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      $$$P    `$$P   $P   $P  $$P $P  $P  $$P  `$$P  `$$$P' $P     $$  $$P

      The Neo-Comintern Electronic Magazine  --  Installment Number 215
 .... .. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . .. ....
    `""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'
      
                  Subversive Literature for Subverted People

                  Date:                   December 1st, 2002

                  Editor:                                BMC

                  Writers:                         AlterEcho
                                                         ada
                                                       Spite
                                                   Melatonin
                                                      Heckat
                                                Gnarly Wayne
                                                         BMC



  d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b.
 ;P                      Featured in this installment:                     .b
 $                                                                          $
 $       Visions of Pizza Delivery in an Undead Apocalypse - AlterEcho      $
 $                          Dear Management - ada                           $
 $                                oven - ada                                $
 $                My Dinner with Pierre Elliot Trudeau - Spite              $
 $                        1-800-EAT-NCOM - Melatonin                        $
 $                        Pizza for Dummies - Heckat                        $
 $          Neo-Comintern Delicious Monstrosity Pizza - Gnarly Wayne        $
 $                 The Super Incredible Coins of Pizza - BMC                $
 `q                                                                        p'
   `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'

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

  Good people of the world, I have defected yet again, and this time I have
  invited the entire Neo-Comintern staff to come with me.  We all live in
  Pizza now.

  Or wait - is The Neo-Comintern is no longer a magazine, but a pizza?

  It's hard to say.  

  I like pizza.

  Enjoy your pizza.
                                  
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'          Visions of Pizza Delivery in an Undead Apocalypse          ,$$
 $$:                             by AlterEcho                            ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  Ernesto is speeding down the Calder, doing at least 125.  Just gone ten -
  full moon still rising - and the highway is empty, just a few cop cars,
  one or two hoons, and some Government Pizza delivery turds in their
  fucking bright orange cars and uniforms.  Cops don't really care if you
  break the curfew.  You get mauled by something that goes bump in the
  night, that's your own problem.  Ernesto ain't scared of zombies or
  skellies anyway, and 'sides, he has no choice.  Just doin' his job.

  He swings the old beast left into the Johnstone Lakes exit.  Got some
  circles of culinary pleasure to deliver in the Lakes.  Oh yeah, Ernie's a
  delivery boy.  Not for one of those Government Pizza franchise shits, but
  for Luigi Bros. Pizzeria, old school and freakin' delicious.  Ernesto
  can't stand Government Pizza.  For starters, their pizzas suck.  Ernesto
  would rather go down on Mrs. Luigi than be forced to actually try and keep
  that shit down.  And secondly, well, he can't stand the idea of the
  monopoly the government has, in pizza, for crying out loud.  Stick to
  telecommunications, or art, or something.  Leave the cooking to people who
  know what they're doing.  And thirdly, and most importantly, fuck the man.
  You know?

  Left at McLean, right at Costello.  He finds the house, honks the horn.
  A nice looking teenage girl runs from the front door to the car, wearing
  tight jeans and a sleeveless top.  Ernesto would like to explore the
  curves under that top, but he's a professional.  Strictly business.
  Unless, of course, she makes the first move.  He doesn't say anything,
  just hands over the box and accepts the money.

          The Hawaiian Tropics
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
          Cheese, ham, pineapple on a standard base.
          Salt and pepper.
          In a word: Boring

  The girl smiles at him, before turning and jogging back inside, pizza box
  under her arm.  Ernesto shrugs and chucks a three-point-turn.  He loves
  driving.  And he loves his car.  He's had the beast ever since he was
  fifteen, a red Datsun Sunny.  Red ones go faster, they say.  Ernesto knows
  it.  He's done a few custom jobs on the car, but hey, technical details
  are boring.  But you gotta love that Nissan Rallyability.  Outside, the
  car is pretty much immaculate.  Dent-free, and no scratches in the
  paintwork.  Inside, looks like a small scale apocalypse.  The pizzas sit
  up in the front with him, along with a small pile of MDs, empty bottles
  and a half-finished Chicken Coke(tm).

  In the back, he's got an old guitar, some textbooks, and some empty pizza
  boxes.  Ernesto loves his job, and the discount pizza that comes with it.
  Luigi makes a mean special, you can bet your left butt-cheek on it.

          Luigi's Special
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
          Three types of cheese, salami, meatballs,
          capsicum, mushrooms, egg, on an extra-
          thick herb base. Salt and pepper.
          In a word: Orgasmic!

  It's early, but Ernesto's finishing early tonight.  Got some study to do,
  and a gig later on.  Maybe he'll drop in on that last chick, Ms. Hawaiian
  Tropics.  The night is still young, and there's only one delivery left.
  He roars past the all-night milkbar and skids left into Jackson with a
  perfectly executed handbrake turn.  Number 44.  He slams on the brakes,
  leans on the horn.  Nothing.  Ernesto curses; he hates these fuckers who
  haven't managed to grasp the niceties of pizza delivery.  Fuck it, he's
  not leaving without a 250% tip.

  He kills the engine, grabs the pizza - another Special - and gets out of
  the car.  There's no response when he rings the doorbell, but the door
  isn't locked and Ernesto lets himself in.  A lot of people would be a bit
  weirded out by now - shit, but it looks a lot like a B-grade horror movie.
  But Ernesto's not worried.  He gets this at least 10% of the time.  Most
  likely, customer's getting himself laid, or she's got herself wedged in
  the toilet bowl again.  Inconsiderate, yes.  Knee-trembling bloody horror,
  no.  Well, not yet.

  Inside, the house is a mess.  There's a lot of glass and ceramic pieces on
  the tiles, and there's a number of holes in the walls.  Ernesto shrugs.
  He doesn't care, he's seen a purse.  Best bet is to chuck the pizza on a
  table and grab his pay, which has just quadrupled in the last ten minutes.
  As he extracts a new fifty dollar bill from the purse, he nears a noise
  and a muffled groan behind him.  A pair of what used to be humans shuffle
  into the kitchen.

  Ernesto opines that they still are humans, just dead humans.  Otherwise
  known as zombies.  He vaults over the kitchen bench and looks to head back
  out the front, but finds his way blocked by a another pair of smaller
  zombies.  Kids.  Great.  Ernesto sighs; he's going to have to do this the
  hard way.

  Luigi Bros. Pizzeria doesn't make their drivers wear a uniform, but
  Ernesto is happy to wear a t-shirt with the company name on it.  He's
  proud to be working for the best pizzeria in the whole damn city.  And
  'sides, chicks dig it.  Other than the t-shirt, Ernesto's wearing a pair
  of faded jeans and old sneakers.  He reaches into the back pocket of his
  jeans and whips out a small metal tube.  Laser knife, standard for any
  delivery driver.  He's never had to actually use it before, although he
  has pulled it on a couple of jerks who thought they'd rip him off.  And,
  yep, the chicks love it.

  The safest bet is probably to go through the two smaller zombies and back
  out the front, but Ernesto is pissed.  He hates it when people don't come
  and get their food.  And it's bad manners to order a pizza, die, and then
  try and eat the driver instead of the pizza.  Don't eat the messenger,
  right?

  He presses a small button on the side of the metal tube, and a thin blue
  line, maybe 3.5 inches long, pops up.  He leaps back up on the kitchen
  bench, where mummy and daddy start groping his leg.  He kicks mum in the
  face and slices down with the knife.  Who would have thought a zombie was
  capable of surprise?  Guess anyone'd be the same, just had their arm
  sliced off.

  The purse is safely in his back pocket, so now it's time to leave.  A
  couple of zombies in western suburbia aren't really his problem, but
  Ernesto likes to do what he can.  Left pocket, he carries a zippo.
  Ernesto doesn't smoke, much, but it's a great way to meet women.  He jumps
  down to the floor, where mum is still trying to get back to her decaying
  feet.  Two seconds later, she's trying to put the fire in her hair out.
  Ernesto's not particularly fond of the stench of burning flesh, and less
  than two minutes later, he's back in the beast, leaving four burning
  zombies in his wake.  He's up around $750 and he's still got the Special
  to chow down on.  He hasn't even broken a sweat.  Oh yeah, but it's sweet
  being a pizza boy.

  He figures the neighbours'll call someone about the small fire he's left
  at number 44, and as he roars back to the Pizzeria to sign off, he turns
  on the radio, a slice of Luigi's Special already hanging from his mouth.

          Zombie Surprise
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
          Lightly grilled chunks of zombie flesh,
          covered with a thick layer of cheese on a
          thin base. A few olives; moderate 'shrooms.
          Salt and pepper.
          In a word: Dead

  Ernesto shudders.  Keeping his eyes on the road and one hand on the wheel,
  he reaches across and grabbs a small bottle from the glove box.  He popps
  the lid and upends six or seven little blue pills into his mouth.  And
  after that, well, he's pretty much a zombie himself.

                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                          Dear Management,                           ,$$
 $$:                                by ada                               ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  Neo-Comintern Pizzeria
  Owner: BMC
  November 20, 2002


  Dear Management,

  Maybe it's not like me to complain, but I've been here my whole life and
  haven't said a word about the unnecessary amounts of abuse and harassment
  I have endured because of your employees.  I feel that I'm not respected
  at our place of business and although my role is a crucial one, I don't
  feel that my ideas are taken seriously in regards to the development of
  the pizzas.  I may be an inanimate object but that does not mean my life
  exists solely to serve others.  It's harder when you aren't human because
  humans tend to think that we inanimate objects are simply here to provide
  benefits to their everyday lives.  Why can't I have a deeper purpose?  I
  always wanted to be a shell collector at the bottom of an ocean, or an
  astronaut (although my eyes aren't what they used to be) or an insurance
  agent.  Instead I'm here baking pizzas and taking abuse from the chefs.  I
  know you think my life is filled with misery... okay, it may be filled
  with misery, but if it wasn't for me, your damn pizza would be raw.  I've
  been talking with the cheese and black olives and they agree with me, but
  they're too scared to speak out.  They're afraid of losing their jobs, and
  being replaced the way the mushrooms were when they asked for a pay
  increase.  We have to work for you because we're in this kitchen, and all
  you do is take advantage of us.  I guess what I want is more respect.  I
  want a better understanding from all the staff of what we go through to
  make n-com pizzas.  I want a little more credit for my contributions as a
  crucial part of the pizza making process.


  Sincerely,

  Oven

                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                                oven                                 ,$$
 $$:                                by ada                               ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  yesterday I yawned and burnt another one
  boss says I'm gonna get fired if I keep sleeping on the job.

                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                My Dinner with Pierre Elliot Trudeau                 ,$$
 $$:                               by Spite                              ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  He arrived on time, just like he said he would.  I heard his distinctive
  knock at the front door and ran down the stairs to let him in.  As I
  hurried with my coat and mittens, he filled me in on all the exciting news
  from the Hill.  The driver had left the car running and warm for us and
  within minutes we arrived at our destination.

  It was no surprise when the car stopped in front of the Pizza Hut.  It was
  Pierre's night to choose the restaurant and this particular one was his
  favourite.  The waiters expected his arrival and had saved his usual
  booth.  As we sat down, the head waiter brought us the list of the finest
  wines that Pizza Hut had to offer.  Soothing muzak played softly overhead
  and the glowing candles added a touch of ambiance to the romantic
  atmosphere.

  My stomach seemed to be a bundle of knots with the anticipation of what
  was ahead.  I don't know how I managed to conceal my nervousness.  We ate
  silently and contemplatively. He ordered the same thing he always did, a
  large pizza with everything on it.  Sometimes, when he wasn't too
  preoccupied with politics and such, he be more thoughtful and only order
  half of the pizza with everything on it; then I wouldn't have to pick off
  the things I didn't like.  I sighed heavily as I picked all the green
  peppers and onions off of the slice on my plate.

  Now was the time for my confession.  The moment of truth.  He looked up as
  I cleared my throat and I held his gaze for what seemed like an eternity
  before I finally spoke.  I told him the truth about all the nights I had
  told him I was working late, when I was really going to see Jacques
  Parizeau.  I knew I was breaking his heart, but I couldn't hide my love
  for Jacques any longer.  I apologized the best I could and gathered my
  things to leave.  When I got to the door, I turned around for one last
  look.

  He was staring absentmindedly through the window at the cars driving by.
  He had not said a word to me after my confession, but the single tear that
  slid gently down his cheek onto his half-eaten pizza spoke volumes.

                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                           1-800-EAT-NCOM                            ,$$
 $$:                             by Melatonin                            ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  (Sound of a phone ringing.) 

  BMC: (answers) Good evening, N-Com Pizza.  If You Can Think It, We Can
     Bake It.  BMC speaking.  How may I help you?

  MELATONIN: Hi BMC, this is Melatonin.  I don't eat pizza, and as a result,
     I can't participate in your magazine's pizzariffic funfest. 

  B: Ah, but Melatonin, this isn't just any old pizza delivery shop -- this
     is The Neo-Comintern Pizza Delivery Shop, and here our pizzas contain
     whatever you want them to.  The ingredients are limited only by your
     imagination, so think away! 

  M: I don't get it.

  B: Just think about everything you love, slap it on a layer of crust, add
     some toppings, and there you have it: your very own dream pizza. 

  M: Everything I love?  You mean like robots and blind samurai? 

  B: If you want a robot on your slice of the N-Com pizza, that can be
     easily done. (away from phone) Cog!  One robo-supreme to go! 

  COG: (distant) Please, no.  No more cooking.

  B: Shut up, traitor.  You'll cook Comintern pizza until I tell you to
     stop.  And even then you'll keep cooking because my forgiveness doesn't
     come cheap.  You can't hijack a man's shit and not expect reciprocity.
     Now cook you magnificent bastard, cook! 

  M: But wait, BMC!  To eat a robot would be to kill it, would it not? 

  B: Hmm.  Good point. (away) Cog, stop cooking!

  M: So maybe I should put all the things I hate on my pizza, and destroy
     them that way.

  B: What do you hate?

  M: I hate apathy, and aversion to silliness.

  B: I don't think we can put that on a pizza.

  M: What about greed and avarice?

  B: No and... no.

  M: What is avarice anyway?

  B: I have no idea.

  M: I hate the sound of people clipping their toe nails.  Can I put that on
     my pizza?

  B: Well, you can't really eat sound, but I guess I could have someone
     sprinkle a few of their toe nail clippings into the sauce bucket for
     you.

  M: No, it wouldn't be the same.

  B: Hmm.

  M: What about Hitler?  I hate him.

  B: Now Hitler I can do.  How much Hitler do you want on your pizza? 

  M: Good question.

  B: You want the feet, the hands, the stomach?

  M: Er, on second thought.

  B: You want our special mustache topping?

  M: Actually, as much as I hate Hitler, I don't think I want to ingest him
     on my pizza.

  B: A less odious dictator, perhaps?

  M: No, I think this whole eat-what-you-hate theory has some serious flaws
     in it.

  B: Like what?

  M: Like the part where I have to eat Hitler's feet.

  B: You mean the part where you GET to eat Hitler's feet.

  M: I think I'm going to hang up now.

  B: Wait, I don't even know what kind of pizza to send you.

  M: Just put some cheese and some sauce on it.

  B: But you don't eat cheese.

  M: Whatever.  I'll feed it to my dog.

  B: That sounds like an insult.

  M: I think you're stupid.

  B: We don't carry cheese.

  M: Your pizza sucks.

  B: Sorry, wrong number.

  (Click.) 

                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                          Pizza for Dummies                          ,$$
 $$:                               by Heckat                             ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  I used to deliver pizza when I was a teenager for the local hack pizza
  factory in my small town.  I basically hated the job.  The tips sucked.
  My boss was an A-1 asshole.  Our establishment was in a strip-mall.  Heh?

  This is like the Neo-Comintern how?  Well, it doesn't take a swift-kit to
  put this one together.  Tips?  You guessed it, non-existent.  BMC?  Jerk,
  and I'm not talking Caribbean chicken.  Headquarters?  A run-down shack at
  the end of a foot bridge.  There is no escape.

  Ahh, but one thing I loved about that yorkel machine-shop I worked in as a
  teenager was the free merchandise.  Each night I worked there delivering
  pizza, my boyfriend worked in the back making it.  When the boss would go
  home (usually piss-drunk by 4 o'clock from sipping his flask beneath the
  cash register) we would hang out and watch the TV in the back.  There
  wasn't much business at that ol' excuse for a bootstrap, so we pretty much
  did whatever we wanted - doing whatever we wanted, of course, involved
  making and eating our own pizzas.

  We weren't supposed to make pizzas for ourselves.  That boss wanted all
  the monies for pizzas and he didn't want to give no kids handouts no way.
  He wanted us to bring our own bag lunches with spotted apples and week-old
  bologna.  But we fooled him and we dealt a cold blow to Capitalism in the
  meantime.

  Now, the Neo-Comintern, as I have already mentioned, is as treacherous a
  workplace as Papa's Pizza ever was, but it has its perks as well.
  Granted, it doesn't have delicious pizza to steal (although, from the
  thrust of this theme issue, BMC would have you believe that pizza is a
  bi-product of article writing), however, it does have the articles
  themselves.  Yes, I consider myself a thief of the imagination, a burglar
  of beauty, a con-artist of the creative conscience.

  It's difficult to say how stealing articles works exactly, especially
  considering that BMC posts them on the internet for free and anyone can
  look at them.  I think that the covert appropriation of N-Com material has
  more to do with evil intellectualizing than it has to do with the physical
  acquisition of the BMC's property.

  Perhaps an illustration is in order.

  "Rock Bottom" is mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, Mine, Mine, Mine,
  MINE, MINE, MINE, MINE MINE MINE MINEMINEMINEMINEMINEMINEMINEMINE MINE ALL
  MINE ALL ALL ALL MINE hahahahahahahahhahahahahahhahahahahahahahahaha.

  You see?  "Rock Bottom" doesn't belong to the BMC anymore.  The chef isn't
  his.  The noodles aren't his.  They aren't even noodles either, it's a
  vegetarian pizza.  The convenience store is actually Papa's Pizza and I'm
  delivering pizza for them on weekends.  I ran that chef out of business.
  He worked for the Debbie's Family chain.  Rats in that restaurant,
  cockroach soup.  That chef is BMC.  I ran him out of business and now his
  last meal will be the pizza that I deliver to him.

  This is your pizza BMC.  This is your last meal.  Take a bite you jerk.
  Eat it.  Eat it all up.

                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'              Neo-Comintern Delicious Monstrosity Pizza              ,$$
 $$:                            by Gnarly Wayne                          ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  So I get this eMail from the BMC, world-renowned editor of the
  Neo-Comintern emag, asking for submissions for some kind of N-Com pizza.
  I had no idea what the hell he was talking about.  I was not sure exactly
  what it was that he wanted me to submit, so I walked over to his house.
  Yes, the one he is currently in.  This article is in present tense, you
  know.

  Upon my arrival, I asked the guy what he talking about.  It was then I
  noticed him wearing a floppy white chef hat and he made a little
  moustache out of the hair that he cut from my head when we were 14.  He
  kept yelling Mama Mia and referring to his pet cat as Luigi.  The
  moustache kinda creeped me out a bit so I walked back home to ponder the
  night's assignment.
                                  
  I suppose I could just copy some pizza recipe out of one of my many
  cookbooks.  I was against that because I figured a normal old recipe would
  be so above any of my other articles that someone used to material of my
  calibre would just shut down and slip into an everlasting coma.  I then
  got to thinking that perhaps I should do one of my everlasting guides;
  this time... to pizza.  I also decided against that because we don't want
  the world to just be eating hamburger, ham, pepperoni, salami, and bacon
  pizza from now on.  Oh man, one of those sounds good right about now.  Be
  right back.

  Well that didn't happen.  On my way to get pizza, I ended up doing some
  laundry and getting a drink instead.  Geez, can I ever keep my mind on
  one thing for more than 2 seconds? IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?!?!?

  The pizza format I'm going with is the same one that probably everyone
  else is going to use as well.  Sometimes I think theme issues are BMC's
  little way of telling me that he hates me.  Replace sometimes with most
  times and hates with loathes. Okay, here goes:


  Neo-Comintern Delicious Monstrosity Pizza

  Dough: represents the solid foundation of the N-Com magazine because of
  all the writers double majors in English.

  Sauce: represents the smooth, cool, and tasty style of the N-Com writing
  staff that sometimes have oregano in them.

  Ham: represents the often overlooked "funny" side of the Neo-Comintern.

  Pepperoni: represents the often overlooked "meat" side of the
  Neo-Comintern.

  Loonies & Toonies: represents a terrible name for calling money.  I mean,
  come on, it's no wonder the world thinks Canadians are a bunch of weirdos.
  "Hi, I am from Canada. We named our currency after a duck."  In the case
  of the pizza, though, it represents the awesome empire of capital that the
  Neo-Comintern has gained over the years.

  Pieces of Komrade B's "Mangslaughter" shirt: represents the ne'er dying
  memory of tha eternal B.

  Cheese: represents 98% of Neo-Comintern.

  You can use whatever measurements you like for this pizza, because it is
  going to turn out totally rad no matter what.

                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                 The Super Incredible Coins of Pizza                 ,$$
 $$:                                by BMC                               ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  Man, I just got to Pizza today and I was splendidly surprised by the wild
  and wonderful coins they have here.  They're much unlike any coins I have
  ever seen.  I say they are unlike any other because, of course, they are
  better.  I am an honourary citizen of Pizza now.  I've even started a
  collection of its coins.  Let me give you a brief description of each one,
  just to put you a little bit more into the know as to what kind of
  wonderful world we can live in.

  The currency of Pizza falls into three categories, and I will describe
  each one in exquisite detail for you.  The categories are as follows: The
  basic coins, The meat coins, and the vegetable coins.  There is also a
  fourth, extra special category.  I call this one the "extra special coins"
  category, since that's exactly what it is.

  Let's talk basic.  Not to be confused with the long-obsolete coding
  language, the basic coins of Pizza appear in three varieties: Dough,
  Sauce, and Cheese.

  Dough: This is the least valuable of the basic coins.  It is very large
  and  also very floppy.  It looks like a mix of flour and water, but it is
  spread  out very far and roundly with everything else on top of it.  It is
  pretty much worthless and does not have much of an impact on the overall
  economy of Pizza.

  Sauce: This is one coin that you may not want to keep in your pocket all
  day long.  It is worth more than dough, but tends to leak through the side
  of your pocket, unlike other currencies that tend to burn a hole in your
  pocket!

  Cheese: The mint has traditionally created these coins in lacto-format,
  but I prefer the updated soy variety.  I refuse to accept the old kind as 
  change, and I think they are actively being recalled by the bank of
  Pizza.


  The Meaty Moneys

  Like the lacto-cheeses of the basic division, true meats are quickly 
  becoming a thing of the past, finding themselves replaced by soys.  Soys
  are much more attractive and I tend to want to save them rather than spend
  them, but spend them I do, and everything purchased with these coins feels
  all the more well-earned.

  Veggie Pepperoni: Small and round, much like the 20 cent coin of
  Brussels.  For this reason I pledge my undying affection to it and have a
  shrine set up to it where I worship and praise it before spending it.

  Veggie Ham: The largest of all currency, it is somewhat like the 
  Fredericton  "Toonie."  I'm not sure what to think about this one.  It
  takes up a lot of space in my pocket.  I wish they'd come up with a bill
  for this so it isn't so hard to break an olive.  Don't worry, we'll be
  getting to olives in a second.


  The Veggitty Veggies

  Although the coins I previously categorized as meats are actually
  vegetable coins, these coins are vegetables too.  So much so, in fact,
  that they get their own category.  While both of them grow on trees or in
  the ground, they have some differences as well.  Let us explore them
  together.

  Onions: The staple of any Pizza inhabitant's changepurse, onion coins seem
  to leave a strange smell on your fingers and nobody seems to want to
  exchange them for other merchandise.  On second thought, maybe these
  aren't actually coins, but something else that I found in my pocket and
  mistook for a coin.  OK, this one doesn't count anymore.

  Olives:  Like onions, they also start with the letter O.  This is an
  important feature of these coins, as Os are round much like coins are.  Of
  course, some are rounder than others.  Sauce, for example, tends not to be
  quite as round as this except for when it is in its natural environment
  (ie the vaccuum of space) and becomes spheroid.  Olives, however, are
  round all of the time.  Except in the land of Pizza, of course, where they
  are sliced up and spread out all over the place.  They're really the tops
  and I love them even more than the Veggie Pepperoni, if that's possible.


  EXTRA SPECIAL

  You may have thought that the Pizza mint could not have possibly thought
  of anything better for its citizens to spend.  You may have been wrong.

  Chili Peppers: Can't be beat.  These tiny coins are rare and unavailable
  in many parts of Pizza.  But I have stockpiled these in my cupboard and
  use them whenever I can.  They make me flip my wig, and they're worth more
  to me than money.  They're made especially for eating.

  So there you have it - a handy coin directory that you can use whenever
  you visit Pizza.  If you decide to move here, you'll be even better off.
  As you can see from this article and all of the articles in this issue,
  Pizza is the best place in the world to be (and real estate is cheap).
 

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

  The Neo-Comintern Magazine / Online Magazine is seeking submissions.
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  Submissions of 25-4000 words are wanted; the average article length is
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