Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine
Volume V, Issue 1, AD MM
Saturday, January 1, 2000
ISSN 1482-0471
-------------------------------------------

BOHICA - An acronym that is short for: Bend Over Here It Comes Again. 
This generally refers to some situation or circumstance that results 
in your taking it up the rear. 

BOGAHICA - From the root BOHICA, this is an acronym that is short 
for: Bend Over, Grab Ankles, Here It Comes Again. This his a saved 
for that heightened sense of knowing you are about to get screwed 
really badly. This word can be used interchangably with BOHICA, but 
proper form is to save it for the more serious situations.

http://www.psionic.com/papers/terminology/

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

"Well, I look at myself and sometimes, for a brief moment, I have 
hope for the world.  But then I punch my ego in the face and I go 
back at wondering why the world is so stupid."
-- someone's comment on how stupid people can be

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

1.  Editorial
2.  Fear
3.  Better Education Through Chemistry
4.  Blah-biddy, Blah, Blah
5.  Learn to save money fast with our $150 book!
-------------------------------------------

This week's Golden Testicle award:

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

1. Editorial

I think the most amusing thing about strip joints are the
guys that are your typical red-neck and must've never seen
a girl in all their life.  I could go to a strip joint and
sit there and stare at these guys all night long.Don't get me wrong.  
It's not like  I don't like girls.  I
like them.  A lot.  But it just seems weird that you have
to spend $10, to go into a place, pay overcharged American
beer and watch women that by the patron's standards are
considered attractive.  I'd could probably outperform
them on stage and I have a much firmer, tigher ass.  And
the less said about the breasts, the better.
A girl you know from your program was stripping?



Probably pays better.



Strip joints are full of rednecks, or business men who like to 
pretend they're sheiks or something.
Not from my program, but from my high school.  Mind you,
she had grown and she looked pretty good.  Especially when
compared to the rest of the "exotic" dancers that dangled
their meat in front of us.  And that's what it felt like. 
A meat market.  Gino, I'll have two pounds on that.
One time I went because a friend wanted to celebrate his
birthday there.  I guess it's better than going to Chucky
Cheese, were is girlfriend (after that, former), took him
before that week.  Still, in the end, the girl that sold us
the tickets at the entrace was more attractive, dressed,
than the ones performing, undressed.


I know someone who was an air cadet who is now a stripper.



I feel 423 years old when I see shit like that.

I remember, that night, I ended up staying at the strip
joint because it seemed like they were all having a great
time.  I sat there staring at an horrible porno that was
playing on a tiny monitor accross the room.  One girl, 20
guys.  The girl must've been in her late 50s.  She was
better than the drooping flesh on stage.  The funny thing,
everyone was cheering.  When the night was over, a couple
of the guys commented on how the girl on the video was
doing 20 guys, first sucking them and then kissing them. 
Glad to see I wasn't the only bored one.

Thing is, I like naked girls.  Don't we all?  But I like it
better when it's just you and me, baby, there aren't 30
freakin' rednecks screaming "YEAH BABY!! YEAH!", they don't
have gigantic scars under their nipples (you know,
silicone), and don't wear high heel shoes.  Maybe I'm just
weird, but I guess I like bread-and-salami girls.

Date sent:      	Thu, 2 Mar 2000 11:09:08 -0500 (EST)
From:           	IGNORE the HYPE <neil@YorkU.CA>
To:             	Capital of Nasty Distribution <con@capnasty.org>
Subject:        	Re: Capital of Nasty V.3

Hey Leo,

Enjoyed the issue. Loved Jason's anti-religion lines. Reminds me of one
I've used in the past. When I shared a house with a friend years ago we
always had religious types pounding on our door -  always early
Saturday mornings it seemed. So one particular Saturday morning when they
pounded on the door (we had been up all night abusing various substances
and were in basically fucked-up conditions) I answered it and had a
conversation something like:

    God-ites: "Good morning, we're from the Jehova's Witness and..."
    Me: (interrupting them) "I'm a witness. Jehova did it." 
    sound of heavy front door slamming in their face.

My friend was laughing hysterically and the God-ites left and never
returned to our house again. I miss them. Now I only have a fundaMENTAList
Islamic sister-in-law to bait. But even she won't talk to me 'cause I'm
the anti-christ she says. I like that. 

Regards,
Neil

From:           	"francisco gonzalez" <pancho76@hotmail.com>
To:             	con@capnasty.org
Subject:        	Re: Capital of Nasty V.3
Date sent:      	Tue, 29 Feb 2000 20:52:40 PST

"Angie writes:

i was thrilled to read about "Luke De Sade"'s endurance...2 hours
and still didn't come....but too bad he's grossed out so easily by
our girl-juice.

he sounded like fun for a bit
(yeah i know he's too young for me, i'll relax now)"

Yeah, baby! I'm the man! I'm the whole F'N man! You know, Angie, Stamina's 
my middle name. Now I'll leave you alone with your Luke de Sade fantasies.

Just so you all know, I'm working on the grossing out part. Not having much 
luck, but getting there.

"Imperious, choleric, irascible, extreme in everything, with a dissolute 
imagination the like of which has never been seen, atheistic to the point of 
fanaticism, there you have me in a nutshell, and kill me again or take me as 
I am, for I shall not change."

                      --Donatien-Alphonse-Francois de Sade

Date sent:      	Sat, 11 Mar 2000 18:27:40 -0800
From:           	Jay Lohner <jaydon@rconnect.com>
Send reply to:  	jaydon@rconnect.com
Organization:   	none
To:             	Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro <leandro@capnasty.org>
Subject:        	Been so long I'm not sure where to send this 
bugger!

   Heya Leandro. Been a long time since I've heard from you or sent 
anything to you, but I figured, what with you all having enough time 
and energy to change the format of CoN in the future, then all of 
your whining about your hectic schedule and lifestyle was nothing but 
B.S. You had me going for awhile though, and in my case it worked 
(I'm so gullible).
OK, so you guys are unhappy because your readers are content to sit 
back and let you run the show without bitching and complaining? God, 
what whiners you are! Or, was this a feeble attempt at fishing for 
praise of the hard work and effort you so obviously put into your 
product? Seriously, the last couple of issues where much better than 
they had been for awhile, and I'm glad someone decided to climb back 
up on that horse. I am concerned, however, about a couple of things. 
Are you having problems getting submissions? Not just feedback? You 
seemed to borrow pretty heavily from that blindwino guy, which is ok, 
because his stuff is good. Either way, you asked for it. 
     I'm sorry, but what the fuck was up with that de Sade guy? I 
don't usually attack people, and in general think that I'm a pretty 
easy going guy. I root for the underdog, have empathy for the less 
fortunate, and pretty much believe you reap what you sow......but how 
could you guys print what this guy had to say? Perhaps I'm showing a 
bit of my anal retentiveness, but this guy is a moron. I got D's in 
High school English, and that was over 20 years ago, but I still 
understand the basics. 
Examples: 
I'm one of those people that can either have sex or don't have 
sex.
We were there up until 4 a.m. in the morning.
So off we went, drunk as hell, and (my two friends who were with 
me) horny as dogs.
I tell you all these because what I'm about to tell you guys 
will 
freak some people out.

 Those  is some of the least most worst ones. 
I don't know, maybe I just don't understand exactly what your 
policies are in regards to the things that people submit to you, but 
this guy came off as a sick little Narcissistic jerk moron, that 
can't possibly have anything interesting to say. Let alone print. But 
maybe that was your point. 
    Perhaps I can help Mr. de Sade figure out what he can spend that 
10 bucks on. 
1.Psychiatric treatment.  His obvious fear of bodily fluids is a dead 
giveaway that he is heading toward a bad case of obsessive-compulsive 
disorder.
2.Analysis.  Love is good. Love of one's self is good. This guy loves 
himself WAY too much.
3.A spellchecker 
4.Remedial English courses 
5.A personality 
6.A gun.     So he can shoot himself and spare us from any more of 
his drivel.
7.A gun    See # 6
8.A gun    Did I mention that I think he should kill himself?
9.Suzy the love doll.   No more vaginal fluids! Just his own gross, 
disgusting, sick, smelly, slimy, semen.
10.Some hand lotion.  See # 9
     As for Angie, the woman that wrote about how impressed she was 
by his staying power, tell her to drop me a line ANYTIME she's 
interested in fucking someone who only does it because their friends 
goaded them into it, thinks she's ugly,  is conceited, doesn't have a 
dime, and is bored by the whole thing. Hell, I'll bet you if I 
properly applied all of the above conditions I could fuck her for 4 
hours without coming. And I'm older than he is. And I like pussy 
juice. But she has to have a good body. 


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

2.     Fear 
By Mark Driver

If you'd asked me about the most fear I ever felt in my life as 
recently as last month, I would've stumbled for an answer. Maybe I 
would have said something about the black dog that pulled me off my 
bike and turned my 12-year-old leg into hamburger. I might have told 
you about the half hour my friend Ian and I sat in the back of a cop 
car in Beloit, Wisconsin while they sorted out what a couple of 
scruffy miscreants were doing in a new Honda that didn't belong to 
them. I might have mentioned the night I spent tied up and locked in 
a closet while on PCP. I could've mentioned the seven hours I spent 
in a Baton Rouge holding cell for something that's a story better 
left untold for now. I might have even made something up to keep you 
saying 'no way' for a half-hour, and then at the end of the story 
dropped the boom that I was kidding. But as of a few weeks ago, I 
have a solid answer. 

Saturday night started off normally enough. It was my girlie's 
birthday and after three hours of convincing her that we should go 
out to celebrate, we met the friends I spent the week collecting for 
a surprise dinner party out on the East Side of town. Dinner was 
good, if a bit expensive, taking into account how many of her friends 
assumed I was paying for the whole ordeal (yeah, get another bottle 
of $30 wine, I just won't pay the phone bill next month). Still, it 
was good time. After dinner, we took the party to a nearby apartment 
where a few more bottles of wine were opened. Talk was made about 
taking a caravan over to a semi-nearby cocktail party in progress. 
Once again, a small horde jumped into the Poopship and we were off, 
half-drunk, blasting bad metal, and full of nothing but the most fun 
of thoughts. We waited for the lead car to pull around, not sure of 
which one it would be. A brown jeep pulled up and I got behind it. A 
few people I didn't recognize jumped into the back of the jeep and I 
followed as it steered into traffic. 

The jeep went the wrong way on the highway (South instead of North, 
not into oncoming traffic). Since the East Side isn't exactly my neck 
of the woods, I assumed a shortcut was in the works; but it wasn't. 
We were soon downtown, whizzing past barrels of burning trash and 
abandoned toy factories. The jeep finally pulled over to the side of 
the road near a barbed wire parking lot and I pulled up along side of 
it, rolled down my window, and yelled "Where the fuck are you going?" 
It was then that I, along with my carload of passengers, realized 
that I didn't recognize anyone in the jeep. I had followed the wrong 
car. Before I could apologize, the jeep laid about 10 feet of rubber 
and was gone around a corner. It was a good laugh. It was also good 
that someone in our car knew how to get to the cocktail party. 

A few blocks from the party, we decided that it might be a good idea 
to all chip in and bring a nice bottle of booze as an antidote to our 
numbers. I eyed a liquor store, but it seemed a little shady. I 
gunned my car past it to the grocery store up the street. In the 
grocery store parking lot, I collected a handful of ones from the 
car's occupants and walked inside with my friend Squili. After 
debating the pros and cons of vodka versus tequila, and then the pros 
and cons of Absolut versus Stoli, I picked a bottle of Stoli and made 
my way to the cash register, silently reciting the cigarette orders 
shouted at me as I left the car. Camel softpack? Marlboro Reds in a 
box? Deciding that smokers are fucks, I didn't sweat the cashier too 
much, just nodding at whatever tongue he was speaking to me in, 
probably ordering menthols and cloves in the process. It didn't 
matter anyway, I never got the cigarettes. 

I remember when they walked into the store I thought to myself, 
"These dudes are gonna rob this place." They were huge guys with 
hoods pulled over their faces, strutting in at a strange angle 
towards the cash register. Then my cool urban introspective voice 
kicked in and said "Nah, these are just young men trying to act tough 
and get by in a tough environment. To immediately assume that they 
are going to rob this place just because they look like stereotypical 
robbers, and are acting in a stereotypical robber fashion, stems from 
your own fears and cultural discomfort with-" it was at this point 
that a black Glock 9mm pistol was pointed at my head and my cool 
urban introspective voice shut the fuck up. 

In retrospect, it makes sense to me why the man pointed the gun at my 
head. I was standing halfway between the cash register and the 
cigarette lock-up, wearing a blue button-down shirt with a tie. If 
you read one of my last columns, you will note that I have little 
ability to dress myself. On this night of classy celebration, the 
best I could manage was making myself look like was a soccer coach at 
the end of the year pizza party, where I get up to the microphone and 
announce how much everyone hustled this year. In the restaurant I was 
merely treated like I had possibly driven into Los Angeles from one 
of its neighboring desert trash communities, but in this grocery 
store, I was being mistaken for the manager. I really have to start 
thinking about my wardrobe more. 

Somehow, my swollen tongue told the guy that I didn't work at the 
store. He didn't seem impressed with this knowledge and continued to 
demand that I open the cash register. I tried to hand him my wallet 
as a compromise, but he knocked it out of my hand. Finally, the 
cashier told the robber that I didn't work there, and was rewarded by 
getting the gun pointed at his face. The other robber had jumped a 
counter and was behind the customer service desk, pistol whipping the 
manager, making him empty the safe. It was at this point that I made 
a very bold and brave decision: pick up my wallet and hide. I tried 
to motion to Squili to follow me, but he was pretty drunk, and seemed 
pleasantly engrossed in the situation. Coming to America from the war 
torn Kashmir region of India, he'd seen plenty of guns in his life. 
He looked like he was watching an angry customer complaining about 
rotten bananas rather than a violent takeover robbery. 

Obviously on my own, there was one thought running through my head: 
don't look at the robber. I didn't want his attention and I didn't 
want him thinking I could identify him later. I just kept my head 
down and walked backwards slowly. The robber at the register was high 
out of his mind. His eyes were solid red. The cashier was trying to 
punch numbers on the keypad to open the cash box, but the robber kept 
hitting him in the head with the gun, yelling 'hurry the fuck up!', 
and slamming his hand down on the cash register key pad, throwing a 
string of wrong numbers into the access code. Leaving this nightmare 
scene behind me, I slowly walked down an aisle, eyeing a floor 
display of deodorant. I crouched behind it, and slowly drug it to a 
display on the other side of me, making myself invisible to anyone 
looking down the aisle. Safe for the moment, my mind suddenly rushed 
to the carload of cute girls waiting in the car parked right in front 
of the store. I peeked around the display, and saw that a third 
robber was waiting at the door with a sawed off 12 gauge. So much for 
running out the front of the store and checking up on my girlfriend. 

After I waited for what seemed like a long time, the screaming of the 
crooks at the front of the store stopped. I peeked around the display 
and saw that the robber at the door had left his post, but I couldn't 
see the whole front of the store from where I was squatting. Sure 
that the robbery was over, yet still a bit spooked, I walked to the 
back of the store, along the meat aisle, and started back towards the 
front through the produce section. Squili was standing near the front 
of the store, a little pale, but still alive. I started walking 
towards him, but as I came around a corner, I saw that the robbers 
were still very much in the process of robbing. Squili saw me and 
loudly yelled "Driver" across the store. My heart almost stopped. The 
robbers stopped what they were doing and looked directly at him, and 
then at me. One raised his gun. 

This moment was probably the scariest of my life. I stood there like 
I had just stumbled upon a coiled cobra, terrified that any sudden 
movement would cause it to lash out and sink its venomous fangs into 
my thigh. I just stood there and watched a dusted, adrenaline-mad 
asshole decide my future. I remember thinking "I'm gonna die wearing 
a necktie." Something behind the customer service desk shifted their 
attention, and I did another disappearing act, this time running 
through an 'Employees Only' door at the back of the store. Thirty 
seconds later, the store manager, a trickle of blood running out of 
his temple, blew by me, grabbed a phone, and called the police. "Are 
they gone?" I asked, obviously annoying the shit out of a guy who had 
just been severely beaten and robbed. "Yeah, they're gone," he said, 
staring at the door, like they would burst back in at any second. 

I ran to the front of the store. The front doors were locked. I 
pressed my face to the glass. The Poopship was still outside, but it 
was empty. My stomach dropped about 17 floors. I tried to open the 
door and that failing, began pounding on the glass. They weren't 
letting anyone out. "Fuck you man, my girlfriend's out there in the 
parking lot." An employee grudgingly unlocked the door and locked it 
behind me. I ran out to the car, bottle of vodka still in hand. 
Everyone inside was laying on the floor. I checked the glass for 
bullet holes. I pounded on the back passenger window and someone 
screamed. "It's OK, it's me," I answered back. I unlocked the door 
and jumped in the car, sinking under the dash slightly and scanning 
the parking lot for the getaway car. The crooks were gone. After 
establishing that everyone was OK, I clumsily attempted to tell them 
what happened. Everyone sat up slowly. They told me they had seen the 
robbers run in and the gunman at the door. Shortly after they hit the 
deck. Squili came out of the store a few minutes after me, still 
grinning. "Man, that was fucked.". More stunned than traumatized, I 
started the car and we slowly drove away as the police were pulling 
into the lot. Somewhere down the road a helicopter was blasting the 
pavement with a spotlight. 

I dropped everyone off at the party and went to find a parking spot. 
It was a strange moment. I felt like a ghost, like I shouldn't be 
alive. The car seemed to float underneath me. I parked and walked 
back to the party, realizing after I got to the front door that I had 
left the bag with the vodka under my seat. I walked back to the car 
and grabbed it. By the time I got back to the party, everyone had 
heard about the ordeal. Someone handed me a cup full of tequila. I 
told the story a million times, but it was like therapy, each time 
becoming more and more of a chunk of entertainment and less the 
terrifying situation it was, another layer of duct tape separating me 
and reality. After calming down a bit, it dawned on me that I should 
have talked to the cops. I called them from the party and told them I 
was at the robbery. They took down my phone number and said they'd 
call if they needed me. 

So there's my answer. Maybe it seems scary to you. Or maybe you get 
shot at every day and I'm just a pussy. Maybe you wish I would've 
gotten shot. Who cares. What's scariest to me that people with the 
least to lose are the people most likely to fuck up whatever niceness 
you've painstakingly carved out of this world. Any idiot can cross 
your path for a millisecond and destroy everything and everyone 
around you, for whatever petty motivations they have, or even for the 
hell of it. I knew that before, but there's nothing like a gun at 
your nose to wake you up from whatever illusion of safety you wrap 
yourself in. Mostly, I've thought about my girlfriend (whom I assume 
likes me a lot) and how she'd deal with me getting blown away on her 
birthday. "My 25th? Yeah, that was the one when my boyfriend 
surprised me with two kittens, took me and all my friends out to my 
favorite restaurant, and got blown away by a crackhead while buying 
me a pack of cigarettes." Fuck that. Even if I would've had my gun on 
me, it wouldn't have done anything but get a lot of people shot. I 
suppose in the end, it all came down to luck. Luck that whatever this 
guy had been through, whatever things he'd seen, done, whatever drug 
he was on, whatever stress he was under, kept him from pulling the 
trigger. Luck that no one else got shot. Luck that the Poopship 
wasn't the getaway car. Luck that I didn't have my Nomeansno "Kill 
Everyone Now" T-shirt on. I suppose if I had been really lucky, I 
wouldn't have been there in the first place, but who knows, maybe the 
Ebola virus was lurking on the $5 I would have gotten in change from 
the sketchy liquor store I passed up. 

At any rate, I've come up with my only New Year's Resolution from 
this experience: Don't get shot. Unlike the others I usually make, 
it's one I'm gonna try really hard to keep.

---
Stolen with permission from http://www.blindwino.com
 "World's a party horse and it needs some fucking" - Mark Driver

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

3.    Better Education Through Chemistry
By Jason MacIsaac

I never had one of those inspiring movie teachers.  You know, the 
ones like Robin Williams in Dead Poet's Society.  Nobody encouraged 
me to stand on desks and shout poetry.  That's fine, because the 
Augustans and Romantics put me into a deep coma (Victorians and 
Moderns fucking kick ass).

Fortunately, I had someone much better than Robin Williams.  Mr. 
Embleton.

Mr. Embleton taught Science.  Up until Grade 11, science covered 
general sciences, such as the basics of the universe, life on planet 
Earth, and the nifty kinds of matter you could find here.  About 70% 
of it was biology.  In Grade 11, science split into the more specific 
fields of biology, physics, and chemistry.  Chemistry was Mr. 
Embleton's specialty.

Mr. Embleton: tall, glasses, dark receding hair, looked fairly 
conservative.   It was probably a cunning ruse to disguise his true 
nature.  Outside, he looked plain, perhaps even boring, but on the 
inside was the capacity for some truly wonderful mayhem.  Mr. E never 
openly stated it, but I got the impression that the reason he became 
a teacher was to earn the pleasure of occasionally terrifying snotty 
teenagers, and studied chemistry in order to learn how to do as much 
damage as possible.  And not simple 

explosives, oh no.  Those would be boring.  Anybody can blow 
something up.  Mr. E wanted to play with his prey.

During his university years, he used to amuse himself by mixing up 
chemicals that got under the human skin and left black handprints 
everywhere.  It could be placed on a doorknob and was untraceable 
until mixed with human sweat.  He used to leave it on classroom 
doors.

His finest hour came one night when he and a friend designed a tennis 
ball cannon.  I have no idea how it worked, but basically with a few 
tubes, and some chemical process I can't fathom, he was able to 
construct something that could build up enough pressure to launch a 
tennis ball at a pretty good velocity.  Once their weapon had been 
constructed, they decided to test it.

On campus security.

That night they climbed on to the university roof.  As the "mice" (as 
campus police are sometimes called) wandered around, they took aim, 
and fired.  

Mr. E's buddy happened to work in campus security, so he had a walkie 
talkie with him and was able to track the movement of the guards.  
Whenever they got too close, they just picked up their cannon and 
moved.  They also used it to pinpoint isolated victims.  They kept 
the chase going until the wee hours of the morning.

I know this, because this is the sort of thing he would tell us.  I 
remember that he also worked at campus security at one point and had 
to eject Bryan Adams from a university party once.  One more reason 
to like Mr. E.  He also told us a story of the time he told a cop to 
do something "anatomically impossible with a baseball bat."  Ironic, 
because I believe that when I graduated high school, Mr. Embleton had 
decided to switch career tracks and become a cop.

In his younger days, he was quite the hell raiser.  We only got 
treated to light doses of his chaotic nature.  We were lucky.  When 
he became a teacher, he didn't settle down much.  In fact, he did the 
pre-emptive strike thing.  No kid dared raise hell in Mr. Embleton's 
class because he wasn't afraid to do it first.  And considered the 
vast store of chemical know-how he had to draw on, Mr. E's hell-
raising abilities demonstrated what rank amateurs we were.

Once, he hauled in a Vandergraph Generator (you see them at science 
centres all the time.  They're those globes they use to make your 
hair stand up).  Demonstrating this amusing phenomena for a moment, 
he then had us play Pass the Electron.  With one hand on the 
generator he held hands with another student, conducting the 
electrical charge on to them.  That person got a shock of course.  
Then that person held hands with the next person in line.  And so on.  
The further down the line you were, the better of

f you were.  The charge wasn't as strong by the time it got to you.  

I don't know who it was that touched a metal counter while we were 
playing Pass the Electron, but it grounded us instantly.  And it hurt 
somewhat.  It made an interesting finale to the experiment to feel 
both your arms tingle and momentarily go numb.  

However, we got off lucky, compared to what happened to one of his 
other classes.

Somehow, Mr. E got a hold of some liquid nitrogen.  Liquid nitrogen 
is an extremely cold substance, so much so that most matter becomes 
extremely brittle when dunked in it.  Doctors use tiny droplets of it 
remove warts and other skin imperfections.  One little drop, and the 
wart breaks off like dried mud.  Needless to say, they don't give 
this stuff to just anybody.

Mr. E demonstrated the stuff for the benefit of one class.  He took a 
rubber ball, and like a magician performing a trick, bounced it.  He 
then dipped it into the liquid nitrogen.  Removing it, he tried 
bouncing it again.  It shattered like cheap glass.  Next, he dipped a 
rose into the nitrogen.  That done, he tapped it against the desk 
while the students watched, fascinated.  The rose also shattered.

For his finale, Mr. E picked up the dish of liquid nitrogen he'd been 
using, and unceremoniously flung the contents at his class.

The thing you have to know, and his students didn't, is that liquid 
nitrogen evaporates instantly.  Although everybody freaked, nobody 
was harmed.  

He said it took it him over 30 minutes to calm everybody down and he 
never tried that again.

I really liked Mr. Embleton, but sadly, he always seemed to catch me 
at my worst.  Have you ever run into someone who only sees you when 
you're doing less than glamorous or hardly noble things?  You want to 
explain to that person that you don't normally say, vomit a lot, get 
arrested, or dress like a member of the opposite sex, but if you do 
it just looks like you're making excuses.  Mr. Embleton was like that 
for me.  Every time something was going wrong with me, he seemed to 
walk into the room.

For example, there was the time I ordered a pizza at the Science 
Fair.  Well, it was so fucking boring, our experiment didn't work and 
I was hungry.  What can I say?  Mr. E wasn't happy about that one.  I 
for one wasn't happy that the judge for our non-functioning 
experiment appeared to have died mid-way though our presentation, but 
I had the sense to realize I was already in the bad books so I kept 
my mouth shut.  I just remember my partner Chris and I explaining our 
experiment to the judge who had not blinked or moved for five 
minutes.  I waved my hand in front of his face and when he didn't 
react, I said "Chris, I think we killed him."

The pizza at the science fair was a bit of a disaster.  It didn't 
exactly endear a man who not only held my grades in his hands, but a 
man who probably also knew how to make 50 megaton explosives with 
simple household cleaning products. Plus, it wasn't even good pizza.  
The one we ordered for the history detention was much better (People 
say I have a knack for ordering pizza at the most inappropriate 
times, but I maintain every time is pizza time).

Although chemistry seemed to be a great subject, it was one I had no 
talent for.  I was always good at science, but if you take it long 
enough, it becomes math.  Eventually it gives way to equations which 
govern the laws of the field.  Biology takes a while to get there.  
Physics and chemistry get there on day 2.  

I really wished I'd understood this better.  Lots of people struggled 
with chemistry, and I was one such person.  I tried, staying after 
school for remedial classes, but nothing work.  It didn't work for a 
lot of other people too.    It seemed you either got it or you 
didn't.  

Fortunately Mr. E would accept plea-bargaining.  See the mess our 
grades were in, at the end of the year he tactfully offered us an 
escape.  We would pass this year, provided he didn't see us next 
year.  He didn't state it so explicitly, but the message got across.  
We all took our parachutes and jumped.

Perhaps its best that I never tried showed any skill for chemistry.  
In high school I was somewhat anti-Christish, and would have put the 
knowledge towards mayhem.  Then Mr. E would have retaliated, and 
between the two of us we would have destroyed the school.

Actually, that doesn't sound like such a bad idea.

---
Jason MacIsaac sings "She Blinded Me With Science."

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

4.    Blah-biddy, Blah, Blah
by Jeff Wright
	
	Back to the old school format for this issue's submission.

Movie #1:
Se7en (or Seven, if you like)
One of the repatory theatres was showing a Se7en/Fight Club double 
bill last week.  I went and saw Se7en on both nights.  The 
cinematography alone was worth the price of admission.  If you ever 
get a chance to see Se7en in a theatre, jump at it.  If you haven't 
seen it, or haven't in a while, give it a watch or a re-watch.  David 
Fincher is just so damn good.

Movie #2:
Ghost Dog: Way of the Samurai
Leo and myself went to see this last week, and both enjoyed it.  Leo 
a bit more then myself, but I did dig it.  It's a fun little movie, 
that's well worth your time and money.  Jim Jarmusch is cool (I think 
a lot of that has to do with his hair).  My only qualm with the flic 
is that it rips of a method of asassination from "Branded to Kill", 
which by the way, is another cool hitman movie.  It's not perfect, 
it's a little weird, but it's neat enough.

Movie #3:
The Insider
Thought I should see this, since it was put back into a nice theatre.  
I liked it, but it wasn't Best Picture nommination worthy (then 
again, neither are the other movies nomminated).  Russel Crowe's 
performance is terrific, and is the highlight of the movie.  By the 
way, can somebody explain to me what Pacino's talking about when he 
goes "What is this Alice in Wonderland?!?!"?  An explination would be 
greatly appreciated.

Movie #4:
Black Cat, White Cat
A great hilarious comedy about Gypsy gangsters.  It's just plain 
wacky, and is great fun.  In a strange way, it's kinda like the first 
half of "Life is Beautiful" (am I the only one who thinks that the 
second half kinda sucks?).  A pig eats a car in the movie.  That's 
something you've gotta see, right?

Movie #5
Cannibal: The Musical
Just rent the damn thing.  If you like Orgazmo, you'll like this.  
The dvd is amazing.  It's got a commentary on which the cast and crew 
get drunk.  If you've got a player, and like the movie, it's 
definitely a disc you'll want to pick up.

	I think 5 movies is good enough.  Everyone should be able to 
find something they really like.  

On a closing note, I'd just like to say that I think that 
having Robin Williams sing "Blame Canada" at the Oscars, is one of 
the worst fucking ideas ever to come out of a head.  FUCKING STUPID, 
FUCKING STUPID, FUCKING STUPID!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

---
Jeff has to get off his lazy ass, and go get the latest Cure and eels 
CDs (So sue me, it isn't funny.  But it is true.  Is there any chance 
it could be funny, `cause it's true?)

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

5.    LEARN TO SAVE MONEY FAST BY BUYING OUR $150 BOOK!!!!
By Samantha Stasiuk

So, I'm basically an insomniac.  Up all night.  Am now
officially hooked on infomercials.  I admit it.  I've
watched the entire "Food saver" bit, and even own a
few "Tae Bo" tapes just cause I thought the
infomercial was cool.  So yes, I lead a sad and
pathetic nightly existence.  However, I am recently
coming to the realization that I can't be all that
sad.  Yes, there ARE individuals more pathetic than I.
 They are those that fall for all the recent diet and
health fads.  For example, I saw an ad for a pill
called (well, I'll call it) "Cheat Your fat ass outta
your money" the other night.  A weight loss pill. 
Apparently you'll lose weight fast by ordering the
pill.  Out of curiosity, I checked the box of those
so-called "miracle" pills.  It's funny when you take
the time to check out the fine print... "weight loss
not guaranteed.  Must be used with intense diet and
exercise program. So basically, the pill does nothing
for me.  No thank you.  Now lets move on.  Another
pill, can't remember the name of it, let's call it the
"Will Make you thin but also fucking repulsive"drug. 
Yes, you will lose weight, and not on a special diet
or anything.  But there are a few slight side effects.
 For example, the uncontrollable bowel movements.  Or
how about the oily liquid that is constantly coming
from your ass?  Yeah, I'm ordering me a whole
truckload of that crap.  Then there's the new cure for
acne.  Yes!  A cure for that pressing pubescent
problem!  You can get rid of those pesky pimple
problems with this daily cream.  However, you may
encounter the small side effect of RECTAL
BLEEDING!!!!!!  I'm sorry, but even a zit on my
wedding day does not seem to justify bleeding out of
my ass.  Sure, sure these are only POSSIBLE side
effects, but I can't help coming to the realization
that these things MUST have happened to some poor soul
out there.  Yep, somewhere there's a thin guy with
great skin who's constantly shitting up blood and oil.
 Man, the things we do to ourselves in order to look
good.  Is it worth it?  I think not, but there may be
others who disagree.  Yes, those are the one's who
purchased the new drug that combats hair loss. The
side effects: complete and utter stupidity.


Samantha is a starving university student, and is now
accepting all food and money donations care of UofT.
Also, send any cheat cheats, essays marked with A's
and even some B material ASAP.  No C's or lower shall
be accepted.
__________________________________________________
Do You Yahoo!?
Talk to your friends online with Yahoo! Messenger.
http://im.yahoo.com


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

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

CoN: doing bad things, worse.

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

A bi-weekly electronic journal. Subscriptions available at no cost
electronically.


Available on Usenet newsgroups alt.zines and alt.ezines. This mailing
is sent exclusively to those poor souls who chose to subscribe to the
Capital of Nasty mailing list.

Spread the word! If you have friends who would like to receive CoN,
ask them to send email to join@capnasty.org. If you'd like to 
unsubscribe 
because such email aggravates your [change what it aggravates], 
simply send an empty message to leave@capnasty.org.


Brought to you by C.C.C.P. (Collective Communist Computing 
Proletariat)
Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro          Colin Barrett
<leandro@capnasty.org>            <tyrannis@capnasty.org>


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

