'Oh .. here _it_ _is_.' His fat little palm extends towards a round portal on a stainless steel door, through which I can see the room, but he won't let me walk over to peer in, not yet.
'Now, first, we have to don these shoe covers.' He points to a box by the door. 'You know, policy . . rules . . things can get a bit slick in there and well, this is a prototype, and we wouldn't want it to be contaminated by anything super-microbial, now, would we?' He waves a sausage of a finger precariously close to my nose, extending his arm to its full length to do so. I lean back and nod my agreement, now would we? . . .
Shoe covers on he pulls a heavy latch on the door to swing it open. With an overly chivalrous gesture he motions for me to enter the room first. The opening of the door has cast a large band of blue-green light upon the floor. Resolutely, I enter.
Pale magenta lights streaming their color through gelled filters overhead complement the general blue green-hue of the room. I can make out long phallic structures reaching to the ceiling though I cannot distictly see the ceiling, only a trellis overhead for positioning lights and odd pieces of equipment. I hear the door shut behind me. This dims the room considerably. I sense that I am standing on something spongy, something slick. Pools of some liquid have acculmulated around the indentations by my feet. The room feels very warm as compared to the hallway. What is this place??
'Well, how do you like it?,' he asks in a subdued tone. I can see him easiest by focusing on the glints of blue green reflected off his glasses. He is scrupulously wringing his hands together in a ball. I admit my perplexion.
'Why, this is our latest in environmental control. This is the prototype for the Intestinal Chamber!!' . . . And suddenly, -- it makes sense. The floor .. the mucus . .the villi extending to the ceiling. I want to laugh hysterically . . 'But why!??,' I stammer.
'Yes,' he says, now standing on his heels as though reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, 'after a careful study, we realised that two things lead to the highest states comfort, pleasure and relaxation in the American public.' He pauses. I know he wants me to ask, 'And what might those two things be?' I make some mumbling noise which he takes to be that very question. He leans forward cupping a hand to his mouth as though fearful someone else might hear. 'Eating and floating in a warm body of water with the lights turned out.'
Now I really want to laugh. HAH! . . The Intestine!!, where all is warm, filled with the digestive liquid soup of one's last meal, darkness and dankness abound! I hesitate to tell him that the smell of bilious food and pancreatic juices do little to make me think relaxing thoughts, but with a deep inhalation I find that the room merely smells, 'moist.' I imagine that if this thing sells, Americans not able to purchase their own Intestinal Chamber will settle for cheap alternatives such as soaking one's face in excised cow gut. Ruminant stomachs will be opened and sold for pacement over the entire head and shoulders. Slaughterhouses around the country will be packed with people wanting first pick of the 'innards' . . sauteed chitlins will be the latest health rave, 'They're 100% intestine!' The baffled French watch in confusion as their GNP rises 2 percentage points from the massive export of viscera-wrapped foodstuffs to those ruffians across the Atlantic . . . and distant thoughts of the outbreaks of typhoid, cholera and dysentery sure to follow from such practices . . .
'But if this really were intestine you would have villi overhead and on the the walls . . you should have made a cylindrical chamber.' My statement has not bothered him in the least.
'Oh, right you are, right you are. I knew you would be a good consultant . . Our first models did have ceiling-associated structures, but we found it more difficult to create the proper lighting, and test subjects found that the mucus dripping from the ceiling detracted from their over-all experience..'
'These things actually secrete mucus?'
'Oh yes, oh yes. Go ahead, squeeze one . . ' I gingerly walk to a patch of villi at the edge of the clearing in which we stand. I guess each one to be 2-3 feet in diameter and perhaps 7 or so feet tall. I pinch the side of one. A thin fluid oozes from pores in the spongy material and trickles along the surface to the floor. With unexpected rapidity the local reaction spreads over the entire villus to surrounding structures, that with throbbing pulsations ooze more mucus onto the floor. I jump back a bit startled . .
'How do you make these?'
'Oh, now, well, we don't actually make them here. We had help from another company in a realted field.' He titters. 'I know you're just going to die when you hear who makes these . . . Wanna try a guess?' He titters again. I shrug my shoulders. 'Well, we have them made at the Jackson Dildo Company.' He giggles uncontrollably.
The . . Jackson . . Dildo . . Company . . . . . I am standing in a room with a sex dwarf and a seemingly unending array of giant phalluses that secrete a thin mucoid substance when gently fondled. . . . This is definitely what the American public needs.
I'm glad we never made it to the Colonic Chamber . . .
chez bleu . .