Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine
Volume V, Issue 11, AD MM
Tuesday, September 12, 2000
ISSN 1482-0471
-------------------------------------------

"When their numbers dwindled from 50 to 8, the other dwarves began 
to suspect Hungry." - Melissa De Wilde

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

..., George W. Bush has made education the centrepiece of his 
campaign, and some Americans are realizing that the public education 
system isn't even teaching students how to convert pounds into 
kilograms - leaving future drug dealers out in the cold. - 
http://bitch.shutdown.com/blag_jesus.html

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

1.  Editorial
2.  Crack Manual
3.  Cat Acne
4.  The fun and joy of cultural diversity
5.  We all drown in a Russian submarine
-------------------------------------------

This week's Golden Testicle award:

http://fury.com/aoliza/

AOLiza - your AOL instant messenger shrink

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

1. Editorial
By Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro

I usually try to avoid society, not because I enjoy being anti-
social, but mostly because interacting with it, is as much fun as 
heading headfirst into a brick wall.

The other night, I was roaming happily down Queen Street, after 
meeting one friend, and I was looking for a phone in order to call 
another one up and arrange a meeting place.  I started walking along 
the side of the street looking for a phone.  Now in this day and age 
it seems that if you don't have your own phone, the only way to make 
a phone call is with a calling card.  Your good old quarter sitting 
in your pants is not even good to buy yourself a candy.

Eventually I found two.  Both were busy.  So, I decided put myself 
there and wait, thinking it wouldn't be too long.  I waited 35 
minutes for them to be freed.

As I was waiting, two fine examples of the future generation came 
standing behind me.

The two girls (ravers) started making some annoying yet somewhat 
justified comments about the girl by the phone who was there talking 
as if she was in her living room.

Which made it hard for me to understand what the heck she was 
saying, since the beginning had got quite interesting and I was 
trying really hard not to give her my opinion about the whole 
situation she was talking about to her friend.  The girl was one of 
those pretty looking thing, the kind you don't get tired of staring 
at, and you can't help but wonder how she had managed to have a 
waist so small.

She kept talking on the phone about how she went to some party and 
people wanted to know all the negative stuff about some guy.  It got 
quite interesting to hear the superficiality of the conversation and 
how she had got upset of her apparent friends' comments.  She said 
this, in deep concentration, using the word "like" a lot, while 
holding her copy of Cosmo and her make up bag in the other hand.

I'm sure Cosmo carried some educational articles of the type "12 
Exercises for a more uplifting bosom" or "Where to touch him where 
he has never been touched before", something which of course sent 
shivers down my back.

The two ravers girl of course, after having waited a total of 30 
seconds started getting upset.  Much like piranhas, that alone are 
harmless, but in a pack more ferocious than a group of feminists, 
began sending their oh-so-entertaining comments.

Okay, so Queen St. if not the first, is the second, busiest street 
in Toronto, which for reasons that just make no sense, doesn't have 
many phones.  I'm sure if I had travelled for another 20 blocks, I 
would've found a different phone myself (just to wait for yet 
another fine example of future generation using it), but since 
phones are a first come first served basis, just wait and shut the 
fuck up.

And besides, everyone these days seems to have a cell phone, why 
don't they?

"Like, you know," said one "when I'm on a phone and I see people 
waiting, like, I make it quick" loud enough for the poor pretty girl 
to hear it.
"But no, some people" said the other "stand there with their pretty 
fucking dress and their tight little ass and fucking high heel shoes 
and just own the city!"
"Yeah, like, fuck everyone else, they think!"

Frankly, if I had to pick between who was better dressed, the girl 
on the phone would've won hands down.  Okay, so ravers are just 
soooo cool, it hurts and I'm just waiting for the fashion police to 
come knocking on my door, but seriously folks, I've seen beggars 
better dressed.  Elephant pants were never cool, and I just don't 
get why retro is so in.

Now, it's not because the girl on the phone was prettier than the 
two ravers behind me that I didn't mind waiting, but I didn't care.  
Someone was playing music behind me, with a good beat, lots of 
people going by displaying what's the latest way to dress and look 
cool, life was good and I was in an odd good mood.  And of course 
the share of strange people that left the shrink a bit too soon, a 
constant reminder of just how sane I am.  Besides, if in a rush to 
use the phone, you could probably find one.

I wasn't yet in my pissy, unusual mood and besides, saying something 
nasty to the two ravers would've got no point across.  People like 
that have their brains so swollen by their ego and natural belief of 
being the best and most original crap in the universe, anyone that 
dares talk to them that ain't dressed likewise just ain't, shall we 
say, hip to be heard.

So I just turned around and started staring at them.  With a blank 
look.  Just staring.  The kind of look you give to your neighbour's 
kids while holding your bolt action rifle and whispering a Latin 
chant.  This must've made them feel quite uncomfortable, stare at 
each other for a while, and finally leaving, saying, I'm sure "What 
a freak!"

Peace at last, one of the phones frees up and I can make my 22 
second long call to a friend and tell him where to meet me.  I do 
all this while staring at the pretty girl, who now is starting to 
feel rather uncomfortable, and I wink to her, when I leave, making 
her go quiet for a second.

So I finally meet my friend, and we go to this tiny little 
Vietnamese restaurant and start talking business and other weird 
shyte, while sucking down noodles with meatballs, when society's 
finest comes knocking at my door again.

Now, I live in a pretty big city and I'm friendly to the average 
Joe.  And while I don't mind encountering strangers on the road, I 
like to be left the fuck alone, whenever possible.

Woman enters and starts telling my friend, other people and myself 
how she's from Poland, has 5 kids and if we can spare 5 bucks.
She's saying this while smoking a Malboro.

You know when you look at someone, and without this person even 
opening her mouth, you can already tell a lot about them?  You know, 
they have that look that just says "dumb", "too much cocaine", 
"banged his head really heard when he fell from the high-chair".  
Or, when you encounter religious types, that ecstatic yet 
brainwashed look?  Well, this woman, the moment she stepped in, you 
could tell that the gears in her head had stopped a long time ago 
and some spider had found a nice place to lay it's eggs.

Her accent was anything but Polish.
So I say "your accent is anything but Polish.  More like somewhere 
from Newfoundland or around there".  So I suggest she'd go to a 
shelter.
"All the shelters are packed!" she says.

Because my girlfriend had the ahem... fortune of working in a 
shelter, and I learned myself the ups and downs in season and where 
all the shelters in Toronto are, I told her who to call and about 6 
different shelters that were in the area.

While we are in Canada, not too far from the North Pole, even in 
September it's nowhere cold enough to justify every single shelter 
being packed.  Not at 8 PM anyway.  I know how these things work.

Of course, she claims again, she has 5 children, she's Polish and 
boo hoo she's a human being too and we don't care.  I supposed I 
should have said "Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal 
saviour and drinking buddy?"  That would have got her moving.

"I'm a human being too" goes I, and I give her a dollar and I say 
"so what will that pay for tonight?  Heroin?  More cigarettes like 
the one you're smoking?  Alcohol, perhaps?".  The guy sitting at the 
table across from starts howling and goes "If you're Polish, so am 
I!"

So we all start laughing and she goes on about this story of how her 
gay friend was beaten while he tried to pick up a straight guy and 
the straight guy also stole his $300 and all he had to offer her, 
with his head between his knees, was a cigarette.

"Uh uh" we all went.

"Okay, show's over" I go "can you now leave?  There are people 
trying to breathe clean air in here" and she's about to leave, stops 
and starts telling my friend about her gay friend.  This, while 
covering him with smoke.  The Vietnamese waiter, a guy about four 
feet tall and with manly chest hair was trying to get her to leave, 
but she probably never even noticed he was there.

So I say out loud "nobody gives a shit, please get the fuck out" and 
she has this twitch like she's about to cry.  And leaves, stumbling 
out the door (after first slamming into it face first). Geez.  Most 
beggars know to keep it brief.

Now, I am usually not mean.  Well, okay, I am.  However, if someone 
is in need, I more than gladly help them out.  But I'm starting to 
really lose my patience with beggars.  First of all there is a large 
network in this city to help those less fortunate.  With the risk of 
sounding like I'm repeating what IMPROV said in his last article, if 
you want to get help, there is.  You just have to go to it, since it 
doesn't come to you all by itself. Queen St. seems to be where 99% 
of beggars now beg (you encounter one every 50 metres).
Not only does one become insensitive about it and tired of the same 
old stories ("my grandmother is sick and I need money to visit 
her"), but you also run out of change pretty quickly, and get a 
nasty comment if you got nothing to offer.  Best part of it all, is 
the irony when you see, in the store's display windows behind them, 
large lettered signs that say "HELP WANTED".

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

2.  Crack Manual
by Jeff Wright

	This issue, I want to talk about my new found hobby.  Crack.  
Thankfully I haven't developed a dependency on it yet; though I'm 
sure it's coming.  

THE CONS OF CRACK

	The first thing I have to tell you about crack, is that it's 
expensive.  It's as expensive as it looks like it is on tv, and in 
the movies.  Don't get into the game unless you've got the bank roll 
to play.  If you don't have a high paying job, like I fortunatly do, 
don't start.  Stick with ciggarettes.  They're healthier for you 
anyways.  Plus they don't cause blisters.

	Smoking crack requires a metal pipe.  A crack pipe.  You have 
to heat the crack, so that you can smoke it.  This often causes the 
pipe to get hot, and leave heat blisters on your lip.  These 
blisters would hurt like a bitch if it weren't for the fact that 
you're smoking crack.  

THE JOYS OF CRACK

What's it like smoking crack?  It's fantastic.  I haven't 
experienced anything like it before.  It's a release.  It's an 
energy.  If you've smoked crack before, you know what I mean.  

It really is best experienced, then described.  So much so, 
that I'm not even gonna bother going into it.  If you're curious, 
and you've got the money, try it.  Just make sure you've got the 
money.  If you don't, I'll warn you again; don't try it.  I may not 
be addicted to it yet (I've been doing it for close to a month now), 
but some people get addicted very quickly.  Just trust me on this.  
While it is good, it's not so good that if you can't afford it, you 
should go stealing tv sets for it.  It could very easily ruin your 
life.  My family doesn't talk to me as much as they used to, since I 
started.  Not that I really care, but I know that's important to 
some people.

OBTAINING CRACK

	Where do you get crack?  This is pretty easy actually.  If 
they've got weed, and they're over the age of 16, your neighbourhood 
dealer can get it for you.  If you happen to live in an area with 
heavy drug trafficking, then I'd say that dealers even as young as 
11 should be able to get it.  If you can get a younger dealer, it's 
probably best.  They're less likely to try sell you garbage shit, 
and have reason to be afraid of you.  If you get some badass who's 
always packing, and treats you with little respect, there's a 
greater chance that he'll screw you over.

THE NUMBERS

	Just how many people smoke crack?  A recent survey of 7,000 
North Americans (Realize that a lot of people aren't that honest 
when discussing their drug habits), 28.4 percent claimed to take 
non-pharmacutical drugs.  Of that 28.4 percent, only 6.8 percent 
claimed to having once tried crack, or smoked it on a regular basis.  
That means of the 1988 who took drugs, only 135 had ever smoked 
crack.  That's not a huge number.  1.9 percent of the surveyed 
7,000.  That should give you an idea of how many people can afford 
it.  It's a great club, with great facilities, but membership is 
expensive.

IN CLOSING

I hope that this has been of some help to those of you out 
there who've been considering taking up crack as a hobby.  Would 
collecting Barbie dolls be a healthier hobby?  Building train sets?  
Sure, but they're both kinda gay, and crack is one hell of a manly 
drug.  Come on guys, dump your broads and take up crack.  It's the 
un-official drug of the olympics (I think).  

---
Jeff wants everyone to go see Nurse Betty.  It's fantastic, and 
doesn't require drugs to be enjoyed like most of this year's 
offerings.
-------------------------------------------

3.   Cat Acne
By Jason MacIsaac

Nobody likes to go to the doctor.  Nobody likes to be pocked or 
prodded or have cold metal instruments inserted into them by people 
you're not on a first name basis with.

We as people though can be made to understand why it happens.  I 
didn't want to go to the hospital last time I went, but I understood 
that time spent under the knife while doped out of my brain and 
wearing a gown strippers find too revealing was a better alternative 
to have my wisdom teeth and gums rot in my head.  Even children, 
with a little skillful parlance--the kind that talked the Natives 
out of Manhatta--can be made to understand that however much 
discomfort they're in now, the nice man with the rectal thermometer 
will make it all better in the long run.

Animals on the other hand, never seem to find any explanation as to 
why they must go to the vet satisfactory.

Cats, by far, are the worst for this.  Most dogs will merrily follow 
the master anywhere, tongue hanging out.  Dogs love attention, of 
just about any kind.  So what if the weird lady in the pale blue 
uniform squeezed my testicles prior to removing them last time I was 
here?  She's paying attention to me!  Cats on the other hand have no 
greater natural enemy than the vet.  If given a choice, a cat would 
probably give up its favorite corner of the bed to a smelly old dog 
rather than face the Vee-eee-tee.

My cat required a trip to the vet just this weekend.  She was due 
for a vaccination, and I wanted to get some sores underneath her 
chin looked at.  Not too long ago she was tested for a particularly 
nasty cat disease, and came back negative, but I've been on the 
lookout for anything health wise ever since.

I personally prefer cats over dogs as pets, but I must admit that 
there is one great advantage dogs have over cats--dogs love to 
travel.  Dogs see an open car door and jump in, tail wagging.  Cats 
on the other hand hate being moved without being in control, and 
frequently spazz out in cars.  This is why you should never 
transport a cat out of a carrier of some kind.  Unless you want the 
car interior looking like someone stuffed it through a giant paper 
shredder.

My poor kitty mewed constantly on the way to the vet.  Cats are 
great at making owners feel guilty.  Their pitiful little cries 
sound like "Why are you doing this to me?"  Naturally, you can't 
explain.  

Vets offices play havoc on a cat's senses.  There are about a 
thousand different animals scents, and she's only used to her own.  
Suddenly the cat realises that cat carrier is a good thing, and she 
doesn't want to be out of it.  In fact, by the time the vet showed 
up to look at my cat, the carrier had to be turned with it door 
facing down in order to get her out.

Then comes the examination.

I've never met a vet who didn't love animals.  Kinda makes sense, 
really.  Still, some animals must really try their patience.  Or 
desensitize them.  When the vet began to examine my cat, she wasn't 
put off by the hissing for a moment.  

"Oh yes, vicious kitty," she cooed.  It so happened that my cat 
didn't turn into a buzzsaw and turn her into an attractive Queen 
Anne armoire, but I really wonder how she knew my cat was just 
bluffing.  Or was only at the point where she issuing a verbal 
warning.  How does she determine a cat who's merely pissed off to 
one who's thinking "Sigh.  Think of all the blood I'm going to have 
to lick out of my fur"?

The vet told me that my cat has acne.  That's a new one on me.  I've 
heard of rabies, distemper, cat leukemia...cat acne?  Yep.  
Excessive oil getting trapped on her skin has led to the creation of 
the sores. The vet prescribed two kinds of treatments that I'd have 
to carry on at home.  The first was an antiseptic wash. Basically, I 
take a little bit of this medicated soap, scrub her chin, and rinse.  
Call it Clearasil for Kitties.

Cats like to wash.  They wash themselves constantly.  They wash 
other cats.  They let other cats wash them.  

Cats however, are very adverse to humans washing them.  They're 
quite racist about it if you ask me.  They just will not adjust to 
the human way of cleaning themselves.  It's easier to insert the cat 
into your VCR than it is a tub of water.  Washing my cat's face is 
not going to be easy.

As hard as that will be, giving her the pills will be worse. Ever 
try to get a cat to swallow a pill?  It's like trying to throw a 
penny into a golf hole from a passing Harrier.  The vet showed me 
how it's done, but my cat  fought it all the way.  And it's just me 
by myself to hold her still and give her the medicine.  Since she's 
on a restricted diet now, I can't even do the clever thing and hide 
it in some food.

The vet had this little syringe-like device with a rubber tip, 
called a "Pill Popper."  You put the pill inside the tip.  A plunger 
at the other end is then pulled back, into the firing position, as 
it were.  You force the cat's mouth open, and, provided she left you 
with any fingers to do it, you press the plunger and shoot the pull 
down her throat.

The vet of course has done this a million times, and so she did it 
with a flick of her wrist practically.  The pill popped neatly down 
my cat's throat.  You should have seen the look on my cat's face.  
It's not often you can interpret an animal's thought into human 
terms, but this one left little to the imagination.  After my cat 
had been forced to swallow the tablet, she flashed the vet a look 
that said, "Ooh, you little bitch.  I can't fucking believe what you 
just did."

The indignities over, the cat is more than happy to get back into 
the carrier.  They understand:  I'm at home, I see the carrier = I'm 
going to some place that's going to suck.    I'm at a place that 
sucks, I see the carrier = I'm going home.  Fuckin' A.  So the cat 
gets back into the carrier without a word, and is quiet the whole 
trip home.  

At least, until you're walking up to the door.  Then they get 
impatient.  Here's another place where you can interpret those 
meows:  "Whoa, we're home!  Open the door, lemme out of here!  Hurry 
up with the goddamn keys!"

The cat is happy to be home, and so are you.  It's draining, even if 
you didn't get neutered.  The cat runs around your apartment, 
overjoyed to be home, though still giving you the eye.  "What the 
hell was that about?" she seems to be saying.

You just wish you could explain the follow up appointment in two 
weeks.

---
Jason MacIsaac sells seashells by the seashore, which is pretty dumb 
when you think about it.  Why would you by a seashell by the 
seashore when you could probably find one for free?  The tourists 
must be pretty gullible.
-------------------------------------------

4.  The fun and joy of cultural diversity
By Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro

Remember when your mother used to say to you "don't date people of 
different cultures"?  It wasn't because she was racist, or because 
skin colour was such a big deal.  No.  As I grow older I begin to 
realize what my family meant.  It's a total pain in the ass to deal 
with your racially different girlfriend's family.

Now, before I start getting flame mail (a man can dream, can't he?) 
for my oh-so-blind views and my sheer racial discrimination (it's 
because I'm white, isn't it?), I'm referring mostly to families that 
come from that part of the world called Asia (not that the rest of 
the world is any better, but anyway).  Their traditions and their 
close-mindedness can, in the majority of cases, have you bang your 
head against the wall in no time at all.

We're talking about cultures where things work something like this: 
girl is born, trained to work in the house, peforms all duties in 
the house, then is married off, goes to live with mother & father in 
law, and her husband.  She serves all three.  Then the kids are 
born.  She serves the above plus the kids.  The moment she does 
something wrong, she's stoned to death (or burnt "accidentally" in 
some kitchen accident).

But I like how the men can do no wrong.  Oh wait, unless they're 
gay.  Then they get stoned to death.

Ideally, in Canada we're a whole bunch of different cultures crammed 
into a tiny space (everyone lives next to the US-Canada border, 
because the rest of Canada is just too damn fucking cold) and in 
theory, we're all Canadians, and all happy to share and welcome 
other cultures.

Ideally, Communism works too.

The reality of it all is that we have pockets of mini-communities 
that interact as little as possible with the other ones.  At school 
this was as obvious as the suicide-pink walls and hysteria-blue 
doors.  All the Italians hunged around each other.  All the Spanish 
hunged around their fellow Spanish speaking people.  And so on.  
Trying to migle with any of these groups and not having any racial 
or cultural relation to them, was like waving your testicles in 
front of a meat grinder and not feel a sense of discomfort.

I felt a little left out, especially considering that having such a 
Heinz 57 varities-like background, I belonged into every one of 
their groups.  I never seemed to have that sense of pride of 
belonging to this or that background, and if I did, I'd have to be 
proud of at least six of them, most of which, from what I can tell, 
definately don't like each other.

I digress.  I've been dating, to my surprise, the same girl for the 
past four years (that's a record beaten by 3 and a half years).  
Davinder is Indian (as in, from India.  Columbus was wrong, and I 
got scolded enough times by people to remember it).  She's wonderful 
(she puts up with me) and she's open minded (a rarity in any 
culture).  Unfortunately her family, the moment they discovered 
about me, began to remind me that, yes, we're all Canadian, but I'm 
not Indian.

So they quickly went into action and started off with Plan A: 
arranged marriages.  Now this is delightful stuff.  You show off 
your daughter, show off what she comes with (television, vcr, 
washing machine, and a four year warranty), and whoever find this 
deal appropriate enough, will introduce their son, to her parents.  
Sometimes the soon-to-be-married actually get to meet before their 
wedding day.  Others, are not so lucky.

My girlfriend had to meet so many guys last year, mostly out of 
respect for her parents, and endure the possible mother-in-law 
commentary.  You can pretty much select one of the following to get 
an idea of how they went:
a) having her hair too short (_only_ half way down her shoulders)
b) being too fat, (a size 10)
c) having the ability of independent thoughs (rebellious!)
d) ability to create coherent sentences that showed logic and
intelligence when speaking (she puts her future husband to shame, 
since he can't even hold the paper right-side-up)
e) the four year warranty just wasn't good enough
f) the previous two plus speaking in the presence of the future 
mother in law.

Cuz, as you know, talking to your future mother in law is an offence 
punishable by death.

I can't wait to hear people defend arranged marriages.  "They're so 
much more successful!"  Uh huh.  When asking for a divorce gets you 
stoned to death, you can see why they last.

Things went quiet for a while.  Then Plan B hit.  "Scare the evil 
white-boy away" plan.  This works very simply:  you are invited to 
your girlfriend's house, where you will be examined, questioned, 
dissected and offered tea, all in the name of how serious I am with 
Davinder.

This, in front of her entire family.

I was thinking of saying: "Davinder.. good" and make humping 
movements.
Or "More serious than you, you over-bearing zealots who are 
traditional when convenient .  Sorry, did I just say that out loud?"
Or even "Serious about Davinder?  Damn right!  Let me tell you 
[graphic desciption of sex life follows]"

Or maybe not.  Because the lovely meeting will include a 6 and half 
feet tall Indian grandfather, made taller by a turban, and that the 
first thing he says to you is that he will never accept you, never 
come to your wedding and disown her grandaughter.

"Disown me?  That's harsh.  Tell me, what did you make after taxes 
last year?  Tell you what, if you ever need a few bucks, just call 
me."

Sheehs.  And I thought we were just dating.

---
[Denisee:dmleduc@138.245.10] sure... any zine with a name like con 
(old french for vagina) better damned well be secured:-ppp

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

5.  We all drown in a Russian submarine
Sang to the tune "We all live in a yellow submarine"
Found on a newsgroup by Jason MacIsaac

In the town
Where I was born
Lived a man
With PhD
And he told
Us of his job
Making faulty
Submarines

So we sailed
Up to the north
Till we found
The Barents Sea
And we sank
Beneath the waves
In our Russian
Submarine

We all drown in a Russian Submarine
A Russian Submarine
A Russian Submarine
We all drown in a Russian Submarine
A Russian Submarine
A Russian Submarine

Casualties
Jump by the score
As we hit
The ocean floor
And the air
Begins to fade

We all drown in a Russian Submarine
A Russian Submarine
A Russian Submarine
We all drown in a Russian Submarine
A Russian Submarine
A Russian Submarine

Radiation
Makes us hot
Hypothermia
Makes us not
Turning blue
And glowing green
In our Russian
Submarine

We all drown in a Russian Submarine
A Russian Submarine
A Russian Submarine
We all drown in a Russian Submarine
A Russian Submarine
A Russian Submarine


..alex

Observe, reason, and experiment.
(If you're too dumb, just pray)

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

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Published every second Monday (or when we get around it)
Disclaimer: unintentionally offensive
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http://www.capnasty.org  ISSN 1482-0471

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