Issue 49, Summer 1970
Change your thoughts and you will change your world. It's guaranteed for ninety days. You can't buy a man with a cup of coffee and a sandwich. Spread out mats for him. Offer him stools. Let the host present the cup, the guest will return it. Wash the beaker, set down the goblet. Line a colander with cheese cloth. Spoon in the cheese mixture and then fold ends of cloth over the top. Imagine the excavated dirt. Set in larger bowl, open eyes, catch any drippings.
Comfort is a surface, a straight line. The emptiness of comfort astounds man. It is like the world's most powerful ray gun.
Headache again thought Mary Ellen, flicking out her fingers to lock the red wire into the small red terminal of the distributor casing. Then she sent if off on its way down the black rubber conveyor belt. Off to the waiting hand of her friend Claudine who would snap the two rubber nipples into place, top and bottom, and pass it, in its tum, on to Miss Kostoy who checked automatically for terminal imperfection before throwing it back into the flood of identification tags and parts of black plastic tractor distributors which flowed on to the runty girl who was Final Inspection, No. 1774, sec. 07. Her early afternoon headache and as usual the break was an hour off, an hour and ten minutes. Red wire into red dot terminal, snap, replace, hand out, shut, snap, replace, snap, replace and retrieve.