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    t h e  n e o - c o m i n t e r n   e l e c t r o n i c  m a g z i n e
                   I n s t a l l m e n t  N u m b e r  5 9

                        .WE ARE THE 5th INTERNATIONAL
                         .April 19th, 1999
                          .Editor: BMC
                           .Writers:
                            .Gnarly Wayne       
                             .Komrade B
                              .BMC


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                                                                        ";P'
                        Featured in this installment:                    `$
                                                                          $
                  Bzarhands Visits The Museum- Gnarly Wayne               $
                 My Quest For Racial Aspirations- Komrade B              ;P
                         A Man Who Did Not Exist- BMC                    d'
                                                                        ;P
                                                                        d'.
 .,;::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;,"*,;

                               EDITOR'S NOTE

        The End.  When an article ends with these words, you know that you
are in the presence of something much bigger than a bunch of random pixels on
a screen.  You are experiencing pure literature, art in its purest form.
Featured in this issue are three such articles which feature content so
well writ and so profound that they have escaped the shackle of a
well-thought ending.  These poems are from the depths of the soul of The
Comintern, and they shall reign forever like the bearer of the sceptre
imperious.  In joy.


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                                                                        ";P'
                         BZARHANDS VISITS THE MUSEUM                     d'
                               by Gnarly Wayne                          ;P
                                                                        d'.
 .,;::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;,"*,;

        Bzarhands won a pass to the local museum, so he decided to go.  It
was the museum of rain barrels.  They had wood ones... metal ones... silver
ones... and even a blue & green ........... and gold one.  Bzarhands decided
he would steal one because he was too /<rad not to.  He picked a nice golden
one because they reminded him of gold apples.  "Hmmmm..." he thought, and ate
a gold apple that was in his pocket.

        CRUNCH!

        He got 30 guts back.

        "That's twice as good as a salve."  He used one of his many bzar
bzarhand powers and broke the glass with the rain barrel he so desired.  He
put the rain barrel up under his shirt.  Just then a security guard came
around the corner.

        "Hey, what do you have up under yo shirt.... awww man... it's time we
put some head out. WROD!"  Bzarhands slapped the man upside his head and
killed him.  The alarms had started blaring and Bzarhands ran quickly to the
front door.  An iron gate fell in front of him.  He brushed aside the gate
like it twernt no thang.  Outside, he was being chased by two giant horses.
Bzarhands had lunch with the horses and much gagging could be heard.
"Sexy.", thought Bzarhands. Then he felt ill.  He ran on.

        "Man, I feel like havin a Roni." he said.

        He jumped in the barrel and drove home so he could admire the barrel
under his Christmas lights.  It shined with golden spendor.  "Splendid.", he
screamed.
        
        He put rain in the barrel and used it to gaze upon his bzarhands. And
he did dishes in it.

        THE END


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                                                                        ";P'
                       MY QUEST FOR RACIAL ASPIRATIONS                   d'
                                 by Komrade B                           ;P
                                                                        d'.
 .,;::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;,"*,;

        As I penned the last article it came to my attention of a childhood
dream I had of becoming black. It was halloween and I never dressed up again
as usual I just told everyone I was a poor kid and they laughed and said
great costume, and that they really like the soiled look.

        I went to my friend Charles Skiftons place and prepared for an
evening of sugar and trickery. He was all dressed up as something I can't
remember and he said that I had to dress up. I told him that I didn't have
anything and it was at this point he produced some black paint and told me
to apply it to my face. It may have been a mockery but for one night I was
black and proud to be. When people asked me what I was I proudly told them
I was black and they looked at me horrified as if I had committed some sort
of taboo.

        It all went down though when we knocked on the door of a house and
a black man answered. He asked me what I was and for the first time I was
unsure if I should say fearing his reaction. My friend Skifton informed him
I was a black guy, and the look of horror on my face must have been gold, but
instead of anger the man laughed and said. "Best costume yet son. I guess you
get double the candy." I was gloating at that point, and after beating Skifton
senseless I went home with my booty and prepared for another day of school.

        I decided to apply the black makeup for the rest of that week, and
strange things began happening. That morning the bus driver told me I had
to ride at the back of the bus, and even better was that no other kid was
allowed to sit back there. It was great I had the whole back of the bus to
myself.

        In gym class we finished up and the class was all allowed to have
a drink of water. I waited in line, until a teacher tapped me on the shoulder
and told me my place was to drink over there. Much to my joy the school had
so thoughtfully installed a facet just for me. The water was cool and fresh
and even better I never got colds because nobody was allowed to drink from it.

        After school a burly man with a southern accent drove me to a
a plantation where I was forced to pick cotton. I must say I did not like that
too much, but besides that I came to believe that being black was next to
kingship.

        I continued to be black until I ran out of black makeup. My parents
refused to by me more. I had to sit wherever I could because the back of the
bus was no longer mine, and they took out the fountain they had put out for
me. The southern man still took me to work on the plantation which sucked,
and I was miserable. To appease me my parents got me Mr.Peterson, but it did
nothing to make me happy.

The End.


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                                                                        ";P'
                           A MAN WHO DID NOT EXIST                       d'
                                    by BMC                              ;P
                                                                        d'.
 .,;::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;,"*,;

        In 1886, there was a man who didn't exist.  Oh, the world that he
lived in was very real, but he did not exist.  He had a job, a wife, a
family, and all of that regular everyday stuff, but his problem was that he
was a work of fiction from the mind of BMC and did not actually exist.

        This non-existant man lived in a rural area of France and worked in
a local factory.  Every day he went to work.  He was one of the hardest
workers in the entire plant.  Every night he would return home to the same
routine of eating supper, playing with the kids, not bathing, and going to
sleep at 10:00.

        The only problem with all of this was that none of it was happening.
In fact, this man did not know that he didn't exist.

        He had memories that seemed real enough.  He could remember his 16th
summer, and how he met the beautiful young woman who would one day be his
wife.  He remembered the first words and steps of all three of his children,
who were 3, 6, and 12.  Oh, all of these memories were real.  His kids, his
wife, his home, and his job existed.  He did not, though.

        One day he read a book by Rene Descartes, which told him "I think;
therefore, I am."  Upon reading this, the man realized that he was incapable
of thought, and he ceased to exist.  That man was my grandfather.  The End.

                                                   
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    ___________________________________________________
   |THE COMINTERN IS AVAILIABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBS'S |
   |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~|
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   | CLUB PARADISE                      (306) 978-2542 |
   | THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME           (306) 373-9778 |
   |___________________________________________________|
   |   Website at: http://members.home.com/comintern   |
   |           Email BMC at: thebmc@home.com           |
   |___________________________________________________|

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 Copyright 1999 by The Neo-Comintern                            #59-04/19/99

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