________________________________________________________________________________
----------------------------_+Crap Will Eat Itself+_----------------------------                 
                
                          March, 1997          Issue #1
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Do you ever pass someone in a crowded area, someone you know you'll never see
again, and think "I will never have sex with this person"? When I see someone
in a crowded area, someone I know I'll never see again, and someone I know I'll
never have sex with, I think "it must really smell when she shits." In fact, I
picture every girl I meet shitting all over the place. I can't help it. The way
I can tell if I really like a girl or not is if I don't picture her shitting.
That's why I'm repulsed by asian women; because I can _always_ picture them
shitting.

Welcome to CraP wilL Eat Itself, the 'zine that promises you... nothing.
There's no guidelines here. We write what we think and think what we, well,
you know.

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First on our agenda is introducing our writers.

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cram is a 6 year old space cadet that lives in a shoe with his good pal, solo
joe.

soap is a girl with yellow legs that can only read, write, and walk backwards.

styx is a latter-day knight with a free shell account and strong shoulders.
 
potter is cram's older brother and editor of CWEI. 

now on with the show.

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"a boy's dream"

- by cram -


     A long time ago , sometime last week , I had a vision. It was more of a
question that just popped in my head. I can tell you about it. I was on the
side of my house, taking advantage of the time my grandparents had left me by
treating my lungs to a new coat of tar. This is the only time I can relax with
my stick of cancer and not have to stick my head out the window and pray the
smoke doesn't blow back into my room. Well, anyway, after a series of coughs
I had this question enter my mind and it was  "why were you put on this earth?"
Hmm, I thought to myself that's a good question but it was a nice day out and
the cool crisp air made me realize that I was put on this earth to be a
lifeguard.  I thought, hey, lets see here, I love the beach, the ocean, the
mere thought of seeing someone drown gives me joys that send tingles down my
spine. So I ran in my house, up to my room, opened the door and !bang! I
smacked my head on my dresser. I fell over onto my bed where I lie almost
unconscious in a pool of my own blood alone with my dreams. I think I should
tell you about some of these dreams, they were dreams because I was not awake,
but it felt like to me that they were things that happened in my life that
would make me want to be a life guard more and more.
     The first dream takes place at a lake in upstate Pennsylvania. I was 5
years old and my family and I were on a camping trip.  Me and my old man were
down by the lake fishing.  My big brother, thinking he can impress my dad,
says "dad will ya put the bait on the line I just cant do it fast enough and I
really want to fish" .  Me being completely bored with the idea walk away to
look for things. Anything. As I look down I see a rock it was the neatest rock
in the whole wide world it was gray and brown and covered in geese shit. I ran
over to my dad  saying "dad, dad look what I found isn't it radical. I love
this rock".  My dad, being thrilled with my find, says "that's great boy now
grab a fishing rod I'll show ya how to cast"  I said "sure dad".
     After 6 hours of intense fishing I was tired so I grabbed the rock and
started to walk back to the campsite.  My dad then said "hold it, your mom will
flip her lid if she finds that dirty old rock on you now leave it here".  I
responded with a tear in my eye "but dad". He yelled "no buts about it, you'll
do what I say or I'll really give you something to cry about."  I kiss the rock
goodbye and go back to the camp site.  Several days go by, and every day I
visit the rock and play with it and laugh and have a good old time. But then
one day my brother says "hey shit head lets go down to the lake and look
around."
     I jump at the opportunity to see my rock again. On the way my loving
brother says "last one there is a rotten egg" and pushes me into a bush. He
runs ahead. When I get to the lake he says "where's that rock can I see it for
a second?".  Of course I give it to him because if I didn't he would sit on my
chest with his knees on my shoulders holding my arms down he would spit in my
face until I said he was god.
He said "wow this is perfect". "for what?" I asked. "for skipping rocks across
water, I bet this will jump 6 times" . Without giving me a chance to respond he
throws my rock far out into the deep waters of the lake.
    I awoke in a cold sweat thinking , wow that really scared the shit out of
me.  Now I know I want to be a lifeguard.  Upon waking up I see blood, my own
blood, all around me. I then pass out from this horrible site and start a new
dream. This one taking place in a square area surrounded by trees with no
entrance and no exit, but yet there's a car parked in the middle.
     I'm sitting on a curb talking to a bunch of friends when I notice its
getting late so I try to find a ride home.  I ask around "hey can I get a ride
someone". Everyone ignores me as usual and continues there conversations. But
a face rises from the crowd and says "yeah I'll give you a ride, first we have
to stop at my place". The unknown face just so happens to be Kurt Cobain. I
think nothing of it and say "lets go".
     We reach a house that he says is his and go in. Upon entering everything
looks so familiar.  He sits down on a couch and I ask him if he has a band aid.
He says "yeah, upstairs bathroom". I didn't ask where the bathroom was I for
some reason knew where it was. "Damn this place looks familiar" I say to
myself. When I get into the bathroom I find the band aids and then walk down a
hall. I see a bed so I lay down and go to sleep. Maybe an hour later I wake up
and go downstairs. "Kurt" I ask. "hey, Kurt where are you?". I walk through the
kitchen and as I turn a corner Kurt and a little 9 yr. old boy pop out from
around the corner, both naked and both holding large knives. Kurt laughing
hysterically says "the source of energy used to power the planet is the blood
of those who can't count past ten". Too scared to scream I run out a sliding
glass window and into a huge backyard. Behind every pile of wood and from the
tops of all the trees is Kurt chasing me completely naked with a knife. A song
played over this craziness; though I wasn't sure what it was but it sounded
like Bob Dylan singing "Run Kurt Run catch up with that one". I reached a fence
and ripped the fence down and ran into another persons yard. That's when the
game ended because he wasn't behind me anymore. 
     That's when I woke up completely out of breath, and figured "hey other
people should be out of breath to." Now I was _sure_ I wanted to be a lifeguard.
I was sure that these dreams had meanings and that an outside force was telling
me to leave right away for the beach. (I had a lot of other dreams before I
fully awoke but these two where the most convincing of the task that I had been
given). I went to the beach and when I got there, there was reporters and other
lifeguards standing around trying to get the city to fund them better so the
beach would be safer. I ran right down there and said "listen city of Atlantic,
without us lifeguards the beach would be so unsafe you wouldn't be able to look
at it. You don't need charts or graphs or even the main lifeguard to show you
the beach is unsafe without us. I'll prove it to you". I back up a truck I just
so happened to have that was full of dead bodies. I continued with dumping the
bodies all over the beach and then asking the city "is this what you want your
beach to look like?" Much to my surprise the city yelled "No". "No?" I asked
"why the hell not?"  "Look at the true beauty of the sun beaming down on the
flesh of those who can't move and the seagulls will never bother you for food."
The people liked that so they let out a large cheer. But shortly after I was
arrested and found guilty of murder and possession of dead bodies. How was I
supposed to know that's illegal?
     
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"FACT:  YOUR SHIT SMELLS"

- by styx -


      well, i'm using fake accounts to download porn from the WWW right now 
 so i figure this is as good a time as any to write.

      oh, and i'm listening to a mix tape i made for my friend making sure it 
 sounds okay.  i absolutely HATE getting mix tapes from people when they're
 all fucked up.  like, when they leave a song cut off at the end of side A
 and just repeat it as the first song on side B; or they'll leave enough room
 in between songs for you to hear segments of "every rose has its thorn" -
 your friends are reusing tapes from when they were 12 so that you can have
 music you'll end up hating anyway.  ALWAYS REMEMBER; if you get a mix tape
 from somebody, and the cassette is SOLID WHITE with FADED TYPING and the DUB
 PROTECTORS ARE SNAPPED OFF, DON'T BOTHER.  with NO exception, they're made
 by one of two types of people;


      1) musically elitist, yet insecure jizzlobbers.  they need other people
         to like their music as some sort of personal justification, and they
         will make you a mix tape full of it that they'll SWEAR you'll LOVE!
         if you do not like the mix tape (and of course, you won't) and you
         let them know, they'll tell you how much you suck.  if you lie to
         them and tell them you like the mix-tape, they'll make you more.  oh
         no!  time to dig through daddy's assault weapon cache.  put the
         fucker out of his misery quick.

      2) people with TOO MANY BLANK TAPES.  stop filling them with crap!
         if you're going to make me a mix tape, LEAVE IT BLANK SO I CAN FILL
         IT WITH STUFF I LIKE.  THANKS, PRICK.


      er, well, you can make mix tapes if they're *requested* of you, which
 this mix tape i made for my friend that i'm relistening to for mistakes is.  
 the cassette isn't solid white.  it's pink floyd, of course.  ain't i
 predictable?  she never liked pink floyd.  then we watched _the wall_.  now
 she wants a mix tape.

      she seemed especially interested in the story (or if you're romantic 
 enough, the legend) of syd barrett.  so am i.  i had loads of fun divulging 
 all of the information i could.  i didn't even have to force it, because i 
 was being asked.  have you ever been asked questions about a topic you know 
 everything about?  it rules because you can pretend you're really smart.

      it was about 12:30 a.m. when i drove home from watching _the wall_, and 
 i was hungry, so i counted my change.  $2.35.  just enough for a quarter 
 pounder (i'm putting out effort not to spoof _pulp fiction_, by the way).  
 so, i pulled into a mcdonald's drive-thru and decided, at the last second,
 to order two cheeseburgers instead.  total came to $2.02.  i drove up to the
 window and i hadn't retrieved my change from my pocket yet, so i started 
 digging for some.  in my haste, i ended up giving the cashier all $2.35.

      "er, sorry.  i gave you too much change."

      she counted the change three times, each time looking more puzzled.  
 "no, sir.  you've got $1.35 here."

      i realized i had miscounted my change by an entire dollar.  great.  i 
 could only imagine what she must be thinking.  i *know* that if i were in
 her shoes, i'd tell me to go piss off and keep the $1.35.  people do that
 at my gas station all the time and i get furious knowing that my shit smells
 just like theirs.

      i offered her a cheeseburger back and told her to keep the change, but 
 she shook her head and let me have both for my miscounted $1.35.  she didn't 
 even get angry.

      as a result of my hyperactive, neurotic mind, i (of course) reflected
 back on that situation all night and figured there must be a stupid fucking
 moral in there somewhere, so i may as well go get it.  i concluded that
 maybe, just MAYBE, i'm too judgmental, and in turn i fill myself with HATE
 and ANGER and STRESS!!!!!!!!!DF;GAG9JRO;GA;IRJAIAJRAJJ;IO.

      i reacted to the situation by talking, in a civil manner, to somebody i
 normally would never, ever give the time of day; a goth girl.  we talked for
 about an hour, and let me tell you, it was extremely difficult.  everytime i
 felt my tolerance waver, though, i would remind myself that she had
 miscounted change at some point in her life, too.  it was some sort of test
 for me.  i was making friends with karma again.  after an hour i was not
 okay.  i put a stake through her heart and raped her dead ass.

      THIS IS NOT THE POINT.  the point is that everybody fucks up.  for 
 example, i pointed behind her and told her that trent reznor was standing
 there naked, so she turned her head, therefore giving me enough time to
 ready the stake for impalement.  plunged it right through her left tit
 before she had time to turn her head back and call me a liar.  when will you
 people learn?

      OKAY, I'M KIDDING.  fine.  there's a real moral and nobody has to die
 in it, but i'll never admit it.  i've got far too much pride, son.  they
 tell me it's because i'm an aries.  i tell them it's because i'm not a
 gemini.  then i tell them astrology is for crappers.  i believe in tarot,
 though.

      i also believe that you can achieve a higher state of consciousness
 through drugs if you manage to _remain conscious and not shit your pants_.

      the first (and only) time i ever did acid, an entire baseball stadium 
 wanted to talk to me.  to *me*!  i was so delighted and, i'll admit, 
 frightened that an entire baseball stadium wanted to talk to me that i
 passed out.  when i came to, the stadium moved on and was talking to
 somebody else.  i was so offended that i was just a used conversation piece
 for a bored, oversized hunk of construction that i passed out again.  i
 don't know what else to call that but a higher state of consciousness.  even
 though i hadn't managed to retain my consciousness throughout the ordeal, i 
 did manage not to shit my pants.
  
      later that night, i was sitting in the back of my friend's van and we 
 had a cooler back there full of pepsi and chocolate twinkies.  one of the 
 guys there had taken some acid earlier, too (along with various other 
 substances we had all partaken of that probably didn't help our collective 
 experience too much), and he reached into the cooler for one of the
 twinkies.  he was fumbling with the cellophane wrapper, trying to open it,
 when he dropped it.  he was absolutely convinced that the twinkie was racist
 and he stomped it to a mushy pulp.  then he passed out.  he hadn't achieved
 a higher state of consciousness.  he was just a fucking moron. 

      there are ways to do it without drugs, though.  i've been DRUG-FREE(tm)
 for over a month now, so i'm forced to search out different methods.  when i
 was younger, i'd achieve a higher state of consciousness by riding my
 bicycle as fast as i could down my cousin's steep-sloped street (along with
 my cousin, obviously, who also happens to be the esteemed<!!> editor of this
 honky-dory e'zine) and then crashing on purpose into the tree on his front
 lawn.  we never passed out, but the sky would change colors.  we'd pretend
 we were in a he-man cartoon and say "...must.. reach.. house..," or
 "...must.. rest.. soon... bleeding!" and crawl around on the ground feigning
 pain.  within an hour, we would slam into the tree at high speeds, on
 average, about 12 times.  the neighbors would peer from behind their blinds
 and watch.  i don't know if his neighbors ever achieved a higher state of
 consciousness.

      timothy leary achieved a higher state of consciousness more times than 
 he could probably count.  his hair was gray by the time he hit 30.

      i'm going to be *20* in less than three weeks.  that means i'm halfway 
 to *40*.  halfway to 40!  i even do old people things.  i say the same
 things to my sister now that my parents would say to me when i was her age
 that would infuriate me.  she sucks way more than i did at her age, though.
 not once did i ever drink blood.

      well, the mix tape is finished.  sounds good.  you can barely even hear
 the clicks when i had hit the pause button.  my porn download is finished,
 too.  two 2MB .AVI animations of sloppy blow jobs.  doesn't get much better
 than that.  seems like i've Accomplished Things today.

      well, maybe not.

      i just had my mother call me out sick from work.  you'd think that, me
 being halfway to 40 years old and all, i could call mySELF out sick.  mom
 said my manager sounded irritated.  of course she was irritated.  she had 45
 minutes to find a replacement.  haha.  fuck you, louise.  i'm staying home
 to write for CWEI and download more porn.

      anyway, my point!  if you boycott mix tapes, listen to pink floyd, fuck
 up at mcdonald's, kill gothmeat, piss on astrology, believe in tarot,
 achieve higher states of consciousness by any means necessary, get old,
 download free porn, pull a no-show at work, and write for CWEI, your shit 
 still smells like everyone else's shit no matter how much you fight it.

      the SECRET is to eat lots of cheese and stay CONSTIPATED FOREVER.

      don't pussy out on me with any of that ex-lax pap either, pisshead.

      hope you've learned something.

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

"Weirdo"

- appreciated by potter -


      This is an e-mail message cram sent me. I get one of these everyday.


dear JaY,
 listen i dont know how to tpye so bare with me .  if i was to say
....... get you kikced off teh  talking through the modem thing , you
 wuolden't reall'y mace ne  pay ouy  50 bocks . would yuo? because a 
fonney  thing happened to me tommorow i was playing on it and some 
bitch picsed my off  su i told her to to shove a key rack oup her ass 
and mace  her start  her car weth hers nose . well at any rate  it 
turned out she was the boyfriend uf the gay hu owns the net stuff und 
she got you well me well actually you kiked uff. i, me being marc, 
tuld that guy who said he would give you a 2nd chence  i showed him, 
i told him  to stick his head somewhere and pray it doesen't rain. well
 that seemed to piss him  off. but, you should be happy not mad because
 knuw now you don't have to pay $20.00 a munth any more you con just 
thank my.      your welcume ,  marc
         
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"I guess so."

- by soap -


Buster brown knows so if you have a problem ask  'em. He'll mix you up some
ecto cooler and sing "when Irish eyes are smiling". Even though it's
thanksgiving your not getting any candy hearts. When you open the oven your
not gonna find shamrocks. The blenders filled with screwdrivers and otter
pops mix it up and Pops screws otter drivers. provocative hmmm? Crazy talk,
what is Crazy? A crazy person is not responsible for his actions and is often
put in an institution for the mentally ill. Thats crazy! What about "Crazy
Guy" shootin' down cars hith his hands yellin' bang! bang! bang! walks up and
down the same street every day banging and waving and scaring the kiddies. He
thinks he's some super hero that owns the street knocking down the one way
signs.  Send him too the moon TWA already booked the first flight there? So
pack up your astronaut ice cream and blast off! But if you go to space will
you get any STRAIGHT answers? if  TWA fly's up there there is no saying
they'll be back even if Arnold  is on board.
	What about that crack sniffin' lady? What would she want in her coffee
"2 creamers and some GHB" "Please""yeah I smoked pot when I was pregnant, my
kids are fine. Well except for the girl wel she's um a alittle slow." " give
her a little speed she'll be just fine." "Don't forget, I want my coffee
syrup thick and two days old!"and "WHO TOOK MY PHONE"
	Go senile, scream random names over and over "MARGRET" "MARGRET" Who's
margret? "the perpetrator of the crime" what crime?  "My ice cream scoop is
on the corner of 17th and spruce can you get it?"  "you'd beter hurry Mondays
shopping day and the bars won't hold MOM, MOM" shut -up "no who the hell do
you think you are?" shut -up you jackass "who's hollerin'" "tone it down" no
" just ignor me when I yell mom i forget she's not here MOM, MOM,MOM" ahhh
	Have you ever just mopped a floor and have some fat retarted lady take
off her shoes and walk on it? And he feet stink so much so she puts them in a
plastic bag  to cover up the odor and there is so much powder on her feet it
leaves white powder prints all over the floor. damn you! now i gotta mop the
god damn floor over uuggg! Then she haunts you with these cookie cutters that
she makes at her white trash lazy ass day job! 'LOOK IT'S THE PHILLY FANATIC"
but it really looks like a hunk of metal she sat on! That was a crazy idea to
jump off the barn. The crazy man set fire to his house. The crazy light blinks
on and off every time some one shakes the table. There are so many crazies
around now, and yes I am crazy and this is what i thought of in first period
doing nothing but breathing consentrated paint fumes with some kid yelling
about how at the blue oyster cult concert this guy got lazered in the eye with
the stage lights and saw a big eye with flames coming out of it . So he painted
this eye on the side of his car and wrote B.O.C in the hood. I went fuckin'
bazerk! "put some shoes on mr. hippie master! cut the crap! I don't care about
the freakin' eye with flames bustin out! ect. he said "your fuckin' insane!"
I guess so?

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"Funny Spanish Words."

- by cram -


Hello, are you Spanish? Its ok if your not. I'd rather if you weren't because
here are some funny Spanish words and what they sound like in English. I
thought it would be neat and something new to look at if you're not in the mood
for reading long stories. Enjoy.


Funny Spanish words:                 What they sound like in English:

grabadora                            grab a door a

coche                                coach hey 

alumnos                              a lumberjack's nose

discos                               this goes

regalo                               coke a cola

hermanita                            her man Anita 

jota                                 hold a door open for someone who cant move

legendario                           leg and dairy farmer

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

"Eighty catholic churches"

- by potter -


Everyone can complain about something.  If I wanted to, I could complain about
every goddamn thing I came across in life that doesn't make me feel like a
king.  Right now I'm eating 99% fat free split-pea soup that tastes like shit.
There is an endless amount of things to complain about; that's why complaints
make good stories.  Today, for example, I woke up at 9:30 and had to be in work
by 10.  I wanted a bowl of cereal, but there was no milk.  Then I went to take
a shower, but my mom was putting on her make-up so she'd look nice for grocery
shopping.  Then, as I hurried to get ready for work, I was putting on my jeans
and I realized they were soaked up to the calves from last night's rain storm.
blah blah blah.  Then, as I was driving to work, I almost rear-ended some idiot
who decided to park his car in the middle of a green-lit-intersection before
turning left.  BLAH BLAH BLAH.  I almost wrote a whole story about how I hate
people who don't use their turn signals.

Anyway, so I drove into good ol' Hatboro, PA (the town I hate almost as much as
Levittown) when I decided that, since I was already late, I'd stop at Wawa and
get some coffee.  I forgot that this was not an easy task.  The only way to
properly picture Hatboro would be to picture a small town with only one, small
street.  Now on this small street, picture 80 catholic churches and one small
convenience store. convenience.  hmm.  Ok, your goal is to get from the edge of
Hatboro to the convenience store.  it's about one mile.  Oh, and it's a Sunday,
btw.  tee-hee.  Hatboro's roads are about as fluid as a dry water-slide on a
hot summer day.  NOBODY CARES.
So, after 45 minutes of Hatboro traffic, I pull up to Wawa and run in to
get my coffee.  Mmm. Coffee.  I ran in, poured my coffee, dumped in cream and
sugar, and paid at the register in little over a minute.  I rule.  My friend
Dennis just paged me.  I tried calling him back but the phone was busy; he's
"online."  Page someone and then go online. What a stupid way to waste your
time.  That's like knocking on somebody's front door and then running.  HEY.
INSTEAD OF CALLING MY FRIEND, I'M GONNA PAGE HIM.  THAT WAY I WON'T HAVE TO
TALK TO HIM SO I CAN GO BACK ONLINE AND SMOKE POT UNTIL I PASS OUT.  THEN WHEN
I WAKE UP I'M GONNA STAND IN FRONT OF MY MIRROR AND PICK AT MY CRUSTY, SCABBY,
ZIT-FILLED FOREHEAD UNTIL I BLEED TO DEATH GEEKING IN FRONT OF MY MONITOR.

Mmm. Coffee.  10:57 and there I was.  Ready to work.  For five minutes, I would
sit back and sip this wonderful, life-giving beverage and let my mind wander
aimlessly.  Let me tell you, there's nothing more relaxing, even if only for
five minutes, than sipping coffee _while getting paid_.  It's too bad that the
coffee I bought JUST SO HAPPENS TO TASTE LIKE CRAP FROM CONCENTRATE.  Perhaps,
in my haste, I happened to pick up the wrong coffee pot - the pot labeled
COCONUT-CREME-MOCHA-GARLIC-ART-FAG-JEW-SEMEN-WHIPPED-LATTE-ESPRESSO.  Yech.
Well, shit happens, I guess.  I quickly dumped it out and filled it with
bathroom water.  I got on the phone and started dialing (because that's what I
do, I dial phone numbers)  when I forgot that 11:15 where I live is 8:15 in
California.  It didn't matter because no one was answering their phones anyway.
At 11:25 and I still had no answer. 11:30 and, still, no answer.  Finally
sometime after 11:30 (for you anal-retentive types, it was 11:34 and uh, 26
seconds.) somebody picks up.
	
	"what."

"Oh, hi!  I'm calling on behalf of PTA research, a nationwide marketing 
research firm, and we're conducting a brief study on-"

	"what the fuck you want."

"Oh, uh.  We're conducting a brief study about telephone service and we'd
just like to include your opinions.  We're not trying to sell you anything."

	<click>

Frustrated, yet, for some reason, determined, I continued to dial my little
heart out.  Fortunately, by this time, I was dialing Tennessee. Good 'ol
white, southern, tennessee.

	"hello?"

"Hi, I'm calling on behalf of PTA research, and we're conducing a brief
survey about telephone services and let me assure you that this is NOT a
sales call."

     "a whatchu tryin' sell me."

This is where adaptation kicks in.  "Oh, nothin'.  Nothin' 'tall. Alls I
wanted to do for ya'll, if you'll beg my pardon, is to JUST, YOU KNOW, GET
THEM FUNNY VOICES THAT TELL YOU WHAT TO DO OUT OF YOUR HEAD AND CHISEL THEM
INTO STONE WITH YOUR ROCK HARD BARNEY RUBBLE SKULL YOU GODDAMN APE.  THAT
WAY, MAYBE WE CAN MAKE ROOM IN THERE FOR THE ENGLISH FUCKING LANGUAGE.

Continuing to dial along the east coast, I reached florida.

     "Hello?"

"Hi, I'm calling from PTA, a nationwide marketing research company, and we're
conducting a national research study about telephone service, and we'd just
like to include your opinions."

     "NOINGLES" <click>

well, fuck me.  you said hello pretty damn well.  whatever.

I got home around 4:30 or so.  Who cares.  Here I find a 367 dollar phone bill
directed to me.  All from my dialing up my brand new internet access provider,
whose number I mistook as being local. Nobody cares.  It doesn't matter that
my brother is the one who made the bill so expensive, since I'm at school all
day and he goes online at that time, when rates are highest. _I_ was the one
who brought the demon in our home.  Well, we didn't know any better.  Blah blah
blah. Some split-pea soup would taste good right about now.

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

_Crap Will Eat Itself_ is written for the people, by the people, and is an
equal opportunity e'zine.  E-mail us a crapkills@juno.com.   Feel free to send
submissions, too.  Don't send us whine-mail.  If CWEI offends you, please get
a copy of the Bill of Rights and shut up.

Many thanks to those who continue to think.  We're not trying to prove anything
here.  There are many beautiful, well-written e'zines out there, such as RAD,
crank, y0lk, IBFT, and anything by the doomed-to-obscurity organization.
Without their influence, CWEI would have never been created.

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

              (c) 1997 Crap-kills productions.  All rights left.
                         http://www.voicenet.com/~potter
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