Shell and Clamnations...A tale of horror

I found this little beauty elsewhere on Usenet. Normally I would forward something like this to alt.best.of.usenet, but this look like the perfect thing for browsing through during intermission on ARS.

===============================begin================== In article <3r2mbq$arv@news-s01.ny.us.ibm.net> posted to the Usenet Newsgroup alt.bad.clams shelbyo@ibm.net writes: It was a hazy evening when M. Ollusk, known to his friends as Ollie, pulled into the Howard Johnson's parking lot. He parked the miniclam in a spot near the door and threw on his rainshell since it was starting to thunder. As he opened the double doors, lightning cracked and the lights flickered on and off. He walked up to the counter and slung his bag down. No one was around. Ollie wasn't a patient clam, nor was he a doctor. But that's another tale. He rang the bell incessantly, "I need to check in, where in Neptune is the desk clerk?" he yelled, to no one in particular. He waited a few minutes, then started to walk down the hall. A trail of broken shells started a few feet from the desk, pieces scattered as far as he could see. "Great Mother-Of-Pearl," he whispered under his breath. "Maybe there's been an accident." He rolled down the hall, shell pulled tightly around him, mussels flexed in readiness. All the room doors were closed. He rounded the corner and noticed the trail leading into two still-swinging metal doors. Just then thunder clapped and lightning struck the building. The lights went out. Ollie kept rolling. He pushed his way through the metal doors, noticing that the floor had turned to tile. Wherever he rolled, he made a crunching sound as he crushed the scattered shells into finer debris. "I'm walking on clamshells," he mumbled, sickened at the thought. He thought he could hear the sound of thousands of tiny clams screaming as he crunched through the room in the dark. The room was warm and steamy. He began to sweat--a green, seaweedy sweat that poured from his top lip. Suddenly the lights clicked on and...

He was in the kitchen. A large pot bubbled on the stove. Deep fryers up to their necks in oil bubbled with thin strips of breading. The sound of applause came from a nearby room. Two men in white coats pushing a stainless metal cart clanked through another set of swinging doors. Were they doctors? Were these some kind of sick experiment Ollie had stumbled on? He looked around the room again. A wave of horror splashed over him. Was that...no, it couldn't be...o, I think I'm going to be sick...a basket full of CLAM STRIPS!! The beasts!! They had crushed innocent shells to feed their incessant all- you-can-eat-Clam Strips-every-Friday-night-here-at-your-friendly-Howard- Johnson's needs! Oh, the clamanity! Oh this was NOT what he needed right now! His tongue screamed an accusation: "CLAMMURDERERS!" He fell backwards in a deep faint, his shell clattering across the kitchen floor. So they picked him up and put him in the pot and served him.

The end. =========================end================

His tongue screamed an accusation: "CLAMMURDERERS!" His tongue screamed an accusation: "YOU ARE CREATING DISTORTION!"

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