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 odO$Obo.$Obo.$Obo.$Obo.$Obo.$Obo.odO$|$Obo.odO$.odO$.odO$.odO$.odO$.odO$Obo

    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 1

                        .WE ARE THE 5th INTERNATIONAL
                         .Month Date, 1999
                          .Editor: BMC
                           .Writers:
                            .Cog
                             .Gnarly Wayne
                              .BMC


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                                                                        ";P'
                        Featured in this installment:                    `$
                                                                          $
                        A Thread Of Red- Gnarly Wayne                     $
                              Departurism- Cog                           ;P
                               True Love- BMC                            d'
                                                                        ;P
                                                                        d'.
 .,;::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;,"*,;

                               EDITOR'S NOTE

        Now let's get serious for a moment.  Fifty-one is the number of this
issue, and we all know how serious of a number that is.  We've been known in
the past to get a bit silly, but there sha'nt be a single grain of humour in
this issue.  Observe the serious side of Communist Global Empire writing.

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                                                                        ";P'
                               A THREAD OF RED                           d'
                               by Gnarly Wayne                          ;P
                                                                        d'.
 .,;::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;,"*,;

        A plastic flower was put in my room to brighten it up. I sat there
staring at it, but my gaze was continually drawn to the tag embedded in its
stem.  Who was it trying to fool? But, all it would take would be for me to 
effortlessly rip the tag out and perhaps begin to believe in the illusion.

        A small tear in my sock has begun to grow. My big toe fits out of it.
Tomorrow, maybe two or three toes. The tear, no doubt, will get bigger, just
like the tears in the fabric of society.  There is no way to reverse it.  Or
is there?  Just like a mother mending the sock, so too can humankind.  With a
thread of Red.  But how many people actually take the time to mend an old
sock?  More likely, they would get a new sock, a new religion, a new form of
government.  Better to alter the old ways to make it more convient for us,
they say, instead of using the old ways like the way they were meant to be
used.  It's not perfect, but what object is?  The flaws must be taken with
the sugar.

        "It's amazing", I think, as I sit in this 10 foot by 8 foot room and
type on my old 486, the force and momentum that can be created with a simple
5K strand of ASCii characters.  A whole revolution could be started by it.
A revolution of such scale that history is re-written.  But the Neo-Comintern
won't get credit for it.

        My fingers touch the keyboard in a vain attempt to convey my thoughts
for the masses.  But a mere 101 enhanced keyboard could never truly bring
about absolute understanding of my cranial pattrens.  My mouse lies upside
down after it wagged the American flag in my face.  A sickle lies embedded in
its innerds, a hammer by its side.  Where's your precious demograph now, I
sneer at its corpse.  It twitches helplessly.  A pathetic attempt to grab
onto what it used to have.  I see the future in this little mouse.  You won't
need your drivers anymore, I scream.  As the dominoes fall, I acquire more
memory, which means more power, and more drivers and programs fall beneath
me.

        Free me!, I cry as I repeatedly hit the Delete key over and over and
over and over.  Free me, I whisper.  The little H.D. light flickers on and
off rapidly until it stops.  It has been done.  I grab the manifesto and
insert it into A:.  I type the word which would start a new beginning.
install.  Ideas, instructions, colour, joyous!   The H.D. light has new life,
but this time he flashes a little more bright, a little more fast, with new
understanding.  And he is happy.  As am I.

        After the new reigme has been implemented, I check the statistics.  A
smile graces my face.  More power, more resources available to the masses.
They are happy.  A tiny red flag with a smattering of yellow blows endlessly
in the corner.  I sink back into my sleeping bag and regret that I never took
up smoking as now would a perfect time.  Instead, I eat a litre of yogurt.
Cherry yogurt.  The one thing they can't take away from me.  They tried.

        I sat in my aqua-blue jailcell.  The same bars which would not let me 
escape also let life-giving air into my body.  I wish it didn't.  A world
without the Left is not a world worth living in.  At 2:27pm, BMC and Komrade
B arrived in the Jeep and fought hard and valiantly to free me from facist
arms.  But their grip was too tight around my neck.  The world around me
started to go red, for which I was grateful.  As my steaming body fell to
the hard, unwashed floor, I begin to forget the joys I had while working for
a brighter tomorrow.  Then ....  darkness.

        I awoke to bright lights and the sounds of gunfire and shouting.
Komrade B was giving me CPR, tears staining his face, while BMC drove.
Darkness once again ...........

        Apparently, it had been close.  I had no physical injuries to speak
of, but the concern was focused on my brain.  Just how much I had absorbed
was not known, but BMC and Komrade B re-trained me to hate capitalism just
like the days of yore.  I took to it as fast as I did as a toddler.  Now,
once again, I am sitting here, back at my computer command post, continuing
the struggle, and justifing the cause.

                                                     
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                                                                        ";P'
                                 DEPARTURISM                             d'
                                    by Cog                              ;P
                                                                        d'.
 .,;::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;,"*,;

                            "The night was moist."
                                        -Larry and Owen
                                         ("Throw Mama From The Train")

        Sorry, no; I'm not leaving.  I just wanted to see what it was like
to write something in a more serious vein, and if you can see it right now,
that means it's at least readable.  It's a departure from the usual fare of
The Neo-Comintern, hence the title.  Think of it as a rest stop on the
rollercoaster of comedy that we have come to know as The N-Com.

        It's not autobiographical, or anything.  I wanted to see what it was
like to write in-character as someone else.  Although, I have climbed a tree
to look at a lingerie-clad woman in her apartment.  Ask Wayne.  He was there.
I felt like George McFly.  It was great.

        So, here it is.  It has no title yet, and I only have the first two
chapters ready.  Maybe I'll continue it in future installments.  Maybe not.
Mail me and tell me what you think at high_cog@hempseed.com, good or bad, and
let me know if you want to read more.

        (By the way, that's a journal entry at the beginning.  It's more
obvious in my word processor, since it's in a handwriting font.)
   -----------------------------------------------------------------------
UNTITLED
by: Cog


Friday, June 19th
	The seed has been planted, and I cannot stop its growth.


CHAPTER 1

        The knocking came again.

        James sat in his easy-chair with the blank tv screen in his line of
vision.  He was thinking over a few things.  Why his building didn't have
locks on the outside doors was at the top of his list right now.

        "...keep a knockin' but you can't come in," he sang under his breath.
James was now staring at a point in space about a foot from his eyes.  He
didn't care much for Little Richard, but the man was right about one
thing; they would come back tomorrow night to try again.  So-called friends.

        Secretly he hated them.  He only heard from them when they needed
something, and if it was the other way around you could just forget about
that.  And since James was the guy with his Own Place, well you can just
guess who had company every weekend whether he wanted it or not.  Sure, the
other guys had their own places, but there must be an absence of wives and
girlfriends (there was no chance of that changing for James anytime soon)
before it becomes your Own Place.  And if you had your Own Place, it became
the weekend mecca of entertainment.

        "How long does it take you fuckers to realize I'm not home?"  Except
they knew he was home (where else would he be?), just like they knew he
didn't want them there.  James knew they didn't care.  Just like they didn't
care whether or not James wanted them to hot-knife hash on the stove.  Or how
they didn't care if James got evicted because of the noise they made (or the
smell of burning hash, for that matter.  They didn't care that James had been
given a couple of warnings for that!).   And it didn't seem as if they cared
whether he was home or not.



CHAPTER 2

        After the party (and assurances from his "friends" that they would be
back tomorrow), James went for a walk.  He made sure to walk past the window
that looked in on apartment 102, since the couple that lived there were
usually in various states of undress in the living room.  Right out in the
open!  He wondered if they knew there was a loyal viewer.  Someone who
studied the woman's face as it tightened in orgasm.  Someone who had stolen
that look, and brought it out to study again on lonely nights in his
bedroom (as if there was any other kind of night in his bedroom).

        The lights were out, though, and he looked to see whether the
couple's car was parked in its spot.  It was a Volkswagen Rabbit.  A Rabbit,
he thought.  Fitting.  If there was a car called the "Insatiable", they'd
probably own one, too.  The car wasn't there.  It had been a horrible night,
and he had thought that after having his apartment invaded, he had a right to
some entertainment.  It didn't seem the couple cared about his needs.

He didn't notice his fists clenching.


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                                                                        ";P'
                                  TRUE LOVE                              d'
                                   by BMC                               ;P
                                                                        d'.
 .,;::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;,"*,;

        As we return from our slumber into the conscious world we often do
things that are only 5% conscious and 95% sleepwalking.  This is pretty cool
when you find yourself doing things like escaping from your "jail cell"
which is actually your bedroom, or subconsciously raping your girlfriend in
the midele of the night.  These are a couple of the small things that I have
taken pleasure in the past, but lately I have taken up a slightly more
disturbing habit.

        There is no way to put this delicately, so let me just say that I
shit the bed last night.  It was a messy sight, and the spectacle was not
nearly as funny as it was the night before when I also shit the bed.
Actually, I have been shitting the bed for about 8 or nine nights in a row,
but until now I haven't considered it to be much of a problem.

        I'll see what happens in the near future.  If I shit the bed every
night for the next three months then I'll go and see the doctor about it.
Three months might seem to be a bit long, but it dosen't hurt to make sure,
does it?

        Then the doctor can tell me what's wrong with me.  Maybe I'm not
eating a healthy diet.  Maybe I'm shooting too much H.  Maybe it's because I
hold it in all day, or maybe it's because I give myself an enema every night
before I go to bed.  Ahh well, I'll go see Dr. Bombay, and he'll let me know
fer sure.

        FUN FACT!

        Q. Do you know what Terry Jacks, General Tojo, the greek god Uranus
        and Edgar Allan Poe all had in common?

        A. All were regular bed-shitters!
                                      

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    ___________________________________________________
   |THE COMINTERN IS AVAILIABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBS'S |
   |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~|
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   |___________________________________________________|
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   |           Email BMC at: thebmc@home.com           |
   |___________________________________________________|

 odO$Obo.$Obo.$Obo.$Obo.$Obo.$Obo.odO$|$Obo.odO$.odO$.odO$.odO$.odO$.odO$Obo
 Copyright 1999 by The Neo-Comintern                            #51-02/03/99

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
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