NetNews Usenet Archive 1992 #31/NN_1992_31.iso/spool/alt/non/sequitur/874

Internet Message Format | 1992-12-30 | 3.7 KB

Xref: sparky alt.non.sequitur:874 talk.bizarre:43161
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
Path: sparky!uunet!spool.mu.edu!umn.edu!csus.edu!netcom.com!gooley
From: [e-mail] (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: vulva masquerades as Bruce Springsteen, daguerreotypes at ten
Message-ID: <[e-mail]>
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley,alt.religion.santaism
Organization: The Gorilla-Shaped Cookie Trust, GmbH
Date: Wed, 30 Dec 1992 17:12:48 GMT
Lines: 52

    After she had made passionate love to the larva she minced into
the kitchen, sat in a bowl, and became soup.  I ate what had been she --
a delicious lobster bisque -- took out a blond scalp from the freezer,
defrosted it in the advection oven, tore off my own scalp and sewed the
new one on with a fish hook and polyfilament line, took a shower to wash
off the blood, styled my short blond hair, and dressed in a velvet suit
that made me look just like a roll of velvet.  By rubbing a mixture of
crushed walnuts and ennui on the wall I teleported to the local Scalp
Bank, where I contributed my former scalp to charity and love prevail,
there God is ever found.
    Setting time back to that morning, I went to Rosie's Diner for
breakfast.  Rosie had died forty years ago, still young and alluring, and
in her memory all the waitresses had had plastic surgery to resemble her.
When with age the resemblences failed, they became entrees.  I had scrambled
eggs with waitress-brains, served by a Rosie with her face still bandaged
from her third facelift.  I reflected on inhuman mortality and that the
Rosie whose delicate young hands -- their skin high-grade silicone cast in
molds made from the original Rosie's hands at death, and also used to ripen
cheese -- footed me the plate of oil-soaked toast would soon be part of the
Irish stew, or of my next Rosieburger.  What is it, I thought, what loyalty
compels these bogus Rosies to serve and then be served?
    A giant cockroach-like creature scuttled up to my booth and sat
on the bench facing me.  "Gregor!" I cried, the tears running up my face and
a huge Tab at the soda counter and the local casino and gladiatorial parlor.
"Haven't seen you in ages!"
    "I'm not Gregor," said the insect in a womanly voice.  "I'm Lucja."
    "What loyalty!" I said.  "Becoming like poor Gregor so that he
will have a friend!"
    "Loyalty, nothing!" she said.  "Do you realize how much that bum
Gregor is making?  He's on all the talk shows.  Jenny Jones (tm) said that
if she weren't already attached with nylon strings to her puppeteer, she
would marry him!  Book contracts, movie contracts, cameo brooches and roles
in rock videos for fifty thousand dollars and a case of all-coconut soap
a shot!"
    "Don't you think that the fad has peaked?" I asked her.
    "I can always get my old job back as a Rosie," she said.  "Ah,
that smells like Velma's brain you're eating.  May I have some?"
    I put the plate before her and let her have what was left.  She
ate slowly, and I grew bored and became a unicorn.  With my indigo horn I
shattered box office records and a window, and with a mighty leap I sprang
from the diner and went looking for a virgin.  There were none in town
except an old man in a nursing home with urinary incontinence: the city
mothers had ordered the construction of huge diapers for the building, and
now the environmentalists were demanding a recycling plant because the old
landfill was getting full of them.  I galloped away.  In Texas a virginal
vet, a delicate beauty with a drawling voice, removed my horn and treated
me as if I were an ordinary horse.  No longer magical, I could not change
back, and when she married I fell into a malaise from Malaysia and died of
unrequited love and distemper.

Mark.
[e-mail]