From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: Boston baked phalluses for charity
Followup-To: alt.non.sequitur
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 
Date: Sun, 4 Oct 1992 20:59:10 GMT

	O, to swim through the golden granite, the salt tang of mica in
your ears, the parrots reciting Catullus in ecclesiastical Latin accents,
the chocolate mousse in your hair!  The companionship of solitude, the
meals of cold schist pudding and molten silica, the ground gramophone records
bidding you welcome at every station of life!  Such it had been for me.
	I emerged as a professional beggar in Dayton, but quickly went to
graduate school at ETH in Zurich where I studied ancient Babylonian literature
under the direction of Herbert von Bernstein, a semiconductor introduced
by Bell Labs and Alastair Cooke.  His rival, Leonard Karajan, knocked me
unconscious, hollowed out his youngest daughter and concealed my inert
(actually it could have formed compounds with fluorine) body inside, and
had her shipped on a hospital salmon to his secret decomposition and
molecular-beam epitaxy lab deep under the Australian Alps.
	His minions and Manions and cocktail onions extracted me from the
girl and inserted replacement innards in her.  Within ninety seconds she
was off to her Jungian analyst, and I was dressed in a Tyvek (TM) monk's robe
and hauled before the magistrate.  In my defense I accused him of not being
magisterial enough, and he broke down in tears and dissolved and re-formed
himself into Jodie Foster, whom a maniac dressed as a Perkins Cake 'N' Steak
(TM) restaurant skinned and made a Hallowe'en costume of, which was worn
by a cute little black girl from the Adorable Children and Animals Supply
Company of Knoxville, Tennessee, and won a prize at Cannes.
	Meanwhile I had bribed the guards into keeping me locked up and
supplied with gruel, scratch paper, live chickens, and a singing lobster.
But the Argentinian Air Force would have none of it, and flew a Mirage (TM)
fighter right into my ashram, and I had to move out once I had been burned
beyond recognition by the aviation-grade molasses.  My disfigured form
resembled that of a young Racquel Welch, and I went into hiding for forty
years until I was old and relatively homely.  A little extra plastic
surgery by surgeons made of plastic and I looked sufficiently anonymous
to be striking, and so with my share of the rare purple emeralds I opened
up a combination bowling alley and Thai restaurant, hiring retired children
and poker-faced old andirons and Juvenal deliquescents as waitresses
regardless of their gender, and a dyspeptic old Porsche 914 -- despite its
habit of picking its timing belt and belching brake fluid into the coconut
milk -- as chef.
	In seconds the city health inspectors were on to me.  I gave them
syphillis and a steam engine, a few glasses of drugstore gin and Angst-Truro
bitters, a signed photograph of Pope John XXIV, an equestrian event, an
eight-inch floppy of GIFs from alt.sex.bestiality, and my heartfelt apologies.
They would have none of it, and encased me in aspic and served me at their
French restaurant as _homard l'americaine_, and so I came to a sad end.

Mark., it's getting to be a strain
gooley@netcom.com
Xref: sparky alt.non.sequitur:298 alt.religion.kibology:3998