From: ST402747@BROWNVM.BROWN.EDU (blomberg cepeda)
Newsgroups: bit.listserv.words-l
Subject: the truth about judith (try no. 2)
Date: 11 Nov 92 18:29:49 GMT
Comments: Gated by NETNEWS@AUVM.AMERICAN.EDU
Comments: To: words-l@uga.cc.uga.edu

[I am flummoxed. I posted this this morning on BNN, it showed up there
immediately, and Rita at least has noticed. However, ALL the traffic today
is on BRUNO, so they _may_ be the second one you get of this, or the first of
two. As Douglas Adams starts off "Mostly Harmless":
               Anything that happens, happens.
               Anything that, in happening, causes something else to happen,
                     causes something else to happen.
               Anything that, in happening, causes itself to happen again,
                     happens again.
               It doesn't necessarily do it in chronological order, though.]


Judith said:

>Saint? Saint?!? Good grief! WHAT HAVE I DONE???
>
>Ask *my* kids if I'm ditzy enough!
>
>love, judith...shaking her head in amazement

Sigh. All right, all right, I'll tell the truth.

I waited outside Spat's oblivious to the cold, eagerly anticipating the
meeting with the woman Neal had called "ineffable", and about whom Ann Mandi
had simply said, "Words don't suffice."
     Suddenly the day was rent by a sudden roar, as an apparition in black
tore around the corner at 50 mph, braking with a screech in front of me. She
swung off the Harley like a distaff John Wayne, and, lifting off her helmet
with a valkyrian grace, she turned to me and barked, "Cepeda?" I nodded, too
abashed to speak or to protest, and followed her into Spat's.
     By the time my eyes had adjusted to the dark and smokey interior, the
head waiter--an ex-Hell's Angel--was already in full fawn: "Duh, gee, Ms.
Schrier, de usual place? A pitcher of de usual? Uh, good, good." After the
nuns in the back corner booth had been deposited on the street, we took it over
in the company of a jeroboam of Schlitz.
     Since, on the way to our seats, she had already put out her cigar in a
child's bowl of pudding, she pulled a handful of chaw out of her black leather
pouch--all was black leather, *all*--while appraising me with a dubious
expression. "Kind of runty, aren't ya? Well, I like that in a man."  She then
stared down the elderly man at the next table, until, wilted, he handed over
his dentures to serve as a spittoon. The *plunk* of Borkum Riff punctuated the
rest of our repast.
     As she chomped her way through the 25 mushroomburgers painstakingly
arranged in the shape of the Rhode Island statehouse, I picked at my chicken
liver salad platter. Mostly she held forth, in her deep, almost masculine voice
in which the obscenities sounded not a wit out of place, on "the little girlie
boys" on the list, with the "greasy hair in pigtails, and their birds-nest
beards, oy, just like women!--*plunk*--I'll tell ya, Natalie's dog knows how
to satisfy a woman more than them, yes he does!--*plunk*"
     It was over far too soon. I mean that. Even before they brought dessert,
she proffered me a pack of Bucks, though it was obvious free will would play
no part in the matter. Striking a match in her armpit, she lit my cig, a
strange light playing in her eyes. I took a couple of puffs, and asked,
"Menthols? A very strange taste." She cackled deeply, "oh yes, oh yes, indeed,
exotic they are!" And then her maniacal laughter split into stereo, and then
quadrophonics, and then flowed through dimensions known only to an eldritch
few. In short, I blacked out.
      When I came to, all was dark, moist, and only a persistent rustle could
be heard. And then, as all my senses returned, I felt it..or rather, I felt
_them_, their hands, their feet, their furs against my skin, and worse, worst
of all, that incessant chatter. I was bound, I couldn't move, but then, in the
light of a distant candle, one loomed above me, its gaping maw encrusted with
spital, curving into a kiss...And suddenly, booming, echoing like in a cavern,
Judith's voice: "Make jokes about monkeyburgers, will you, huh, huh, huh...."

Okay, Judith, it's that or sainthood--take your pick.

blomberg cepeda         [THE ABOVE IS A JOKE]
Comments: Gated by NETNEWS@AUVM.AMERICAN.EDU