From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: defeatist groins in toothpaste jelly
Followup-To: alt.non.sequitur
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 
Date: Tue, 6 Oct 1992 17:50:14 GMT

	My mercury tank was almost empty when I staggered into the hog
merchant's navel and collapsed on a chaise longue of fragrant lint.  A
porpoise in jackboots and a clinging rubber dress ministered to none of
my needs, and kept giggling when I took refreshing sips of toluene and
benzaldehyde from the tie-dyed carboys.  Presently I climbed into the
liver of an express prostitute and in a matter of weeks she was in Times
Square (Excrementon, Ontario) bias-plying her trade with polyester belts
and Spandex (TM), and I burrowed through her, penetrating her body wall
and emerging just below the ribcage while she was rubbing banana peels on
a client's bald pate in a luxurious palace built for the visit of Queen
Victoria but never used.  As the woman bled to death I apologized heartily
and excused myself, farting nascent chlorine and proceeding to the library.
	A tall woman dressed as a girl of five in lederhosen, Cornish
pasties, pieces of bismuth foil, and purple construction paper was standing
on the huge table there, softly singing "Loch Lomond" in a thick Norwegian
accent.  Her heavy brown hair (density approx. 6.72 g/cc) was shorn to within
an inch of her head on her right, but reached to her fine ($50 for the first
offense, DM 200,- for the second) juicy (10% real guava juice with other
unnatural flavors) buttocks on her left.  "Roast frigates in my bathtub,"
I said to her when she got to "O, the wee birdies sing," and she curled her
lips with a curling iron and kept singing as from a sporran I had not
previously noticed she took out a new pair of lips, tore off her curled lips
and flung them to the table with one hand as she put on the new ones, pouty
and full of lewdness, with the other.  When she had finished the song, she
jumped up from the table and floated in midair, as if standing on an
invisible platform, and said, "You are but a fashion accessory," to me, and
I felt myself shrinking and changing.  When I had become an expensive
barrette, I floated into her left hand and she put me in her hair.
	She went home to Milwaukee and I stayed her barrette for some months.
She invited other women to her apartment and replaced parts of her body with
theirs, so that her face and figure were constantly changing.  The parts
she didn't use went into the stewpot, as did dry dog food, turpentine, photos
of mayoral candidates from Australia, and the occasional bottle of Everclear.
Finally I could stand it no more and one day when she was wearing me in
long, rust-colored hair she had acquired the day before, I contrived to fall
off.  As I struck the ground I resumed human form, or at least that of a
Congressional candidate.  People stopped me on the street and pressed checks,
money orders, currency, gold coins, cold groins, and bars and steaming cups
of gold and chicken bullion in my slimy hands.  Within six hours I had a
huge reserve of wealth, and I incorporated myself as a manufacturer of
rare-earth condoms and opened a bank account in Sweden.
	The Federal Erection Commission was not long in catching up with
me, and by softening my features with a heat gun and applying them to
stainless-steel molds I gave myself the appearance of a beautiful and
statuesque IRS inspector, dressing my new shape in women's suits I bought
from the Satan'a Own Hospital Thrift Shop.  Unfortunately one of the
investigators fell insanely in love with me, and I had to dissolve him in
nitrobenzine, because there are certain parts of me I could not have used
a heat gun on.  In this false form I audited hundreds of infatuated men
and ensured long prison sentences for many of them, and for amusement I
played records backwards and listened for inspiring messages planted there
by TV Guide and other large-circulation magazines.
	Satisfied with my state, I became a prairie dog and caught the
bubonic plague and started outbreaks of it all over the central U.S.
I died of it and the buzzards ate me.

Mark., it's getting monotonous
gooley@netcom.com

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