 
       o$$$$$$o o$o                     o$$o   db
       "$$$$$$" $$                      $$$$   $$                                 
          $$$   $$ $o    o$$o           $$$$   $$   o$$o   o$$o                   
          $$$   $$$$$$  $$$$$b          $$ $$  $$  d$$$$b d$$$$$.                 
          $$$   $$' $$ d$$  $$          $$ '$$ $$ d$$  $$ $$$ `$b                 
          $$P   $$  $$ $$$$$$P          $$   $$$$ $$$$$$P $$' ,$$ $$$             
          $$    $$  $$ `$$. ,$          $$    $$$ `$$. ,$ `$$$$P                 
          $P    $$  $P  `$$$P'          $$    $$$  `$$$P'  `$$P
      o$o.                        $$$
    d$$$$$$o                      $P            d                             
   d$$' `$$$  o$$o     o$$o  o$o         o$o   d$     o$$o     $$.    o$o     
   $$$       d$$$$$. d$$$$$$$$$$b $$  $$$$$$b d$$$$  d$$$$b $$$$$b $$$$$$b    
   $$$       $$$ `$b $$'  $$'  $$ $$  $$' `$$  $$$P d$$  $$ $$  $$ $$'  $$    
   $$$.  ,$$ $$. ,$$ $$   $$   $$ $$  $$   $$  $$   $$$$$$P $$  $  $$   $$    
    o$$$$$P  `$$$$P  $$   $$  ,$$ $$  $$  ,$$  $$.$$`$$. ,$ $$     $$  ,$$
      $$$P    `$$P   $P   $P  $$P $P  $P  $$P  `$$P  `$$$P' $P     $$  $$P

      The Neo-Comintern Electronic Magazine  --  Installment Number 210
 .... .. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . .. ....
    `""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'
      
                  Subversive Literature for Subverted People

                  Date:                        July 19, 2002

                  Editor:                                Cog

                  Writers:                               ada
                                                   Melatonin
                                                   Komrade B



  d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b.
 ;P                      Featured in this installment:                     .b
 $                                                                          $
 $                             cacophony - ada                              $
 $                  What It's Like Being Dead - Komrade B                   $
 $         Ten More 3-Sentence Stories (In Lieu of BMC) - Melatonin         $
 `q                                                                        p'
   `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'

                                EDITOR'S NOTE
                        (please DO read the following)
  
  I somehow received the Palm D'or and a Cable Ace Award this week for my
  work on the Comintern.  The hell...?

  Regardless, we've got another great issue!  Notice that there's no real
  running theme?  Melatonin and Komrade B both reference previous events
  and issues -- but I nipped that bud at the pass (that was not a racial
  slur).  However, I suppose ada's article is a theme-issue in itself.

  ...but then again, I don't know a lot of things.

  But I do know this:  SOLID GOLD
  And this:  READ IT

  ...and I also know there's something special happening next week.
                      
                                                                       ,o$o                                             
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                             cacophony                               ,$$
 $$:                                by ada                               ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  cacophony is among us.  it is all i can tell you at this time.  cacophony
  being my favorite word you should know that this is a serious matter and
  not to be taken lightly.  i don't know how or where it started exactly,
  but i do know that somehow it has become my fault.  somehow i am to blame
  for creating absence where harmony once was.  i stretch my fingers every
  so often and feel the elasticized space so thick i ask for crayons to draw
  you a picture that you wouldn't understand because it is you as a monster
  trying to scare me and maybe even succeeding.  i do up the buttons on my
  long coat as long as it takes for us to realize we have been silent for
  ten minutes and neither of us have the ability to grow words inside our
  lungs and breathe them across the room to each other in bubbles.  but
  reading minds will do quite nicely and i'm not afraid for you to know
  exactly what i am thinking.  it's hard enough you won't do a thing about
  it.  it will be up to me to walk across the room, each step the heels on
  my shoes growing higher and higher until i stand like a giant over you but
  you don't break down, simply look me in the eye and say_..'you better go
  to sleep ada, you're so exhausted you can barely sit up'.

  so i did.  i do.

  i'm still asleep to this day.

                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                      What It's Like Being Dead                      ,$$
 $$:                             by Komrade B                            ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  Most of you know I've been dead for some time.  It was pretty shocking
  when it happened -- I know I was pretty shocked when I logged onto the
  Comintern site and read the articles about my past life.  I guess it  was
  at that point that I did realize I was dead...

  It all started back in the day when I came over to see BMC on my oversized
  old time bicycle.  We were planning on chronicling the treatise between
  the Atlanteans and the Lacedaemoonians...or at least that's what I
  thought.

  When I got to BMC's house, I was greeted by a ladder leading up to the
  roof of his home and a message that said "Free Pies" with an arrow
  pointing upwards.  Being a fan of pies, I immediately made my way up the
  ladder in search of these free pies.  Only there weren't any pies...let
  alone free pies.

  Instead, there was just BMC.  He was looking out into the distance and
  when he saw me approach he asked me if I could see it.   When I replied
  that I could not and demanded to know where the free pies were, he told me
  to step towards the edge of the roof and get a better look.  Foolishly I
  agreed and he pushed me off the house.

  Of course, I gave no thought to what had actually happened.  I went home
  none the worse for wear.  However, at the time I did not realize that I
  had finally met my untimely demise.

  Basically what happens is you are forced to wander the earth as some sort
  of a spirit.  You can't interact with the world of the living or the dead.
  It's sort of frustrating -- especially since you can't go more then a few
  hundred feet from where you died.  Believe you me, Massey is not the sort
  of place you want to spend your dead years at.  What with all the poverty,
  suffering, and the fact that BMC spends his days masturbating and eating
  corn flakes (sometimes both at the same time) doesn't make for the most
  entertaining afterlife.

  Then after that, some sort of gaseous cloud comes and takes you to a realm
  of greyness.  The grey is pretty thick stuff; you can actually consume it
  although it's tasteless and offers no sort of value other than the rickets
  you seem to develop from eating it.  So when you join me here I recommend
  that you do not eat it.

  I currently reside in this realm.  I do not know if this is to be my final
  resting place, however, I assume I will be here for quite some time as
  some of the other spirits around here died centuries ago.  It's kind of
  cool!  I'll tell you some of the things I've done:

  - Got into a fight with Ludwig Von Beethoven after beating him in crochet.

  - Got into a fight with Descartes for hanging around St. Francis of Assisi
    and telling Francis he was better then Descartes.

  - Got into a fight with a particularly virile Sea Weegie Bull.

  - Got to play with Mr. Dressup's tickle trunk.

  - Received a gun blast to the back from a thug named Lomez.  (It's
    considered cool to shoot people in the back here)

  - Met the guy who invented pants.  (He was not wearing pants)

  - Met the Dutch of Dukes.  (Fascinating guy)

  Well, there were plenty more.  Tell you the truth, death does not instill
  upon me the best of memories, so things tend to come in and out of my
  mind.  I don't even know if they really happened or not, but since I
  remembered them I believe them to be true.

  In closing, Cog seems to be summoning quite a bit these days and demanding
  material for the Comintern (which I fondly remember as being an outlet of
  pain relief).  By Cog's summoning I can only assume that I have finally
  succeeded in hiring an agent capable of murdering the treacherous BMC.
  Either that or he took some sort of vacation...
  
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'            Ten More 3-Sentence Stories (In Lieu of BMC)             ,$$
 $$:                             by Melatonin                            ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  Little worm, caught on a hook.  The poor guy fell in love with the fish
  that bit him.  They say he went down her throat smiling.

  The girl's bedroom faces a graveyard.  Every night she watches in fear as
  skeletons rise from the ground and come lumbering towards her window.
  When she calls out for her mother, her father rushes into the room and
  begins to console her, his bony fingers pressing her to the bed.

  The kids snuck in through the downstairs window and found him slumped over
  his kitchen table, drowned in a bowl of pea soup.  There was a note pinned
  to his back.  It said "Kick Me", so they did.

  "Reginald Parker Smith Jr., come out this instant!" I yelled for a third
  time, my gun drawn high.  Something flashed in the corner.  I spun around
  and fired.

  That slut Dana Spinotti kept stealing all his drafting pencils.  So on
  Friday he plotted his revenge on a sheet of graph paper, and on Monday he
  came into the office with a bottle of wine (spiked) and a pair of scissors
  (hidden).  But the slut was in Florida, on vacation with her fiance of
  five years, one Barry Royce.

  Running through cobwebs again.  That's the ninth time I've had that dream
  in the past two weeks.  I'll have to bring this up to my analyst, if only
  I had one.

  He drank the entire bottle of absinthe like a glass of water.  His head
  swam; he saw snouts on all the women and spots on all the men.  When he
  woke up the next morning, he wore his feet like a pair of bloody gloves.

  You're standing in front of three doors.  One says "Now", another says
  "Then", and the last says "Later".  But when you go to make your decision,
  you realize both where you are and why it never mattered.

  She fell in love with a supermarket aisle.  She was lonely, you see, and
  the bright packages and friendly slogans gave her a sense of comfort.  But
  in the end, even the aisle broke her heart, just like little Danny
  Johnson, and all the dresses she'd worn since then.

  On Christmas Eve, all the lost and unwanted pets congregate in a downtown
  alleyway.  There they drink, gamble, smoke, and screw.  When morning
  comes, they retrieve their collars and quietly return home.


 .d&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&b.

  The Neo-Comintern Magazine / Online Magazine is seeking submissions.
  Unpublished stories and articles of an unusual, experimental, or
  anti-capitalist nature are wanted.  Contributors are encouraged to
  submit works incorporating any or all of the following: Musings, Delvings
  into Philosophy, Flights of Fancy, Freefall Selections, and Tales of
  General Mirth.  The more creative and astray from the norm, the better.
  For examples of typical Neo-Comintern writing, see our website at
  <http://www.neo-comintern.com>.

  Submissions of 25-4000 words are wanted; the average article length is
  approximately 200-1000 words.  Send submissions via email attachment to
  <bmc@neo-comintern.com>, or through ICQ to #29981964.

  Contributors will receive copies of the most recent print issue of The
  Neo-Comintern; works of any length and type will be considered for
  publication in The Neo-Comintern Online Magazine and/or The Neo-Comintern
  Magazine.

 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -
    ___________________________________________________
   |THE COMINTERN IS AVAILIABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBS'S |
   |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~|
   | TWILIGHT ZONE                      (905) 432-7667 |
   | BRING ON THE NIGHT                 (306) 373-4218 |
   | CLUB PARADISE                      (306) 978-2542 |
   | THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME           (306) 373-9778 |
   |___________________________________________________|
   |     Website at: http://www.neo-comintern.com      |
   |        Questions?  Comments?  Submissions?        |
   |        Email BMC at bmc@neo-comintern.com         |
   |___________________________________________________|

 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -
  copyright 2002 by                                            #210-07/19/02
  the neo-comintern

  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.
