From: david lynch Subject: The Dreams Of The Prophet Ain't Always A Comfort To Behold Date: 1998/12/17 Message-ID: <75b567$mdh$5@hermes.louisville.edu> X-Complaints-To: usenet@hermes.louisville.edu X-Trace: hermes.louisville.edu 913905671 22961 136.165.1.37 (17 Dec 1998 14:41:11 GMT) Organization: University of Louisville User-Agent: tin/pre-1.4-971127 (UNIX) (AIX/4-2) NNTP-Posting-Date: 17 Dec 1998 14:41:11 GMT Newsgroups: alt.religion.subgenius [ Article reposted from alt.slack ] [ Author was Popess Lilith von Fraumench ] [ Posted on Sun, 13 Dec 1998 17:49:03 -0800 ] I don't dream often, and this dream was in many ways weirder than the one where my father's miniature Doberman rolled up to me on the floor, with no legs.... First, I was still living with my parents. Odd. Especially since they were still living with each other in my dream. And we were in a much nicer house, albeit the back yard had an excessive amount of doggy droppings and no other sign that we *had* a dog. But that's not the weird part. The weird part is that, early into the dream, I notice we have a housemaid. And I recognize the maid on sight. It's Jerry Reynolds, the original Sexzilla, wearing a Martha Stewart wig, a women's-cut t-shirt and shorts, and a pair of white Keds. The legs were flawlessly hairless, as were the arms. And--at least in this dream--Jerry made a quite passable woman. So the "maid" is sprawled out on our sofa, one leg up on the cushions, the rest of her will-he-nill-he, and trying to look demure. I think that's what tipped me off--after all, we women can look extremely demure if we wanted to, but when it's time to SPRAWL we sprawl with all we've got. We don't even *try* too look demure. Needless to say, I'm quite a bit concerned, but not ready to spill the beans. I wanted to see what the fucker was up to, and what compelled him to crossdress and come into my home to do it. And so I go into my room. And it's neat as a pin. And I get REALLY PISSED OFF. Not because I hate neatness--really, no, I don't!--but because it meant that Jerry had been in my room, poking around in my things, very recently. And that was a security violation I was not going to treat lightly. I return to the living room, and see Jerry gabbing on my cordless phone. My vision deepens three more shades of scarlet. I grab the maid by the neck with one hand and lift "her" up in the air. The wig comes off in the process. I snap my cordless phone in half with the other hand. My mother is a tad shocked, needless to say. "This 'maid' is Jerry Reynolds, a PIECE-OF-SHIT SPAMMER, who has stolen Internet resources from ISPs in order to send out thousands of unwanted and damaging advertisements for porn on the Web...." While I'm talking poor Jerry is pleading innocence, occasionally punctuating my words with "No!" and "That's not true!" Having been exposed as working surreptitiously in drag, however, he's not exactly winning over the audience. He does NOTHING to break my grip, I guess because he doesn't want me to break HIM. I do notice him eyeing the cordless phone a bit nervously. And, sadly, that's when I woke up. I *still* want to know what he was doing in my room. And I want to know how he learned how to crossdress so effectively. The idea that Reynolds is transgendered makes me feel quite a bit nauseous, but so did J. Edgar Hoover. I think I should take a break from hunting spammers. Yes, yes, I do indeed. Either that or I need to stop eating those beef and bean burritos with the extra sour cream and salsa. The Prophet Lilith -- Popess Lilith von Fraumench * http://come.to/p.lil Hey Seattle SubGenii! Go to http://ssucc.ragnarokr.com ==If reality doesn't make you LAUGH, then TAKE THE GODDAMN CLOWN NOSE OFF!== -- Jahweh W (gaysex@catholic.org) "You remember me- I'm Bob Smaus. I lost a croquet tournament on public television last year."- Bob Smaus