NetNews Usenet Archive 1993 #3/NN_1993_3.iso/spool/alt/non/sequitur/1029

Internet Message Format | 1993-01-28 | 2.9 KB

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From: [e-mail] (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: platinum-dusted wildebeeste with a girl's face, served with brads
Message-ID: <[e-mail]>
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley,alt.pets.chia
Organization: Dostoyevskian Characters, plc
Date: Wed, 27 Jan 1993 15:08:06 GMT
Lines: 39

    Try being an aardvark for an evening.  It's more fun than being
gang-raped by bisexual silicone-rubber monkeys, and if you're from Tonga
you can deduct it as a business expense on your income taximeter taxidermy
taxol return.  The epithelium feels good against your snout, too, and you
can see into the infrared and through people's clothing, not that it does
much good because as an aardvark you find this uninteresting unless they
are infested with lice.
    But all this has a great deal to do with how I met my lost love.
I was a pair of split-crotch rubber panties at the time, on vacation from
my job as Joseph Stalin, and languished in a religious-supply store for
Satanists.  Because the store was in Amsterdam, it was concealed in the
back rooms of a quaint cafe' where the management openly sold marijuana,
marihuana for those who preferred it spelled differently, hashish and
hashisch likewise, and espresso; the last of these was a cause for raids
by the Dutch equivalent of the Environmental Protection Agency, which
occasionally shut the place down.
    One day an old hag came to the shop and bought a dozen black candles,
a photographed autograph of Aleister Crowley, a Salad Shooter (tm) modified
for European currant and blackberry, a grimoire entitled "How to become
your enemies," and me.  She paid for them by vomiting black bile and Cointreau
on the sales clerk, who shrank into a young Shirley Temple and began to
sing "On the Good Ship Lollipop" compulsively whilst doing a striptease.
She burrowed underground and emerged in the attic of a fashion model's
house in Aachen, where she mumbled, scribbled inscribbletions on the walls
and floor in Attic Greek and gutter language learned from the gutter and
garlic press, opened the grimoire, repeated some nonsensical-sounding words,
and changed into an exact copy of the owner of the house.  With me in her
left hand she went downstairs, surprising the woman she now exactly resembled,
and suffocated her using me.  She stripped the corpse although it was already
naked, put me on it, and mumbled something.  I felt my consciousness leave
my form and fill out complicated government forms in a bureaucratic limbo
of limbo-dancing bureaucrats, and when I came to I was in the dead woman's
body, which just afterwards completed a metamorphosis into my usual shape.
    It was love at first sight

[have I posted this already?]

Mark.
[e-mail]