From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: Re: caramel tensors under rose kennedies
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 
Date: Mon, 12 Oct 1992 16:08:26 GMT

In article <1992Oct12.160513.7345@netcom.com> gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley) writes:
>	The scent of fried lassitude in conundrum sauce filled the green
>clay with apprehension about its retirement benefits.  Will I taste of
>Styrofoam (tm), it thought, or will the burbling brook of Vaseline (tm)
>enfold us all in the sleep of eternal death?  Spurning the chance to become
>a character in crudely-animated films, it mailed itself to Boca Raton where
>it was chewed up by rats and caused them severe intestinal pain for a few
>miles.
>	Meanwhile I was the aroma of Jamaican Blue Sewage Coffee (fertilized
>with rock-star feces and urine, pruned with tantalum knives by steam-driven
>hildagos from Green Bay, picked by nose-picking exophthalmic Cubs fans
>from Borneo clad in tiger skins) in the nostrils of a firm-breasted young
>secretary with six fingers on her left hand and no navel thanks to a brilliant
>plastic (high-density polyethylene) sturgeon later killed for its caviar.
>She inhaled me with pure sensual delight, and had an orgasm which she quickly
>canned and labeled and had sent by robot wombat to a post-office box in
>Bloomington, Indiana, which opened the can but didn't enjoy it.  Long before
>then I had lodged in the woman's hypothalamus, presenting my discredit card
>at the Eleven-Fingered Woman Hypothalamic Lodge.  The beaver nibbling at the
>front desk sang "O Sole Mio" in a fine soprano voice as it looked disdainfully
>at my card, my Black and Blue Watch tartan, my inflatable top hat, and my
>fake beard of steel wool.  At length it farted and gave me a rheum that
>overlooked a sinus -- I have no idea how, anatomically, it could have, but
>it did.
>	I came up to dinner early next morning.  The menu was printed in
>mirror-writing in rattlesnake blood on thin sheets of balsa wood, and
>featured jackfruit, star apples, the internal organs of famous people,
>fine wines of vintages hundreds of years in the future, hundreds of varieties
>of nuts and bolts, bodily secretions, nightmares, and lobster.  I impaled
>a waitress on a grappling hook and dragged her over to my table, and ordered
>an Enver Sandwich (Enver Hoxha's liver, grilled with onions and flavored with
>saffron, between two sheets of sponge cake made from high-grade freshwater
>sponges from Lake Sunapee), a bottle of Chateau Jean Lafitte Rathskeller 2163,
>the Jackfruit on Beatles LPs Special, a new waitress, and a charming dinner
>companion.  The last of these arrived first: a large green blob that rolled
>along the deck towards me and then slurped into the adjacent Barcalounger (tm).
>	I complained to the blob, saying, "The rubber mallets smell good
>this morning, and why don't you run for Governor and it?"  It shuddered
>delicately and extended pseudopod to rest gently on my head.  After a few
>moments it began to shift, and by the time I had finished my meal it exactly
>resembled the woman of my dreams, to the tiniest physical and psychological
>detail.  Out of sheer nylon pantyhose I melted into a shapeless blob on the
>floor, and the cat ate me.
>
>Mark.
>gooley@netcom.com


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