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From: jking@muddcs.UUCP (John King)
Newsgroups: net.bizarre
Subject: To Begin...
Message-ID: <330@muddcs.UUCP>
Date: Sat, 21-Sep-85 02:09:08 EDT
Article-I.D.: muddcs.330
Posted: Sat Sep 21 02:09:08 1985
Date-Received: Fri, 27-Sep-85 03:53:18 EDT
Reply-To: jking@muddcs.UUCP (John King)
Organization: Harvey Mudd College, Claremont, CA
Lines: 36


Part One:  The Beginning of the End for an Abstract Penguin.

Through all the adversities in life that had attempted to lay waste to 
that one shred of realism attaching the cerebrum of Baby Pufadore's simple 
mind to anything resembling thought, only one simple need remained
apparent:  radiation was not his friend.  Yes, indeed, our mutant hero was
exposed to a trendy dosage of good ole plutonium 238 for an extended period
of time rendering him quite useless as a functional being, but rather 
humerous as an object of ridicule and scorn, always good for a few laughs
among the normal folk like you or both of me.

But, simple words could not even attempt to relay what a few primitive 
gestures might accomplish.  He formed the thought, and then expelling it
as one might hurl an unruly luger, Baby Pufadore churtled from deep within
his tiny, twisted frame.  Yes, indeed, he was about to create the beginnings
of a rational idea.  This, in itself, would appear to be no great task, but 
to Pufadore, it was an adventure requireing every milli-ounce of energy he
could possibly generate in his evil little cranium.

Pufadore was indeed the victim of the Melba Wars of the Pre-pade era - a 
time of violent turbulence and bad checks.  Evil deeds and general badness
ran rampant among the masses and gave a general aire of melancholy to a 
world in trouble.  But did this bother Pufadore??  Nay, Nay, Voo lay.  
His mind was working at a furious rate just to maintain a breathing pattern.

All was quiet in the world:  The babies were burped, and Baby Fae was still
dead.  None of this mattered, however, and the Gel continued to increase at 
an unknown rate.  Baby Pufadore shrugged his shoulder, picked his nose, and
continued to stare intently at nothing in particular. 

Life was good, but the Babe couldn't tell you if it was today or two weeks
into the future.  He was the closest thing to brain dead that could still
drool and produce gas at a voluminous rate.  Pufadore knew not the secrets
of the Ancients, nor did he know how to dial out for pizza - for simple was
the tracking in his poor, mutated brain.


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