Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine
Volume VII, Issue 1, AD MMII
Monday, January 28, 2002
ISSN 1482-0471
-------------------------------------------

<two-c00l> i met eminem yesterday 
<rick^MD> eminem is gay, and i hate gays 
<two-c00l> eminem is not gay! 
<rick^MD> yes he is 
<two-c00l> prove it 
<rick^MD> ok... i had anal sex with him last week 
<two-c00l> um i thought you said you hate gays? 
<rick^MD> oh umm... i was just making sure he was gay so i could 
prove it to you

http://www.geekissues.org/quotes/?random

-------------------------------------------

<smartboy> "The two goats have sired some 50 diary goats for the 
production of silk proteins in their milk."
<smartboy> what the hell is a diary goat?
<smartboy> follows you around recording your day?

-------------------------------------------

1.  Editorial
2.  The Silence of the "G"s
3.  PLANTS MATTER: Stop The Killing Now
4.  Worked in a state park cafeteria line
5.  CoN (not) at the Movies 
-------------------------------------------

This week's Golden Testicle award:

http://www.ratkill.com/ratcam.html

Your rat-hunting headquarters.

-------------------------------------------

1. Editorial

By Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro

Last week, while surfing the 'Net, Colin came upon a site that was 
distributing Golden Testicles.  What surprised all of us of his 
discovery was to see that the drawing being used was the same one we 
used here on CoN.

For those that took the time to read our policies on the site, 
you'll see that we don't have any hesitation for our material to be 
redistributed, as long as it's ours (content provided by other 
authors retains the author's copyright), it retains the original 
integrity and credit is given where credit is due.

The image in question clearly didn't follow any of the above.

Now, unlike my usual self, where I go gun-blazing into a 
confrontation sure of my victory, I wasn't sure how I was going to 
win this one.  You see, we're in Canada, he was in Italy.  Copyright 
laws in these two countries work differently.  And, knowing Italian 
law and bureaucracy, chances were that I'd grow an ulcer before 
anything would've got done.

A lawyer friend explained the difficulty in such cases and gave me a 
few files to look over to see the problems that arised from over-
the-border cases.

So, I wrote to the abuser of the testicle, the most polite e-mail I 
could muster, telling him that we appreciated he liked our drawing, 
but would he be so kind to remove it, since it's ours?  We'd greatly 
appreciate.

Proving that reading, sadly, is not a skill for the tame, he mis-
understood everything we said, claimed he did not like our legal 
attacks of the e-mail and, as far as he was concerned, we could 
fornicate among ourselves.

I re-explained, again, in a kind and understanding tone that no, he 
did not comprehend a single word of what I had originally said.  
Would he please re-read the letter, we'd so greatly appreciate.

At this point, probably after having re-read the e-mail with a 
little more care, he told me that he had no intention of removing 
the image until we could prove that we owned the original.  And even 
if we did, he'd rather pay a fine and have his site closed down.  
Then other colourful descriptions of how to spend our next
half-hours.

I did not desist, thanked him with the sweetest of tones how we 
greatly appreciated his reply.  As for taking legal action, if that 
what he wished, it could be granted.  Shame, I sighed towards the 
end, that these things could not be solved in a friendly and 
amicable way.

At this point, the various people that were following this thread 
had sent me what they had found back.  Unz had gathered his real 
name, real phone number and real postal address.  K had sent his 
minions in search of weaknesses.  Mnemon had discovered other 
information.

His second last e-mail was rather bizarre, as he seemed to regain a 
more human connotation to his wording.  Perhaps the fact that I 
mentioned where we'd be sending the lawyer's documentation and his 
phone number which we'd call when it was going to be mailed out,
might have had something at to do with that.

He, feeling like he was losing the upper-hand, said he'd either put 
the URL http://www.capnasty.org/ on top of the image and/or remove 
it at the end of March, when his domain name expired.  Other than 
that, I was welcomed to grab on to his genitals and dangle off of 
them with my mouth.

So, I wrote again, as usual thanking him for his reply and how we 
appreciated that he'd remove the image immediately.

He wrote back and said we were going to chat on ICQ.  So I 
immediately added him before he could add me.

"How did you find all this info out?" he asked.

"That, I'm afraid, I cannot say".

I don't know if that the fact that the e-mails were always polite, 
sure of themselves, had details he hadn't revealed was part of the 
convincing factor, but we had a decently long chat.

The fellow turned out not to be such a bad bloke after all, but he 
lacks understanding on proper use of other people's work.  Right 
before the end of the very civilized chat, he said that I had high 
morals and that he'd remove the image immediately.

And that, he did.

Peter Steen whines like a little girl:

     I work my ass off to cobble together that piece of crap article
     on Arden and it doesn't make Volume VII, Issue 1?

     You're getting an extra-spicy sphincter roti, Gandhi boy.  >:(

Richard Campbell rejoices over another hot serving of the Rev:

     Good CON

     Always love a good Rev in the morning

Cliffy eats mustard for breakfast:

     just read your piece on mustard. now i am not nearly so anxious
     for breakfast. have you forgiven your sister? have you
     considered therapy?

I've considered murder.
Enjoy this issue.

-------------------------------------------

2.  The Silence of the "G"s 
by Peter Steen 
 
This is a story of love in the time of war - the story of honour and 
heroism, horror and pain...without the love, war, honour or heroism.

This is the story of neighbours; a tale of horror and pain...and 
dullness. And humus. 

Several years ago, after my wife and I bought our first home, we 
quickly discovered that the house next to ours - with whom we shared 
a driveway - was occupied by an ogre of a woman, her brow-beaten 
husband, and their genetically fascinating offspring. 

Indeed, so overbearing was this next-door wife, that she could not 
pass you without inspiring the lyrics from Pink Floyd's The Happiest 
Days Of Our Lives:

"But in the town it was well known 
When they got home at night 
Their fat and psychopathic wives would 
Thrash them within inches of their lives". 

They were a nasty lot, indeed. She was a semi-reformed white-trash 
matriarch and ex-psychology student. He was (shudder) a child 
psychologist, who was forced to lumber through the neighbourhood 
while walking his "dog" - a rodent-like Yorkie, no more than a half-
dozen pounds at most. 

For years, we lived next to this human freak show, and raised two 
young children of our own. Eventually, a lack of space and tolerance 
made us decide to move from this house to a new home. Though it was 
sadto leave the neighbouring nest of unpleasantness after four 
years, we found a new dwelling that offered a better location and 
the dreams of new neighbours. 

How could anything be stranger than what we were leaving? 

We moved to our new home in a December; a nice, semi-detached home 
only a few blocks from my kids' school. Relocating in cold weather, 
as we did, usually means you don't meet the neighbours right away 
(as everyone is tucked into their warm domiciles, waiting out the 
eight months of the year we Canadians affectionately call Winter). 

When Spring eventually arrived, the neighbours, like the buds on the 
trees, started making an appearance. We met our neighbours to the 
North of us - an extremely nice, middle-aged couple with two teenage 
kids. 

But it was the neighbours to the South - to whom our house is 
attached - that were of interest. We didn't hear much from the other 
side of our mutual wall through the Winter months, nor did we ever 
seem to witness the coming and going of any humans from their home. 

But, we figured, how could anything be stranger than what we had 
left? Then, maybe 100 days into the good weather, came our first 
close encounter of the third kind. Not only did we actually see one 
of them...we made contact.

It was an awkward approach from her said, as the neighbour mater 
quickly, yet in almost inaudible tones, introduced herself and 
mentioned a local fair that was coming up. Then she left, as rapidly 
as she had descended upon us. 

My wife and I stared at each other - as if we had just been dumped 
on a lonesome road somewhere, after being abducted by aliens and 
anally probed - to confirm what had just happened. We talked, 
quietly, between us, trying to remember what she had said her name 
was. Klaatu? E.T.? Alf? Boba Fett? Who knew? 

A few weeks later, I made contact with the child of the house - a 
pre-teen male, who dressed like some proletariat-clad extra from a 
Sergei Eisenstein film. I introduced myself and it was then that I 
realized that, indeed, things could be stranger than what we had 
left. 

He said his name was Arden..."Like garden, but the 'G' is silent". 

Now I don't know about you, but I don't meet too many people who 
define themselves by what they aren't, especially when they're not 
part of a homeowner's property. Okay, proletariat boy, maybe you and 
your mom are just a bit off. But you really can't be stranger than 
what we had left, can you? The answer came soon enough. 

Even though no more than 50 words had ever been exchanged between 
the two adjoined households, about a month or so later we were asked 
to watch our neighbours' house, as they were going away on a short 
four-day trip. The request was to water the plants and feed the cat 
that "No G", "Alf" and pater (not yet met) kept. Of course, it 
begged the immediate question: why, if you were only leaving for 
four days, wouldn't you water the plants before you left? 

But that's not how things run, it turns out, in their household. 

Before they left, I was instructed on which plants to water (all), 
and where the cat's litter box was to be found. I also met the 
father - just as oddly dull (or is that dully odd?) - who inspired 
the entire clan to be referred to as The Dullards. A note with 
specific instructions was to be left for me. After The Dullards 
departed, I took my oldest child with me into the neighbour's house; 
one must be always keen to gain unescorted access inside a 
neighbour's - it's an excellent way to find out how soundproof your 
walls are, for when you're yelling at your kids. 

The first impression was the strong odour of dirt. There were so 
many plants in this place that you'd swear a mass grave had just 
been dug from the smell. It was "humus-palooza" and as I advanced 
towards the scent of tilled soil, I engaged my oldest child in a 
game of "Operation Human Shield". (She was "it" first and "Operation 
Human Shield" went immediately into effect.) 

Then I found the note, with the instructions. Besides asking that 
all 4,711 plants be watered, I was to fill the cat's bowl 5/8 full 
with food. Not one-half. Not three-quarters. 5/8. After soaking the 
plant life and filling the cat bowl to overflowing, I took a quick 
look at the layout of the house and calculated how much it resembled 
something from "Silence of the Lambs". The basement, I imagined, had 
the requisite pit and sewing room, since all that dirt smell 
couldn't just be from the living room plants. "Operation Human 
Shield" and I then made a hasty retreat. 

Two years later, and about another 50 words exchanged, I came home 
one night to find "No G" hanging around the sidewalk outside the 
houses. When I asked him what was up, he stated that he had 
forgotten to take his key to school with him, and that he was locked 
out of the house. 

Like an idiot, I invited him into my home, to make whatever phone 
calls he needed to make. As luck would have it, Dullard mere and 
pere are nowhere to be found. Resisting the temptation to simply 
turf him back out into the street, I say he can stay in our place 
until his parents return home. 

Social little thing that he is, about 10 minutes into the impromptu 
visit Dullard Jr. pipes up that he's "hungry". No polite request for 
food or snack. Just "I'm hungry". Thanking him for the news flash, I 
quickly turn on "The Simpsons", hoping that it was a particularly 
inappropriate episode that might send the now-unwanted guest into a 
temporary coma. 

No such luck. In fact, he enjoyed the show (Dullards have no cable, 
nor do they watch much television) and remarked on how it makes him 
hungrier. By now, it was time to cook dinner for my family... and 
the parasite. When I finished BBQ-ing I noticed "No G" discussing 
something with my wife, whose smiling her fake smile. I then walk 
inside the house, to talk to her, when I catch Dullard the Younger 
reading - up close and real personal-like - the list of bills and 
letters we have posted on our 'fridge. 

"Get the fuck away from my 'fridge, you nosey, going-to-eat-my food, 
missing-consonant little bastard!" I yell, in my mind. However, 
still unsure of the whole Silence of the Lambs/dirt-smell thing, I 
simply ask that everyone wash their hands for dinner. 

The Boy Without The Letter G In His Name had eaten more than his 
fair share of food when the doorbell rang. It was Alf (or is it 
Klaatu?), come to retrieve her offspring. Few words accompanied the 
gathering of her child...and I'm not sure whether I heard someone 
say "Thank you" or "spank you". 

Fewer than 50 more words have followed since, though there's no 
animosity between the two houses. 

And there seems to be little truly wrong with them, outside of what 
must be, medically speaking, a terminal dose dullness. As Bugs Bunny 
once put it: "D-U-L, dull." I doubt the bland little heads of this 
threesome have never carried lampshades; the only jokes they tell 
are in Latin. 

As well, I have come to the sad realization that Chez Dullard 
probably holds no mysteries, as I doubt the inhabitants are exciting 
enough to be serial killers. 

And while I also feel sorry for Arden - the human Gnome mapping 
programme will one day reveal the humour gene he is missing - I also 
feel relieved for him: if the Dullards were to name a child with a 
silent "G" in his name, at least they didn't choose to call him 
Angus. 

--- 
A highly skilled writer and poet laureate of several recently 
independent Pacific-atoll nations, Peter Steen saves his best 
work... which is obvious once you're six or seven words into any of 
his published material. He wants a German Shepherd puppy for his 
birthday, but can't have one.

-------------------------------------------

3. PLANTS MATTER: Stop The Killing Now

By Cliff Yankovich

My current status as a Meatan, one who eats only meat, dairy and 
"field killed" grain products, is largely due to the attitude of a 
former co-worker.  (More about what we Meatan's can and cannot 
ingest later.)  We hired Her, not her real name, as a temp for a 
short term project in our office a year and a half ago.

She was an aggressive Vegan and by that I mean she was really in 
your face with her vegetarian agenda.  Personally I don't really 
care what people prefer to eat or, for that matter, what sexual 
practices they engage in.  I just don't want to hear about it, 
especially not in the work place and I really don't like to have 
such things jammed down my throat.  One good thing about Her being 
in my face with the Vegan thing is that it forced me to think about 
my own food preferences.  She helped me realize that I had to do 
something to combat the ongoing, constant slaughter of living things 
done in order to feed people every day in this country and around 
the world.

Here's how things happened.  We were eating our respective lunches 
in my office.  Mine was a wonderful piece of grilled chicken cooked 
by a gentleman who set up his barbeque barrel in the parking lot of 
his restaurant, located just upwind of
my office.  "Mmmm-mmm, good", I was thinking to myself as I looked 
up at Her.  She had a scowl on her face as she condescendingly 
watched down her nose as I went about consuming the remains of a 
former chicken.   She gave me a short speech about how she "used to 
eat meat", but now that she was in a more enlightened state, she 
only ate fruits and vegetables.

Like a flash the clarity of the cruel slaughter of the vegetarian 
lifestyle and the true glory of the Meatan way of life was revealed 
to me.  I cannot claim an angelic visitation or the aid of Joseph 
Smithian magic spectacles, but the reality of who is really being 
cruel was delivered like a lightening bolt to the little table in my 
office.

Let me digress and bring up two pieces of information, which 
together form the foundation of the Meatan philosophy.  Does anyone 
else remember reading about studies done in the 70s regarding 
biofeedback from plants?  Some biologist hooked up EKG type monitors 
to various types of plants.  His work demonstrated that the plants 
were alive with electricity much the way we are.  The feedback from 
the plants differed with soothing music and rock-n-roll, (probably 
why my mother gave me the article in the first place.)  The plants 
registered "pain" when flowers and fruit were plucked off them.  
Foundation A: Plants are living, sentient beings.

Foundation #2 is based on the realization that many, if not most, 
fruits and vegetables are picked "green" and then ripen during the 
subsequent shipment, storage and display time at your favorite food 
store.  Think of bananas and those lovely tomatoes that are still 
"on the vine" ripening in the store.  Also, bear in mind the money 
grocery stores have spent on automatic watering systems for lots of 
the fruits and veggies they stock.  Does one water dead plants? 
(Ever see them feeding the meat selections at your local store?) It 
only stands to reason that fruits and vegetables are still in the 
process of growing and developing when we purchase and consume them.

Getting the picture?

On the other hand the meat we Meatans consume is quite dead when we 
buy it. In my many years of meat consumption, I have never, ever 
purchased orange roughy or a steak that was capable of registering 
pain when I put it on the grill or in the oven.  (A well mannered 
Meatan will only buy frozen lobsters, not those poor tortured 
beasties who are dropped alive into boiling water.)  The bovine 
source of the steak is treated to a speedy death.  Likewise the 
pigs, chickens, sheep, goats, etc. that we Meatans enjoy are 
dispatched to the Great Beyond in an instant.

Conversely, when those of the vegetarian persuasion slice a still-
ripening tomato to top off their salad they are brutally carving 
into a living, feeling thing. Consider how the protective coating of 
a banana is ripped off to reveal the still-growing-and-maturing soft 
inside which is bitten into hunks and masticated into a formless 
mass.  Barbarism unbound.  The clubbing of seals pales in 
comparison.  It is with deep, rainbow-hued satisfaction that we 
Meatans chomp into our VERY DEAD Whopper, (ordered in true Meatan 
style with no living lettuce, twitching tomato or sentient onion 
aboard).

The doctrine of "field killing" allows Meatans to eat a non-meat bun 
on our burger.  The wheat and other grains used in breads (and beer, 
amen) has been humanely killed in the field by those massive combine 
things.  It is a quick, instant death - a death with dignity, if I 
may be so bold - that is handed out to them.  Not to be compared 
with the brutal way in which the vegan takes an apple or an orange 
that was ripped from its life support system and yet continues to 
mature and develop until it is bitten or sliced into manageable 
pieces to be chewed and swallowed.  Oh, the humanity!

Back to my conversation with Her.  With the boundless enthusiasm of 
the recently converted, I explained the Meatan Way showing her the 
path of True Love Toward Living Things. I contrasted my loving and 
humane consumption of a very dead chicken with her unthinkable 
murder of the STILL LIVING lettuce, tomato and carrots contained in 
her salad. Speaking of unthinkable, have you seen the packages of 
Baby Carrots for sale?  Something must be done.  [Note: Just last 
week Meatans in Oregon chained themselves to the produce section in 
order to stop the senseless brutality brought upon BABY vegetables 
of all kinds.]  I have no knowledge of the effect of my revelations 
upon Her.  I do not know if she has shied away from her mean, 
vicious ways.  It is my sincere wish that she will learn to 
recognize the humanity of only eating dead stuff.  One can only hope 
the seeds that were planted that day will take hold and grow to 
fruition and not be brutally terminated like the ingredients of 
today's veggie special.

Meatans can eat all quick-killed products as well as products that 
have never been alive in the first place (you know, like Hot Tamales 
and Pork Rinds - foodstuff made from various forms of home 
insulating products mixed with sugar and/or salt.)  Just like the 
Baptists and vegetarians, we have various factions in the ranks of 
Meatans.  There are some doctrinal differences in our ranks when it 
comes to things like condiments - one side avoids any form of 
tomato, while the others rationalizes the consumption thereof by 
pointing out that the tomatoes turned into ketchup were humanely 
dispatched with a combination of high-speed rotating knives and 
chemical additives.  Some will only drink boiled water and 
artificial beverages while others argue that "juiced" fruits and 
vegetables were converted from life to liquid in a quick, loving 
manner.

Our strength is in our diversity and we celebrate it - with meat.

---
Readers interested in exploring the wonders of Meatanhood are 
invited to contact the author at Cliffy777@attbi.com.

-------------------------------------------

4. Worked in a state park cafeteria line

By REVSCRJ

Crater Lake Oregon changed my life in ways that will forever make me 
a better person.  I had been hitch-hiking up California and Oregon 
with a friend of mine, Andy, and we had completely run out of money 
-- spent our last bit on some soup.  It was either spare-change 
folks, get a job in a lumber mill, or work at the state park.  
Luckily we both got into the park.

Crater Lake sits at the top of Mount Mazama and is roughly fifty 
miles from any population center, so basically the 120 or so
employees were trapped in a strange microcosmic society.  The
cliques were all there, the socio-dynamics, the in-crowd and
their infighting, all the accoutrements of your larger social
orders but so small that the traits of it were like a Dick and
Jane book for socialization.  I was 18 and absolutely non-socialized.

Throughout my entire life I had been either estranged from my peers 
or at outright odds with them.  I'd never been popular or well-liked 
which didn't make me unhappy as most folk, I noticed, just outright 
suck and if they like you then there is likely something 
dramatically wrong with the way you live your life.

If there is any adversity that I thank God for giving me it is the 
inexplicable distaste for me demonstrated by classmates growing up, 
if it weren't for that I'd be likely writing copy for some fucking 
toothpaste company now; unfortunately this did leave me weak to 
positive manipulation.

The first day I am there I am sitting in the locker/lounge room 
writing in a notebook.  These 3 guys are across the room looking at 
me and talking quietly.  I pretend not to notice while peripherally 
paying direct attention to them - one of the many skills I learned 
while trying to be invisible in school.  Finally I hear one say, 
"Well we won't know if we don't ask him."

They come up to, introduce themselves- Ron, Fred and Mike- and ask 
me if I smoke pot.

"Only when it's present."

They laugh and invite me on a hike to the top of the caldera (crater 
lip). I accept.  As fate would have it, these guys turn out to be 
#1-3 on the socio-food-chain at this place and my becoming friends 
with them I end up landing at about #2 (and don't think I don't see 
the double entender there)- a 'ranking' I'd never even come near 
before.

It didn't become clear to me until a few weeks in when I noticed an 
inordinate amount of people wanted to hang-out with me, hike with 
me, smoke pot/drink with me- women were flirting with me constantly.  
Now this is bizarre and initially I was suspicious- like I'd 
wandered into some cult who were putting on a big facade until 
sacrifice night- but quickly began to accept the role with full 
enthusiasm.

People laughed at my jokes when I knew perfectly well that they 
weren't funny.  They'd run with my tangents like they were trying to 
impress me.  They'd buy booze and tell me not to throw money towards 
it.  When women would talk to me, they would do things like grab my 
knee when laughing or put their head on my shoulder to accentuate a 
request and in retrospect (because at the time I started wallowing 
in it).

I think it was just simple and basic attempts to move themselves up 
the socio-ladder.  Real disturbing.  Real false.  Turned me into a 
jock-like asshole for awhile- playing to the crowd so much that it 
controlled me as much as I controlled it.  Makes me pity/loathe the 
alphas of any group.  Theirs is a life of always being the victim.

One night Fred, myself and about four other folks are standing 
outside of Fred's van smoking a bit of fine Oregonian green bud.  
Out of nowhere a Ranger just appears.  He sees the pipe and says, 
"Allright, why don't you just make this easy and hand over the dope 
too."

We do.  Now before you call me a weak-kneed bitch, it bears noting 
that we had a couple thousand dollars of stolen goods packed into 
Fred's van and the LAST thing any of us wanted was a ranger 
discovering that.  The ranger, of course, goes to management to 
report the incident and suggests that no disciplinary actions be 
taken as Fred only had about half a gram left.  Management, while we 
are all assembled, fires Fred and turns to me.  Though I forget the 
guy's name, I still recall that face whiskey-perma-reddened face 
asking me what I was going to do.

The reason he asked me was that earlier in the month I had organized 
a work slow down over the firing of another employee.  He was 
rehired before we actually had to execute it, so the fat man wanted 
to know if he could expect anything of that nature this time.  I 
say:

"You fire Fred and I'll quit."

"Well, we are firing Fred."

"Then I quit."

Of the assembled 5, the rest also quit.  Fat man says we gotta be 
out of the park tonight, off the property.  He's real pissed.  On 
the way to packing up our gear, at like 10:30p, we pass a bunch of 
people and fill them in on what just went down.

"Damn, all of you guys are leaving?  Fuck this place."

Within six hours the most beautiful domino effect began to occur: 
roughly 75 of the 120 employees quit and packed up.  Many of them 
woken up from a dead sleep in the dorms.  We all relocated to 
Diamond Lake campgrounds where Fred and I broke out the stolen goods 
which were, primarily, food and drink...

Crater Lake fed us for like 4 or 5 days - what a good fucking party 
that was... we had a mass employee-uniform burning... it was purely 
tribal, totally anti-system and powerfully liberating.

As it turned out, Fat man had violated a clause in our collective 
contracts by not giving us 24 hours to leave the park so the ENTIRE 
group either got severance pay OR their jobs back- nearly all took 
the pay aside from a few who took the job in order to funnel us more 
food and goods.

Thus the park closed a few months early that year and effectively we 
fucked over a few of the bastards in the world - an accomplishment 
one should strive towards daily.

I eventually shook off the alpha mentality, realizing how it was 
distorting my growth, and learned from it that no matter who you are 
you must beware those around you who feed your ego because if you 
don't you will become their puppet.

---
REVSCRJ is a writer/musician living in Monterey, California. 
Constantly on the verge of homelessness, he hopes that you enjoy his 
work or else his life has been in vain. Contact REVSCRJ at 
revscrj@cloudfactory.org to lodge complaints, notify of lawsuits, or 
receive spiritual advice.

-------------------------------------------

5.   CoN (not) at the Movies
with Jeff Wright

S'up bitches!?!?!  I've watched a whole 3 movies in the last two 
weeks.  That be weak.  I'd like to blame it on my broken DVD player, 
but it just broke a few days ago (fucker!).  I just haven't been in 
the mood, so I have very little to talk about here.  I'll try to pad 
it out with a bunch of stupid shit you won't want to read.

Thank you if you haven't skipped to the next article already (here's 
hoping mine isn't the last), but really you may as well.  

Movie One:
YOU SHOOT, I SHOOT

This flic rocks the house!  Best HK flic I saw from last year.  It's 
a comedy about a hitman who teams up with a Scorsese worshipping 
film student to shoot his hits on video as a little bonus for the 
client.  Definitely one of my fave films'a 2001 yo.   Sadly it's not 
available on DVD yet, so you'll have to pick it up on VCD.

Movie Two:
GOOD BURGER

Go rent it.  If it's not in the COMEDY section of your video store, 
it might be rented.  Check the CLASSICS section just in case though.  
It might be there.

Movie Three:
AH FUCK THIS!

I don't wanna type anything more about no movies.  K?

Blah blah blah blah.

And a blahbitty blah blah to you sir!

"I Love My Computer!"  That's what my mouse pad says.

Has anyone been watching Survivor?  Who's going to win the million 
dollars?  

Have I asked if anyone has Who Wants To Marry A Millionaire on tape?  
If anyone does, I'll pay for a copy.  

I'm going to see Weezer and Gorillaz next month.  Woohoo!

Anyone still reading?  If anyone is...  Why?

---
Jeff's attention span has been really short lately.

-------------------------------------------

CoN would not be possible without the great help of Scriba Org.

CoN: Pfizer Corporation announced that VIAGRA will soon be available 
in a liquid form, marketed by Pepsi Cola as a "power" beverage.  The 
new drink will be called MOUNT N DO, on the basis that a man can now 
literally pour himself a stiff one.

Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine    "media you can abuse"
In memory of Father Ross "Padre" Legere
Published every second Monday (or when we get around it)
Disclaimer: unintentionally offensive
Comments, queries and submissions are welcome

http://www.capnasty.org  ISSN 1482-0471

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ZimID 708EC8D1  1994/09/14 EC B0 97 59 1D FE 7C 32  7E 04 2C 66 47 41 FB 7D
