From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: psyllium consoling the leaden heartache
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 
Date: Wed, 14 Oct 1992 21:16:01 GMT

	I wept all that night.  At low noon, the Buddhist-monk gerbils came
out and took pity on me, feeding me matzohs and inorganic peanut butter,
giving me Gate-Array Sports Drink (an electrolyte replacement derived from
used batteries and originally intended for mutants), wiping my face with a
damp alpaca, and polishing my shoes.  They scampered off, nearly tripping
over their robes, before I could properly thank them.
	I examined my surroundings.  When I realized that I was in an
abandoned granite quarry, abandoned in 1948 when her husband the coal mine
ran off with a cute little gold digging that gave out in less than a year,
I took the wings of a dove (later I sent them back Parcel Post and paid
for the reattachment operation and a hundredweight of stale bread crusts
which unfortunately the deliverymen dumped right on top of the poor bird,
killing it instantly) and flew over the Himalayas to a small town in Texas.
It was occupied by Soviet troops from 1932, who had killed the entire
population because every person in town fitted the definition of "kulak":
anybody who has more wealth than a peasant, smells un-Soviet, can read
or write, doesn't know the words to "Ease on Down the Road" or "The
Internationale," changes underwear more than once a month, drinks anything
other than kvass or vodka, or thinks that Lenin should have shaved his
beard.  By my brilliant impersonation of Stalin I had them falling all
over each other to please me, convinced them to go back home, and managed
to salt away a few million worthless rubber roubles.
	Through the deserted streets I wandered, and then set up a sort
of life in the town by impersonating all of the townsfolk in a quick-change
act which drew people from yards around.  They were particularly impressed
at how I impersonated the buxom schoolmarm for a few seconds, then some
snot-nosed kid, then another, then the schoolhouse's pet snake, and so on.
Hollywood moguls let me ski over them, I was the toast in the toaster,
the bee's knees, the cat's pajama's, the cream in my coffee, and I couldn't
get along without myself.
	With fame came deformity, psychological problems, unspeakable urges,
priapism, free lunches of fiery-hot Norwegian-style chili con carnage at
an ice-cream parlor run by one of Al Capone's roadsters, offers of sex from
octogenarian actresses, the keys to the county jail, health benefits, and
Carla my pet mesa.  I was in my subconscious one day, making passionate
love to my own Jungian anima, when a figure stepped up from behind the giant
teabag and introduced itself as my conscience.  It was clean and dressed in
a white fredcloth bathrobe, and it had nice hooters.  A nagging voice came
from behind it, and my superego emerged, telling me to brush my teeth or
they would all fall out, to wear slippers in the house, and to masturbate
regularly even though I thought it sinful.  I told it to fuck off because
I am not a Freudian, and besides my anima had draped her perfect body
around me and was moaning for my attentions.  I had to ignore her and
keep yelling polite phrases at my superego, and my anima melted into me
with a sensuous little wriggle and fitted herself into her usual place.
With my gold-plated Uzi I gunned down my superego with silver bullets
stolen from the Lone Ranger by his catamite Tonto whom I had bribed with
copies of bovine pornography, and it bit the dust, still nattering about
how healthy it is to eat green beans and jerk off.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.prose,alt.fan.gooley,alt.timewasters