       _       _  _      ____.        _  _      ____.     ____
      FJ_     FJ  L]    F___ J       F L L]    F ___J    F __ ]
     J  _|   J |__| L   '-__| L     J   \| L  J |___:   J |--| L    ______
     | |-'   |  __  |    |__  (     | |\   |  | _____|  | |  | |   |______| 
     F |__-. F L__J J .-____] J     F L\\  J  F L____:  F L__J J   L______J 
     \_____/J__L  J__LJ\______/F   J__L \\__LJ________LJ\______/F
     J_____F|__L  J__| J______F    |__L  J__||________| J______F 
 
   ___      ____      __  __    __    _  _   ____   ____.             _  _
 ,"___".   F _  ]    F  \/  ]  / J   F L L] F___ ] F___ J    _ ___   F L L]
 FJ---L]  J |/ | L  J |\__/| L LFJ  J   \| L'--7 / '-__| L  J '__ ",J   \| L
J |   LJ  | | /| |  | |'--'| | J  L | |\   |  / //  |__  (  | |__|-J| |\   |
| \___--. F  /_J J  F L    J J J  L F L\\  J J  L.-____] J  F L  '-'F L\\  J
J\_____/FJ\______/FJ__L    J__LJ__LJ__L \\__LJ__LJ\______/FJ__L    J__L \\__L
 J_____F  J______F |__L    J__||__||__L  J__||__| J______F |__L    |__L  J__|

 -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
 
    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  1 6 3

                         We Are the New International
                         July 22nd, 2001
                         Editor: BMC

                                             Writers:
                                                  Amy
                                               B-FunK
                                              Carmina
                                                 cast
                                             Eurydice
                                                Laura
                                         sittydweller
                                               Bu Joe
                                                 Jeff
                                          Scrilla Tee
                                                erika
                                              -=Cog=-
                                         Gnarly Wayne
                                           l337 haXor
                                                  BMC



  d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b.
 ;P                      Featured in this installment                      .b
 $                                                                          $
 $                           -=Cog=- - Stand.txt                            $
 $                            Bu Joe - 2500.doc                             $
 $                            Carmina - Neo.txt                             $
 $                          cast - i remember.txt                           $
 $                             erika - poll.txt                             $
 $                       Eurydice - Me and Angelina.doc                     $
 $                    Gnarly Wayne - BlairWitchProject.txt                  $
 $                            Jeff - shankon.doc                            $
 $             l337 haXor -  Article 19 - Super Steve Profile.doc           $
 $                     Laura - Streamofthoughtwritings.doc                  $
 $                        Scrilla Tee - necromancy.txt                      $
 $                              Amy - bigmac.txt                            $
 $                             erika - hoedown.txt                          $
 $                       sittydweller - attempt one.doc                     $
 `q                                                                        p'
   `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'

                                EDITOR'S NOTE
                      (please do not read the following)

        Cleaning up my hard drive today, I decided to take my "received
files" folder and burn it to cd.  I had just about the right amount, 660
megs.  Having burned the disk and being just about to delete all of the
files within the directory, I took a moment to skim the subdirectories and
relive old times with the music, videos, pictures, and text that has been
sent to me over the past few years.  It was touching - it nearly broke my
heart.  So I had to do something drastic... and stupid!

        As I read the text that had been sent to me I cut and cut and pasted
and pasted until I had gone through mostly everything.  Sitting in my lonely
room like a tailor or seamster with scraps of words laying all about me, I
began to clutch at random pieces and then started sewing them together into
the motley that you are about to read.  Mind you, I cut it back a bit; there
are still plenty of scraps on the floor and if the need ever arises then from
them I will fashion you a new set of clothes.  It's overkill, it's self
indulgent, it's something I promised I would never do.  These are all of the
qualities of a regular issue of The Neo-Comintern, so enjoy.

        First - a word to the authors.  I do not have anyone's permission to
publish these files, so don't take it the wrong way; I respect you all
(except for a couple of you).

        Second - a legal plea.  If any lawyers are reading this, please
email me and offer to represent me for free when I am sued for this.  If you
are a lawyer who is more interested in prosecuting than defending me, note
that all your stupid inconsiderate client has to do is ask and I will remove
their article from this issue.  I will not threaten them with death, nor
will I publically ridicule them within the pages of The New International.

        Third - that's it.  When you read this, try to imagine that you are
exploring my hard drive along with me.  It's better that way, I've been told.


  d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b. 
 ;P                           The Received Files                           .b
 `q                                 FIASCO                                 p'
   `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'


.----------------------------------.
| .------------------------------. |
| | -=Cog=-  10/23/00  Stand.txt | |
| `------------------------------' |
`----------------------------------'

STAND BY ME ... FOR ACTION!


	The first time I saw a dead body, I was 14 years old.  However, it
was not until nearly 10 years later that I heard BMC had fallen victim to
the terrible clutches of the dread beast... Yes, folks:  THE CAPITALISM
MONSTER!

	I was under Vern Tessio's porch looking for the jar of pennies he
had buried there over 30 years ago when MASTERBALL! waddled over to burden
me with the horrible news.

	"MASTERBALL," he said.  "MASTERBALL! MASTERBALL! MASTERBALL!"

	"Are you sure?" I asked.

	"MASTERBALL!"

	"Jeah," I said, "I'll call the rest of the gang."

	Ten minutes later we were all sitting in our clubhouse smoking
cigarettes and being cool.  Our clubhouse consisted of a cardboard box in
the alley behind the Ejac-U-Torium (which was a carboard box we had stolen
from behind the Pump-N-Grab).

	There was Gnarly Wayne, a kid who lived (according to my mother) on
the "wrong side of the tracks" (i.e. on top of them -- very dangerous).
Wayne was a strange case; always talking about storming the beaches at
Normandy.  The sad part is that he thought that was a clever euphamism for
getting drunk.  It's actually about the war.

	While we're on the subject of Wayne and drinking (or "drinkening" as
he always put it), it should be noted that his devotion to the bottle (or
flask, or canteen, or hide-composed water skin on occassion) was so intense
that he had burned his own ear on the stove to win a bet with the payoff
being half a flat bottle of gray cider containing a cigarette butt and a
liberal sprinkling of urine.  This devotion and drive to drink was his
single greatest characteristic -- some would argue that it was his only
characteristic, and they would be right.

	There was also Junior Haagis, who seemed destined to be trapped in
all the shop classes for the rest of his school life.  He looked kind of
like the fat kid from the Goonies, except with shorter hair.  To be as
accurate as possible, I would have to say that he looked like the fat kid
from Stand By Me.  He had a deformed adult friend named Lotney 'Sloth'
Fratelli, and they (along with Owen's Mama) occassionally went and rode
pirate ships.  He was the type of person who couldn't wait to have enough
money to buy his very own pair of engineer boots, so he would bury jars of
dirt under the front porch.  He once told me that he would then dig up the
jars when they were antiques, empty them, and trade them for 6 pairs of
engineer boots.

	Junior Haagis was the kind of guy that you had to explain
pornography to.

	MASTERBALL! was also among us.  His full name was MASTERBALL!
CHAMBERS!, and he was unfourtunately born into a family with a bad
reputation.  His older brother was something of a hoodlum, and was usually
seen in the company of Keifer Sutherland.  He and Keifer delighted in
striking fear into the hearts of thing that were smaller than them.  Things
like MASTERBALL!

	MASTERBALL!, however, was sort of a "white sheep".  Which is to say
that he was born into a family of black sheep.  He was a force of good, and
one of the best peacemakers I know.  The best peacemaker I know, though, is
the Colt Peacemaker (a gun).  MASTERBALL!'s dad had one that we played with
once in a while, but as it is not important to this story, I won't bother
elaborating.

	Then there was me.  Over the past year, I had sort of turned into
the Invisible Boy at home.  Yes, I could drop in and out of the physical
realm at will.  This made my parents sad, so I decided to be a writer.  I
would make up stories about boobs and perversions for the gang, and years
later the best ones would be published in an electronic magazine.  But this
is then, and this is now, so I'll continue with the story.

	After we finished smoking cigarettes, we discussed BMC's
disappearance and whether or not we should attempt to find him.  We took a
vote and decided not to.  Having nothing to do, we decided to take a vote on
what to do for the day.  Wayne wanted to drink.  Junior Haagis wanted to go
to the pirate ship.  MASTERBALL! wanted to be cool some more.  I wanted to
go to Factoria again, however, so we took a vote on that one.  I won!

	The route would be long and studded with peril.	 We each brought
only what would be essential to our survival.  I brought a small hatchet and
some matches for starting fires.  Junior Haagis brought a map and a
compass.  MASTERBALL! brought food and water.  Wayne brought himself and his
alcohol.

	We decided the best route would be to follow the train tracks that
at one time led to a spur line to Factoria.  We headed out and the trip was
on!  Four friends on a journey which might, at its completion, find them as
men.  This would be an all-or-nothing hunt for maturity.

	After nearly 6 hours walking, we were growing tired.  We decided to
stop by a place known to us through local legend as MurderTowen.

	There are few places stranger than this in the world.  You've no
doubt heard of ghost towns where the residents seem to have disappeared in
"mid-sentence", so to speak.  Dinner is left on the table, candles were left
to burn down to the holders, beds were left unmade, and glasses of lemonade
stood half-filled on the porch.  This is one of those places.  But unlike
most of the ghost towns, this one left a tale behind.  As I was the writer
of the group, I proceeded to tell it.

	According to local legend, this small group of houses located in the
woods off one of the back roads was host to some type of ritual slaying
years before.  The legend goes on to say that a man had come to live in this
small village at some point, and shortly afterwards there was a disturbing
series of pranks.

	One family came home to find their dog hung from their gatepost with
a grisly smile carved into its mouth, and it entrails spilling out through
its sliced stomach.  Undecipherable figures which were assumed to be letters
of some sort were written on the house in their dog's blood.  Another family
came downstairs to breakfast only to find a disfigured male fetus on their
kitchen table.  The fetus' throat was cut, and its penis was hacked off and
shoved into its mouth.  Its eyes were empty sockets, and it was found later
that the eyes were fored down the unborn child's throat and resided in its
young stomach.

	This was only a small sampling of the terrible pranks perpetrated on
the poor folks of this growing village.  The new man seemed especially
disturbed by these events and decided to call a town meeting at his house.
The residents agreed, and it was decided that all would meet there that
evening.

	The new resident WAS disturbed, of course, but not by the events
occurring in the village.  He was quite an evil man, and was actually
causing the mayhem which was befalling this unfourtunate settlement.  The
man was very charismatic, and had built up quite a following in a previous
settlement.  Under his guidance, they had become a sect of people intent on
demon resurrection, ritual slayings, and worship of the dark forces.  This
meeting of the village was simply another of his pranks designed to get the
residents into his home.

	Upon recieving the last of the townsfolk into his house, the doors
were promptly locked under the pretense that if there was a person unknown
to them all committing the pranks (a wanderer, perhaps), then he would not
be able to gain access to them inside a locked house.

	The townsfolk sat in the new neighbour's den and discussed the
events which had been visited on them.  When the clock struck 9, however,
the events took a turn for the worse.  Members of the man's following had
been hiding upstairs in the house, and now they raced down the steps and
proceeded to systematically murder each member of the village.  The corpses
were all hung from the large tree in the man's dooryard, and he and his
follower's disappeared without a trace.  The next travellers passing through
the area found the horrible hanging tribute to the evil man; all 38
townsfolk run up the man's tree.  As they drew nearer, they noticed that the
townsfolk's entrails spilled out through their stomachs and reached toward
the ground, and they were slit from their noses to their breastbone, then
crossed at the Adam's apple.  The travellers abruptly left, and few others
ever passed through -- less as the years wore on and the story gained more
ground.

	As we drew closer to this horrific place, we saw that the most
disturbing part of the legend was also true.  The houses stood as they were
that night; personal effects in the yards, children's toys in the
sandboxes... but all of the windows had been boarded up by the men and his
people before they took leave.  This might not be so disturbing except for
the fact that every board on every window had been painted black, and a
white shade and ringed pullcord was painted upon that.  It was a sight that
hurt the mind -- all these houses standing vacant with these ghostly and
almost cartoonish shades pulled to half-mast in hundreds of black windows.
We decided this was as good a place as any to stop for the night.

	During the night I experienced some very odd dreams...at least, I
truly HOPE they were dreams.  At one point I dreamt that I was brought from
my sleep by a voice whispering in my ear.  I opened my eyes and found a bird
on the ground by my head.  The bird had human eyes which unblinkingly stared
into my own for a length of time I cannot determine.  It whispered
something that sounded like "we found you" in a very slow manner before
taking wing into the night, uttering the shriek of a woman.

	I awoke refreshed, and ready to take on the day.


.------------------------------.
| .--------------------------. |
| | Bu Joe  2/7/01  2500.doc | |
| `--------------------------' |
`------------------------------'

This is a test, a test to see if I can write a 2500 word article, you have
been for warned, so trust me this article will be long, very, very long. I
will also be very descriptive because I have to write 2500 words.

So where to begin what should I write about, it should be interesting,
amusing and enjoyable. Lets see I could write about many things or maybe one
thing. Hmmm Yes I will write about a variety of topics. Lets Begin


Nature

I really like nature. I like to go out into the forest and walk around and
just look at the sheer beauty of it all. I mean there are so many
interesting things to see in a forest. First off theirs all the trees and
plants, now trees and plants aren't the greatest thing to stare at for hours
but if you look at not the tree but what's happening in the tree. The bugs,
animals and other things. Its great I remember one time in school I skipped
a class and went to the washroom to pee and I looked out the window and saw
two squirrels running around all crazy. I watched those squirrels for a good
hour. It was so neat. I saw them eat, fight, take a break. It was like being
part of the squirrel world; just standing they're staring out the window
watching these squirrels. Theirs also all of the animals like snakes, now I
am scared of snakes, well at least I was until one day I was walking down a
path and there was this snake sitting on the path rolled up how snakes roll,
just sitting there. I saw it and freaked out, I mean I was scared I sort of
froze where I was, just staring at this snake until after about ten minutes
I noticed the beauty of the snake it was black with yellow highlights. It
was so interesting I was no longer scared of the snake. I felt as though I
was part of nature and the snake was a friend. Call me crazy but that day
changed my life.


War

I really don't like war. It is stupid I think that in a situation where
there would be a war the leaders of the countries fighting should sit down
to a game of chess and the winner of the game wins the war. That way no one
dies and the problem is settled. Think about it, it would be great, chess
would be looked at, and as a good game not a game for geeks. Plus what is
the point of war, you spend lots of money on weapons and have the "countries
finest" run into a forest, jungle, whatever and start trying to kill every
one. It's not logical.


Chess

I LOVE CHESS! Chess is a great game, my favorite game in fact the only board
game I like. I once played Candy Land and it just didn't compare.

I think now I going to tell a story, a story about 


.-------------------------------.
| .---------------------------. |
| | Carmina  1/20/00  Neo.txt | |
| `---------------------------' |
`-------------------------------'

Þ         ÜÜ  ßÞÜÜÜÜÝÜÜÜ  ÞÜÜÜÜÜÜÝ  
 ÛÛÜ      ÜÛÜ  ÛÛÛÛÛÜÛÜß   ÛÛßÛÛÞßÛ
  ÛÜÛÛ    ßÛÛÝ ÛÛÝß   ßÝ  ÜÛÛÝ   ÛÛÛ
 ÜÛÛÛÛÛ    ßÞÛ ÞÛÛ         ÞÛÛ   ßÛÛ
  ÛÛÛÝßÛÜÝÜÛÛ  ßÞÛÛÛÜ      ÛÛÜ   ÛÛÝ
  ÛÛÛß  ßÛÛÛÛ  ÜÛÛ    ÞÜ   ÛÛÝ  ÞÞÛÛ
 ÞÛÛÛÝ   ÞÛÛÛÝ ÛÛÛÝÜÜÜÛÜÝ ÞÛÛÛÜ ÛÛÛÜ
 ÛßÝÛ   ßÝßÛ  ÛÝßÛßßÜß ß  ßÝßÛßßßßÞ


.-----------------------------------.
| .-------------------------------. |
| | cast  4/28/00  i remember.txt | |
| `-------------------------------' |
`-----------------------------------'

i remember it well looking back as i was a child...as the house took on that
special baked smell......it lingered for eternity....hummmm,,,,,,
 barefoot
we were,,all summer long.and dirty too,,,lol,me ,my sister....but those were
normal things...
 my mother she with all her dreams of reading to us,lol,her
girls her geniuses,,,
 she would leave the house chores where they were,,,
and would read to us smiling ,laughing....she had such a beautiful laugh...i
found myself quite overwelme with her death,,,,,such is life...i thought
that poeple came back ,death hadnt struck the deep fear in me yet.....hummm,
i was so young......
but i had no reason to think that a men felt much different from any other
men...i know what my husband felt like,what his handsfelt like whenhe could
bring himself to touch me......
and i  had no reason to think thatanything would be different with any men.
there was no pleasure in contact with mu husband,but is there particular
pleasure in the contact of this pen against my hand,except to the extent
that i might appreciate its properties,contacts with my husband was part of
an occasional ritual that we went throught,because it was expected of
us.........
and whats more,you look at me with without the hostility and repugnanceof my
husbands or with the carefull schooled indifference of someone on a
pedestal....
you were right there ,palpable,and your eyes were warm and concerned,
actually i trembled when our skin touched,you were there you saw....
the touch was so fugitile......
hummm,,,,the physical sensation ,you were there,you welcomed it...you showed
me every signs that i accept as affection and lust.and when our skin made
contact it was as thought,i had touch a gentle fire,that made his way up my
armand set me ablaze.......i dont know how long it lasted butfor me time
stood still.the physical act was nothing in itself.just a touch.but it was the beginning of my awakening.....thats enough ,rachel...


.------------------------------.
| .--------------------------. |
| | erika  11/5/00  poll.txt | |
| `--------------------------' |
`------------------------------'

Yeah What Was We Talking About?

Informal poll:

Q: Ok, do you actually believe that brain cells die from drugs etc? Cause I
never believed it but now I feel like I'm really dumber than I used to be so
I'm beginning to wonder.

Jester says: Yes I think "I" can safely say that drugs do affect your brain.
(drug-induced meltdown a few years back.)

BMC says: Have you been doing drugs lately?  Hmm.... well I think I used to
be smart at one point and though it would be easy for me to blame drugs for
my stupidity I don't know for sure that I was ever smart.
(Do I sound high? Cause I was pretending I was high when I said that.)

Larmal says: ...frankly, I don't care if drugs kills brain cells cause
frankly, I don't think people should do them.
(Larmal is glad.)

Jon says: I think that's just made up for people who just don't do them.
Well, maybe certain drugs do.
(Jon is wishing that he was cool enough to hang with the girls who do coke
in his hometown.)

Louise says: I know they do. Marijuana kills your memory. I know this for a
fact.  Like, I know that it does cause I can't even remember what I did last
weekend at all. I can't see. My life is a blur. It never used to be so bad.
But it's rancidly horrid. (Spoken while lying in bed, in the dark, at 2:15 in the afternoon.)(Later in
the day, Louise spills a bag of spaghetti on the floor.)

Bev says: Oh for sure and I'm living proof! 
(Then asked me if I thought her son was a "druggie".)

Tressa says: Yeah, my mom's a nurse, I believe it. 
(Who is this person anyway?)

Brecken says: Brecken says that she thinks some drugs kill brain cells and
some non-drug-related things kill brain cells too.

Follow up Q: What non-drug-related things kill brain cells? 

Brecken: Living, moving, thinking, shaking your head, growing old, breathing
atmosphere...and painting the fence.

Lacey says: I think so, why? Are you doing drugs? 
(What is Lacey doing here? Doesn't she have a home? Don't take any wooden
nickels Lacey.)

Jean says: Oh you can't publish that, you could be arrested. 
(No, Jean, I use a pseudonym.) 
Oh, ok, then yes drugs do kill brain cells. You have to wonder why people do
these things if they know in advance that they kill brain cells.
(Jean is a lawyer.)


.-----------------------------------------.
| .-------------------------------------. |
| | Eurydice 7/6/01 Me and Angelina.doc | |
| `-------------------------------------' |
`-----------------------------------------'

	I have a recurring dream.  It doesn't come to me every night.
Sometimes, it disappears from my nocturnal television long enough that I
almost forget about it.  Then out of the blue, after months of falling
dreams, visions of vast oceans of calm water, and nightmares about being
attacked by vampires, the dream returns to me like an old friend.

        Each time, a different detail of the dream springs to the surface of
my memory.  But every time it comes, I know it's been.  I wake up in a cold
sweat, just like they do in the movies.  Sometimes, I'm ashamed to admit, I
even pee the bed.  And the most embarrassing part of it is that it's not
even scary.  It's kind of funny, really.

        The dream starts out in various locations.  Sometimes, it's in the
livingroom of my apartment, looking out over the world from my balcony.
Other times, I find myself in the middle of St. Vital Park.  More often than
not, I'm at the mall.  But every time, it's the same thing.

        I've lost my keys.

        I'm racing around frantically, fretting about the meeting I'm late
for, or the class I'm missing, or the people who are waiting for me.  I'm
looking under rocks, pillows, benches, and even off the balcony to see if
I've accidentally thrown them over the edge.  No luck.

        Just when I'm ready to pull out my hair in frustration, Angelina
Jolie rushes up to me, clad in one of those lovely outfits from the Tomb
Raider movie.  "I'll take you where you need to go," she says with a sultry
slur.

        And suddenly, we're racing down Bishop Grandin Boulevard in a stolen
Porsche, and Angelina has those blond extensions like she had in Gone in 60
Seconds.  It's at that point in the dream that I always decide to rent
Foxfire again.

        For some reason, Angelina pushes me out of the car in front of an
asylum.  I don't understand why she'd leave me there.  I thought she liked
me.  Oh, well.

        So I get up and dust off my pants, and suddenly, two big, burly,
wrestler-type interns dressed all in white are whisking me into the asylum,
forcing me into a strait jacket, and locking me in a padded room.  I can
hear the voice of Whoopi Goldberg, who is standing outside my door.  "She'll
never get out of here," she whispers to Winona Ryder.  "She's a few bricks
short of a load, if you know what I mean."

        "Whoopi!" I yell, hoping she'll come in and autograph my jacket.  "I
loved you in Boys on the Side!"

        But she doesn't hear me, or she isn't paying attention.  She walks
away from the window, and leaves me to contemplate my life while bouncing
off the walls of my cell.  I get some thinking done in that portion of the
dream.  I start to wonder about my long-term goals.  I think about telling
my lover to take a hike.  I consider my career options.  I always seem to
come to the conclusion that I should sell my house, quit my job, and move
into the woods, a la Thoreau.

        And just as I've made the big decision, Angelina breaks into my
room, looking a little haggard and somewhat insane.  "I'm here to break you
out," she explains as she frees me from my strait jacket.  She heads for the
door.  I remain on the floor, in awe of her radiant beauty.  She turns to me
impatiently and says, "Let's go!  Someone will be coming to check on you
soon!"

        Next thing I know, we're in my livingroom, pecking away at a
laptop.  Angelina and Johnny Lee Miller are helping me try to hack into the
adoption records from my hometown.  I want to prove that I was adopted, just
so I can go home and say, "Hah!  See?  I told you I wasn't your daughter!"
(My parents and I have issues that often manifest in my dream world.)

        Evidence in hand, Angelina and I get back into the Porsche, and she
gets me out to Brandon in record time-under and hour!  It's the middle of
the night, so I don't want to disturb my parents-at least until the sun
rises.  We decide to rent a room at the Comfort Inn, right beside the
McDonald's up on the Trans-Canada Highway.

        Our room isn't your average hotel room.  I didn't realize that the
Comfort Inn had photo studios for rent.  But in my dream, they do.  Angelina
and I end up frolicking around naked, posing for some nondescript
photographer, just like in Gia.  I am the Linda character, and Angelina is
in love with me.  That's a pretty good dream, eh?

        So we're all naked, kissing, having the sex and everything-getting
all hot and sweaty and moany, as one does during the act of intercourse.
Lights go down, the photographer disappears into the ether, and we are in a
real, live hotel room bed.  The television is on, and The Bone Collector is
playing on ABC.  But I'm too busy with the sex to be paying any attention to
the movie.

        Suddenly, the door flies open!  In comes a shrouded figure carrying
what looks like a cast iron frying pan.  I can't see her face.  The room is
dark, and the light from the hallway obscures her identity.  She flicks on
the light, and gets the full view of me and Angelina, in flagrante delicto.

        "Hi," says Angelina, "Wanna join us?"   Her mischievous smile makes
me want to pounce on her again, despite the interruption.

        "Oh, my God!" says the intruder as she hops towards the bed.
"Emily!  Get out of there right now and come home this minute!"

        The voice of my mother wakes me up every time.  Dammit.


.-------------------------------------------------.
| .---------------------------------------------. |
| | Gnarly Wayne  1/3/00  BlairWitchProject.txt | |
| `---------------------------------------------' |
`-------------------------------------------------'

bmc- 6 in the mornin blair witch at my door

both-blair witch (sex) X3
gw-see? 
bmc-hmm.

gw-blair witch
is scary
don't see it
it's scary
you can go
with berry
or mary
it's scary
it's based on
real life
i've got
a drugged wife
in blair witch
it's dark
it reminds me
of a park
it's scary
at night
it's out of 
this sight

bmc-i love blair witch
BLAIR WITCH ARE YOU WITH ME?
both-yeah
bmc-i love blair witch
BLAIR WITCH ARE YOU WITH ME?
both-yeah
both-you know we love you witch

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

gw-yo blair witch, what's that you got up under your shirt
oh blair witch, it's time we put some head out, word

bmc-i'm yo mama i'm yo daddy i'm yo blairwitch in the alley
i'm yo blairwitch when you need a blairwitch to mc
you know mw i'm your friend your main boy thivk and thin
mc prozac
i'm your blairwitch

----------------------------------------------
gw-what would it sound like if a muthafucka took a laserbeam
and shot that shit RIGHT THROUGH a blairwitches muthafuckin skull
yeah I wonder what that shit would 
both- ---sound like----

bmc-probably sound like that man
gw-no shit
bmc-word
gw-word up

both-go blair witch
get busy
go blair witch
get busy
ooh ooh
ooh ooh
ooh ooh
ooh ooh
go prozac
get busy
go prozac 
it's ya birthday 
ooh ooh
ooh ooh
ooh ooh
ooh ooh

bmc-if you realized just now that this is a blair witch
that we're making this up as we go along
just to get up the mp3.com charts
then yall muthafuckers is like WHOOOOO


gw-peace out. blair witch
bmc-Copyright sons of prozac 1999


.--------------------------------.
| .----------------------------. |
| | Jeff  6/10/00  shankon.doc | |
| `----------------------------' |
`--------------------------------'

You can call it a comeback - or you can call it boredom
Paycheck is back cause it's still what I'm all
about - and I don't need to hear you shout
Just wave your hands while I stretch the game out
Don't sweat the technique or lack thereof
Still got my day job if push comes to shove
People out in the streets still giving up love
When it all came down, I just needed new gloves
So I got 'em, packed up the mic and left
People wondered if they'd finally heard the last from Jeff
But I'm here now rockin' - only way I know how
Just a little bit less than the law allows
Cause I'm still down as far as I can get
And you can bet that I'll gank all your shit
Up on the stage, yeah, just for the hell of it
I rock the mic like a retard rocks a helmet


Like a gallon of milk, I get foul with age
Months of commuting left me with road rage
I really don't care if we're on the same page
This show really needs dancing bitches in a cage
Fuck hacking - now I'm just hip-hop jacking
Spitting out lyrics just as soon as I stack them
Don't fuck chickens or toss all my cookies
But all the local clubs are afraid to fucking book me
I sit around the house, drinking 40s 'till I chonk
But when I'm on the picket line, bitch, you best honk
I got a PhD, a pimpin' hoes degree
When I'm out on the stroll you're gonna get the worst, see?
Stuff stuck in my teeth eating chicken with sauce
Laid back, mouth open cause your girl is flossing
Me - the young black mack with the video
Kicking it with the boys from P-Town, but you don't hear me though

So many bitches on my dick they had to start a support group
I like to turn 'em out and make 'em jump through hoops
To get my money on - and get my money again
Because I straight stay paid like Pimpin' Ken
And Mr. Whitefolx - you know I ain't no joke
Cause if you mess with my ringgits then you're gonna get smoked
I ring the cattle call and all the fatties come running
And shortly thereafter all their fathers come gunning
I bust rhymes like cops bust Stacy Keach
Those can do while who can't fucking teach
Stealing cable is a victimless crime (crime!)
Watching porn while Johnny TCI whines (whines!)
I spray GLH on my nut sack daily
Most would take Loni but I would've chose Bailey
Like Herb Tarlec you know that I've got soul
And I've got more rhymes than Phil Hartman's got holes


.---------------------------------------------------------------.
| .-----------------------------------------------------------. |
| | l337 haXor  2/24/00  Article 19 - Super Steve Profile.doc | |
| `-----------------------------------------------------------' |
`---------------------------------------------------------------'

Profile 1:
"Super" Steve Sanderson

Super Steve was just that... super! If you saw him you never forgot him
because he was a 7 foot tall aboriginal. (Native American for you
Americans.) I found that rather unusual and in my young life he was the
largest individual I had ever met. Today I will share some of my fondest
memories of this unique individual.

When BMC first introduced me to Steve. Steve grabbed my arm and went "Errrr
as if!!" and then he slapped me. I was scared of him, but his soft gentle
giant demeanor had a certain comforting feeling to it.

I remember him as many things: Funny, Gentle, Kind, Imposing, Fearful, and
most of all sharing. I remember the first time I met him he told me about
his old girlfriend that insisted on having sex with him in front of her kid.
I asked him how he felt about that and he said it was sort of strange, but
that he was just showing the kid who his daddy was... I didn't really know
what that meant and I still don't really but it gave me an insight into this
individual.

I remember another time myself and BMC were chatting with a girl on her BBS,
and she wanted to meet BMC, but he had no idea what she looked like. Fearing
the worst he asked her where she lived. When she told him we realized that
she lived right by Super Steve. BMC immediately called Steve and told him to
go over and walk by her house. When he asked why BMC told him that he would
see a girl and to come back home and tell him what she looked like. BMC then
told her to stand in front of her house and gave her no reason as to why she
had to do that. She obeyed never the less and we patiently waited for
Steve's call.

When he got back home BMC asked him for details. The conversation went like
this:

BMC: "Well what did she look like?"

Steve: "Well I never really got a good look at her so I don't know."

BMC: "What are you talking about I sent you over there to get a good look at
her!"

Steve: "I know but it was dark and hard to see."

BMC: "It's the middle of the afternoon..."

Steve: "Well she was in the shade."

BMC: "Well if you don't know what did she look like?" (BMC had asked her
what she was wearing so we were testing to see if he had even gone.)

Steve: "She was wearing a dark purple dress. Looked like satin. She has a
black shawl over top, she had gold earring, and she had big boots on."

Steve described her clothes to a tee. He later described her house exactly
as she said it would be, but somehow he failed to get any description of
what she looked like. He couldn't even tell us if she was white. It was then
that I knew Steve as autistic.

I remember the one and only time I saw him actually scared. We were at a
party and the guy that owned the place was a big goon, and when he saw Steve
he said. "Fuck buddy you are one big Indian, but are you tough?" Steve
unsure of what to say tried to be friendly but the guy said. "Hey I want to
take a run at you. I think this will be fun!" Steve told BMC and I that he
wanted to go home, but we were too busy watching Dan snort tobacco powder
through a straw and making a fucking mess of it.

OK, this is BMC taking over here, cause Komrade, erh, I mean Jay Bee got
excited with talks of sniffing and now he is using a rolled-up thousand
dollar bill to snort lines of coke from a Hollywood prostitute's ass crack.
He's having fun, so let's let him coke out and we can share the rest of the
stories just between the two of us.

You could say that Super Steve was an acquaintance of mine.  I knew him a
bit.  We didn't hang out very much, but one time he informed me that if I
ever wanted to masturbate while I was at his house that he would allow me to
do it in whatever room I wanted to.  He then handed me a copy of Heavy Metal
magazine and told me I could take him up on it right then if I felt like it.
Of course I took him up on the offer, but then the doorbell rang and I heard
super Steve's footsteps creak to the door from a spot immediately outside of
the room where I assume he had been listening to me or spying on me.  That
was pretty funny.  It was my girlfriend at the door, and she was there to
pick me up to go to the Exhibition.

Speaking of girlfriends, there was this ex-girlfriend of Super Steve's who
he invited me to have sex with.  He told me that I had to because everybody
else had (except for Dan).  He also promised that we would do a
double-penetration on her.  He assured me that he would not expect me to let
him have sex with my girlfriend, so it sounded like a great deal to me.
"C'mon man," he said, "fuck Emmy with me.  Fuck her with me.  Do it with
me."  It sounded like a possibility until I heard those last four words.
Do it with ME.  The words echoed in my head, and I decided that maybe I
would be best off remaining among the two men in the world that had not
slept with his girlfriend.

I think there is one story about Super Steve that does not involve sex.  He
always had a thing for Jay Bee.  He used to say that Jay had a kissable face
and that he loved his boyish smile.  Because of this, he attempted to form a
financial and sexual alliance with the Bee by founding the East Side
Cartel.  Since Bee and Steve were the only two East-siders in the p-osse,
they were a cartel of two, and since they were poor it consisted of hoarding
stolen toothpicks and ashtrays.  It only lasted two days, but they were both
glorious.

Well it looks like it is my turn to go for a few lines, so I will tell you
one more story and then hand it back to the Bee.  The story comes to mind of
a time when we were poor and  didn't have cars or drivers licenses.  We were
at Wayne's house in Martensville and it was six o'clock in the morning.  Me
and Steve were getting a bit bored and decided to go back to Saskatoon,
which was about 15 kilometres away.  It wasn't a good time to be calling my
mom for a ride, so we started walking and made it there at about noon.  On
the way we found some pornographic magazines and Super Steve made me
masturbate while looking at them.  It was a morning I'll always remember,
and I have that giant homosexual criminal Super Steve to thank for it.  Ok,
Bee is fucked out of his gore and wants, so I'd better get out of his way
before heWel dats jst abut all that immcumpazzes the lhifee of Soopuur
Steeev. As u can c he is da man, and we saloot dat thighme that he wuz at
Daan's 2w3 and He sed "Fhivve dahlars git outta hear!"


.------------------------------------------------.
| .--------------------------------------------. |
| | Laura  2/6/00  Streamofthoughtwritings.doc | |
| `--------------------------------------------' |
`------------------------------------------------'

The honey-drip words need to be spoken. Give them life and love them like
his touch loves your skin in the deepest realms of the soul.  Heartbursts
and kisslips.  The tear I shed is not for you but for the passing of
loniliness and the anticipation of another for i know it will end... one
day.  And that day I mourn and celebrate.  My heart is never so full as when
it is empty.  Solitude is ecstacy on hold, in waiting for release.  It
happens eventually, and is stronger the longer it waits.  Built up like a
spring-thing.  Love in the spring is like lust in the hottest days of summer
when sweat mixes and all you can taste is salty hot kisses that should never
ever end.  The sun beats down on golden gleaming skin of lovers till
everything is red.  Red like ice, crystalline wonders lit up by a winter
sunset as red as virgin blood.  Virgin red and virgin white, pristine and
clean and dreams of lust unknown.  I know.  I know it all though I never
say.  I only let a gleam in my eye escape for one instant then again, back
to work.  To work again.  Tireless toils tread on my heart, trampling and
crushing the very life within.  Squeeze the last drop for all its worth.
Take the last of me for there is more where that comes from.  I keep it to
myself, in my secret place, I hide it and save it and hoard it like a greedy
child hides Halloween candy from his older siblings who steal.  They steal
his soul in sweet silence.  His candy soul.  Without it nothing remains but
desperate longing for ownership.  He feels violated and dirty.  Is nothing
sacred?  Is nothing his own?  Is nothing safe?  What will tehy take next?
he purest innocence?  His virginity?  Too late.  One dusty summer afternoon
they got it.  They ripped it out of him.  He cried forever.  At first it was
loud then it tapered... to a silent whine still apparent in his voice even
at his happest moments.  When he said "I do" to the love of his life the
whine crept out and the tears were not joy.  They mock him still.  The
siblings do not remember and that is most humiliating to him.  He remebers
alone.  Solitary confinement.  He still hates the dusty feeling of that
afternoon.  Dust is not allowed.  Everything must be smooth and clean.
Summer ball games are torture... he has to bathe and bathe until every
feeling of dusty dry grit has been washed of him.  He must rebaptize himself
to be clean again.  He must do it always. Ever.  His wife is oblivious.  She
picks out china and crystal.  She dresses in luxury.  She doesn't care about
her husband, she barely remembers his name, just his credit card number.
She was a whore.  She is a whore.  Daddy loved her, sweetly and gave her
everything, except his time.  Mommy took her shopping when a hug would do.
She had no brothers. She had no sisters. She had no cousins. She had no
friends.  She had crdit cards and chequing accounts and bundles of cash to
fill the void of her soul.  She doesn't see the void anymore.  She thinks
everyone is built to feel vacant and empty.  Beautiful house too bad about
the attic.  Not going to sell this one.  Unless they don't know any better.
And I still sit here longing for something that ever eludes my mind.
Something for my own void.  I am fatally flawed yet I see not how.  It hurts
too much to search.  Rainbows are better than me.  Illuminated colour for
everyone to see.  Transparent and beautiful, yet elusive until after the
rain.  Shine light through my misty soul and see my colours.  Tell me what
is there.  I can not see for myself.


.-----------------------------------------.
| .-------------------------------------. |
| | Scrilla Tee  2/7/00  necromancy.txt | |
| `-------------------------------------' |
`-----------------------------------------'

Love Necromancy

K-Blam!

The bullet hit my skull about a centimeter above my left eye-socket.  A
good third of my brain flew across the room, hitting the wall.  Big deal, I
didn't need it anymore anyway.  I took a second to let my still-intact right
eye focus.  My brain was no longer serving as the source of my
consciousness.  It was almost as if I existed outside of the body, and was
only using it like a puppet.  No, it was more like playing games in virtual
reality, it looked like I was still there, but I wasn't reacting to any
physical stimuli.

I slowly stumbled back up to my feet.  She froze up, and dropped the gun in 
horror.

"You're... You're not dead yet."

"Honey, I've been dead ever since you put that damn curse on me."  

Well, it was true.  I'd been like this for a week.  I admit it was harsh of 
me to call her a "psychopathic freak"  But come on, for her to retaliate by 
turning me into a zombie was just fucked up.  Besides all that, I never
would've said what I said if it wasn't for the deer carcass in her bathtub.

I figured it was time to get out of the relationship anyways, she didn't
have to use her evil magic on me too.

So there I was at her house, a week later, demanding my life back, and what
do I get?  A bullet in the mother fucking head, which did nothing to me,
other than making a mess.  And she was surprised by this?  She must've been
very new to the exciting world of re-animation.  But what was I saying?  The
closest experience I'd had to any of this was playing Resident Evil 2 on
Tony's Playstation.

I lurched over to the far wall and scooped up a rather large chunk of what
had been in my head

"What are you doing?!"  By now, she seemed to be a little more calmed down
after what had just happened.  She was still a good deal shaken up though.

"I don't know," I replied while picking around at the red slush, "But it
sure as hell doesn't look like I'll be using my motor-skills anytime soon,
eh?"

"Fucker."  She quickly grabbed her 44 off the carpet and pointed it at me.

K-Blam!

K-Blam!

K-Blam!

Three shots, and they all missed.  Maybe she wasn't as good a shot as her
first hit had originally led me to believe.

K-Blam!

K-Blam!

The fifth and sixth ones hit me dead-on in the gut.  I started poking around
the wounds so I could pull out the bullets, as neither of them managed to
exit.

"God Damn, woman.  You keep this up, and I'm not going to have a body for
you to put me back into."

"Fuck you, jackass," She snapped back at me, "The moment I put your
consciousness back into your head, you'll die."

So what does an undead 25 year old, clutching half of his brain, do to the 
ex-girlfriend who's about to kill him?

Naturally, I chucked my brains her.  Needless to say, that beautiful dress
was completely ruined.

"Fuck you!"  She screamed before firing off shots at me like she was at
target practice.

K-Blam!

K-Blam!

K-Blam!

K-Blam!

K-Blam!

By now, this was starting to turn into one bad breakup.  With the carpet
bathed in blood, and me barely able to move, I crawled across the carpet to
her feet.  I could barely speak, being that my throat had almost been
completely blown out.  I saw one last chance to get out of this, and get
back to life.

"Look, Kim, I'm sorry it had to end up this way.  You were right, I was
wrong... I just... I hope you'll be able to remember all the good times we
shared, and none of... well... this..."

And with that, she took her lovely 15 inch, Zenith television and pushed it
onto my half-remaining skull, killing off my one good eye.

Damn, she hadn't bought it.

Or did she?

I awoke to find myself in the bathroom.  I have no clue how I got there or
how long it had been.  I got up on all fours and pranced into the front room
to get a look.

"That's odd," I thought to myself, "I don't ever recall prancing on all
fours in the past."

The whole house was empty.  It looked like Kim took off for good after the
whole brutal-destruction-of-my-body incident.  Speaking of which, there was
my body slumped on the floor right where she had stood.  The same exact spot
where I had begged for mercy.

"That can't be my body, I'm wearing it right now!" I thought to myself.

I waltzed back into the bathroom to get a look at myself in the mirror.  For
some reason I was too low to see myself, so I propped myself up on the
counter.

"That Bitch!" I said out loud, of course it sounded more like "eeeauw",
because this deer body she shoved me into didn't exactly have vocal chords
suitable for speaking.

I was screwed.  I spent almost an entire moping around that house before I
realized that she wasn't going to be coming back.  I discovered suicide
isn't exactly an option when you're locked inside of a house with no digits
or opposable thumbs.  I figured I might as well try and make the best of
this, and headed for the backdoor.

It took me a good two hours to undo that deadbolt with my hooves.  But I was 
finally able to get out and head towards the neighboring woods in search of
a suitable doe.  I figured no mate could be worse than the last one.


.------------------------------.
| .--------------------------. |
| | Amy  10/3/99  bigmac.txt | |
| `--------------------------' |
`------------------------------'

Big Mac Attack

Oh, what a wonderful thing to fight
Bullets ripping through your flesh
is the best of all joys.
Watching friends as they die,
lets order burgers and fries.
A village child screams,
as blood oozes from her wounds.
Now how am I suppposed to eat my fries?
And then it's all over and I go home
So I leave an arm or a leg behind.
Is that such a price
for a wonderful time?


.----------------------------------------.
| .------------------------------------. |
| | B-FunK  12/11/99  ForWhinyJoel.txt | |
| `------------------------------------' |
`----------------------------------------'

The Secret to Finals 

Well, it's the time of year again where you get all stressed out, freaked
out, fucked up and crazy: finals. Ah, but fret not because there are ways
you can beat this pre-christmas present.

1. Don't take many classes. If you're smart, take a minimum course load, but
   enough to be able to keep your student loan. This way you won't feel the
   heavy stress and you can still drink like a fish.

2. Invest in multi-coloured hot glue guns. The amount of money you'll make
   off this daring stock will make you rich enough to never have to be
   educated again...

3. Ridicule all your professors. This way they will feel too ashamed of
   themselves to give you an exam. Instead they'll be spending their 80,000$
   a year salary on counselling and love slaves.

4. Smoke a lot of weed... it's good for short term memory.

5. Spend your entire time watching TBS's 15 days of 007. After mastering the
   ways of Bond, no prof could ever deny you on any question, regardless if
   you say IPX is a form of Japanese marriage ceremony or not.

Yes, there are many ways you can beat the pre-Christmas chaos, but the above
methods are proven to be the most effective. Good luck, and enjoy this time
while you can.





Sons of Prozac - Not Just a Great Name

The Sons of Prozac(SoP) have finally proved that they are a band with not
just a great name, but with some great talent as well. Earlier this week the
SoP released their masterpiece The Blair Witch Project which shot up the
mp3.com charts like Weiland of Stone Temple Pilots.

After their debut single started at a resounding number 27, it pushed its
way up to a whopping number 17, where it stayed and dominated the middle
chart for three and a half days by yelling childish slanders at any single
that tried to surpass it.

Not only does the song take you into a spiral of euphoric confusion, but you
are also given a strong sense of who, or what, the Blair Witch may have
been.

As the song progresses it grows and matures in ways that are unkown
territory for most of todays "professional" musicians, complete with hi-tech
laser technology and a vocabulary that would make Shakespear gasp in wonder.

The Blair Witch Project has died down some and has come to settle at 32 on
the top 40 on mp3.com but is still definitly worth listening to. You can
download the song or listen to it via streaming mp3 by clicking here.





CGI-Perl Script Still Down

Sources have confirmed that the Fattie Coalition is still having problems
rectifying not only the CGI-Perl complications, but Kehfee himself. The
cause of the two problems are said to be linked by two simple sources:
Stinky and the Finals syndrome.

When reached for comment,
B-FunK had the following to say:

"We're hoping to irradicate the CGI problems in time for the new millenium,
but if I don't get a rimmie soon I think I may have to beat Kehfee into a
submissive position."


.---------------------------------.
| .-----------------------------. |
| | erika  11/19/99 hoedown.txt | |
| `-----------------------------' |
`---------------------------------'

The Rural Municipality of Plant had a midwinter party.  It had been a while
since all the plants had been out and about, everyone being under snow for
so long.  But the midwinter party was the sort of event that everyone dug
themselves out for.

All the girls were there- the young and innocent Little Buttercup,
Cloudberry, Bracken, Slimstem Reedgrass, the slightly vain Narcissus
Anenome.  The seductresses gathered too: Sweetscented Bedstraw and her
boyfriend Timothy reeled around the dance floor.  Single Delight was the
center of a group of ne'er do wells, Field Locoweed, Horned Dandelion, and
Wild Rye among them.  Clasping Twistedstalk followed Hairy Arnica around all
evening, and noone could figure out the why's of that one.  Lamb's Quarters,
as usual, was holed up in a dark corner with Foxtail Barley.

In the kitchen, the old ladies Kidney-leaved Violet, Mrs. Leatherleaf,
Pioneer Cladonia and Mrs.  Bitterwort, worrying about everyone's drunken
stomachs, put together some potato salads and ham.  In the corner Old Mrs.
Nodding Onion listened unabsorbedly to the complaints of Moonshine Cetraria
and the old trapper Fewfinger Lichen regarding the vagaries of the arthritic
condition and the... ack it's that damn neo-comintern guy again,
interrupting me!


.-------------------------------------------.
| .---------------------------------------. |
| | sittydweller 11/17/99 attempt one.doc | |
| `---------------------------------------' |
`-------------------------------------------'

I think when i need to .... i have in me a power .

Part of me needs to believe there is a wild man inside , waiting to save me
from something crazy and illogical .

Someone with expiriences and concerns different from my own., whos life path
is a journey violent and physical , full of wanting and not having.

Cultural programing and natural selection becoming one .

Customers in a five star restaurant where man is the main course ......

survival being a common thread that both joins and separates diner from
dinner .

Cycles of dominance that serves so well and yet stands out so brutally
amoung illusions of civility.

Manufacturing rules to suit our needs , the mind is all that separates the
animal in a man .

Monkeys mimicing heros taking their parts in a domestic circus ....
Ideas of right and wrong.

But what when the rules of the game are not the same ?

Brutal reality.

Life or death ..... ?

But more accurately death is life .

An organization of chaos that demands admiration  ............ and fear .

Only the strong survive .

The fact i am here at all shows stamina ...... which i take no credit for .

Only give thanks and try to imagine everything my organic flame has
acccompished ,  has gone through to get thus far ......

There are variables that can be called luck .

But i would prefer to imagine great survival skills :o)

(time for bed)



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 Copyright 2001 by The Neo-Comintern                           #163-07/22/01

All content is property of The Neo-Comintern.
You may redistribute this document, although no fee can be charged and the
content must not be altered or modified in any way.  Unauthorized use of any
part of this document is prohibited.  All rights reserved.  Made in Canada.

