars of
a cage, a sign giving the vernacular name of a species other than the one I
was impersonating, and the scientific name, _Tacitus bellus_, of a rosette
succulent native to Chihuahua and much favored by the breed of dogs as an
aphrodesiac.
	It was boring posing as a tapir and anyhow I was fabulously wealthy
and had no need of such employment, but I stayed there for several months
while they tried to breed me.  Frankly, the females were pretty poor specimens
that had obviously let themselves be captured in the hope of finding mates in
a zoo.  Eventually I disguised myself as a piece of cotton candy and a little
boy of four ate me, which did not allow me to take control of his body as I
had hoped.  Instead I passed through his digestive tract and was excreted
directly into the Thames, where I grabbed onto a passing Australian black swan
which hauled me ashore.  I went to Sotheby's and put on a collection of Elvis
Presley clothing up for auction, and left without any interference apart from
a mob of enraged auctioneers, security guards, would-be purchasers of the
clothing, Scotland Yard detectives, cheap prostitutes, retired railway workers
and their retired railways, Labour MPs, fishmongers, warmongers, whoremongers,
ironmongers, and costermongers.
	I nipped into a handy brick wall and came out disguised as Aneurin
Bevan, forgetting that he had been dead for some years.  This mattered not at
all, and my apparently-decomposing appearance turned no heads, but presently
I disguised myself as an American tourist's 36-millimeter camera and let myself
be used to take pictures of a pile of horse manure near Buckingham Palace, a
pool of vomit near a pub, a freshly-killed pigeon in Trafalgar Square, and
other pleasant London sites.  I arranged to have myself stolen by a Cockney
youth of forty-seven, who took me to a local fence made of stained redwood and
received the price of a pack of candy cigarettes for me.  Eventually I made my
way to Ascot as one of the runners, came in dead last, sneaked off in disgust
and reappeared as an Ascot around the neck of Sir Percival Blythering-Smythe,
a ficticious landowner and devotee of Morgan motorcars, pedophily, golf, fried
octopus, women's undergarments, and novels by John Cowper Powys.  He took me
off when he got home, and when he carried the inflatable little-girl doll into
his room I escaped into the pages of _Wolf Solent_, becoming the title
character and falling in love with the beautiful Gerda Torp.  Bored with Powys'
hints of hideous doings at Lenty Pond that I could never make out, I killed
Gerda's father with the tombstone of Letitia Snugg which he was carving at the
time, chopped up her mother and siblings and made them into a huge pie, ran
amuck with a Gatling gun in the village, and in general made a nuisance of
myself.  Powys was understandably furious, and booted me out.  I escaped into
_Wood and Stone_, becoming Leo's Hill, but I kept caving in wherever anyone
tried to quarry anything out of me, and so I killed off three of the principal
characters before Powys was on to me.
	I considered other literary escapades, but instead I hid in a tank of
aviation kerosene and had myself pumped into an Airbus headed for Chicago.  I
was nearly sucked into a starboard engine, but I braced myself and blocked the
fuel line.  The engine failed on landing, but the pilots brought the plane in
safely, only to have some idiot in a Cessna smash into its tail after the plane
was safely parked at the jetway.  I sneaked out of the tank and disguised
myself as a senior pilot, got plastered in the pilot's lounge and enjoyed the
feel of the drying plaster to excess, then took a rubber welcome mat to the
nearby Sherrison hotel, where I had the desk clerk sent up by room service.
She peeled off the disguise that I had thought her face, revealing herself to
be my second-grade teacher, Miss Finster, as lovely and lissom and flavorful as
she had been in my youth.  One kiss from her and I was seven again, and she
led me through the bathroom door into the classroom where I rejoined the other
three-legged children and learned about integral calculus for the first time
as she disrobed.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
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