From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
Subject: antimony teeth carouse in her nipples
Date: 15 Dec 92 02:37:14 GMT
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest)


	She preferred making love to men disguised as crash-test dummies,
and kept several sizes of costume next to her cereal boxes.  Milton felt
vaguely ridiculous as she snapped together the hard plastic pieces of
the suit, and when it was completely on and she opened a little hatch in
its smooth crotch and reached in, he was not at first aroused.  The
sight of the opaque white condom with fiducial marks approximately where
the glans would fit did not help, either.
	But let us draw a curtain over the events of that evening, mentioning
only that after a copulation most unsatisfactory to Milton, certainly no
glimpse of a lost paradise, she refused to help him out of the costume.
His hands were trapped in nearly-rigid gloves, and he struggled to get
out.  Free after half an hour, he tried to shout abuse at her but found
the words sticking in his throat with paste; he struck at her face but
with ease and unnatural strength she grasped his wrist and held it immobile.
She picked him up and carried him to the bathroom, where she commanded him
to wash the sweat out of the dummy costume and dry its pieces thoroughly.
He found himself cowed and hoarse and sheepishly obeyed.
	I told this to my sixteen-year-old niece as a bedtime story as
she ate rum-soaked fruitcake and sipped Guinness mulled by sticking a
red-hot poker into it.  "Oh, Uncle Walter," she said in the cooing tones
of a dove, temporarily changing into one and spilling the last few drops
of her drink before she changed back, "you're such a bore.  I want to
watch MTV."
	I sighed and handed her the remote control to the forty-inch
(measured diagonally) television, and she turned it on and set it to
the proper channel.  Michelle Jackson, as he/she was called after
gender-reassignment surgery, danced about holding a jar with his testicles
in it, pickled in formaldehyde, and singing something about it not mattering
what gender one was.  I shook my head in a cocktail shaker with some ice
and vodka before putting it back on and heading downstairs.
	In the living room I nearly fell into the cold tub.  My sister
Vanessa and her husband Hieronymous, in insulated wet suits, were standing
in it, a large block of ice between them.  A penguin hopped out of the
depths onto the ice, an Adelaide penguin, not too large, and clapped its
wings together.  "Allegra okay?" asked Vanessa.
	"She's watching Michelle Jackson on MTV," I said.  "She didn't
care for my bedtime story."
	"You must admit, Wally," said Hieronymous, trying to pet the penguin
but getting pecks that nearly tore open his glove, "you're a colossal bore."
	I took out my mistrusty Luger, with its seven-round clip of 9.65mm
sterling silver bullets, each handmade by a breakfast at Tiffany's and
especially useful for killing werewolves, and shot him through the right
eys, through the left ventricle, and through the larnyx.  Vanessa sighed.
"Must you be so impulsive, Walter?" she asked.  With a sigh she picked up
the penguin by a wing and got up out of the tub, the penguin squawking and
writing and trying to peck her as she carried it across the room, opened
a narrow door, threw it in, and waited.
	Presently the door opened and a fresh Hieronymous came out.  "I
wish that you wouldn't do that, Wally," he said.  "It`s so expensive.
And those silver bullets!  Next you'll be expecting me to dig them out of
my corpse!"
	"I can do that," I said, taking out my handy Polish Navy knife.
We hauled his original body out and put it on the dining-room table, while
I sliced around the wounds and removed the bullets.  Vanessa had to get
the Ronco SkullySaw (tm) so that I could probe around the brain and find
the last bullet.  Afterwards we had the brain with scrambled eggs and
made the rest into sausages.  I brought Allegra a plate but she had
already decapitated herself for the night.

Mark., the stress is showing
gooley@netcom.com
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