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      The Neo-Comintern Electronic Magazine  --  Installment Number 221
 .... .. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . .. ....
    `""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'
      
                  Subversive Literature for Subverted People

                  Date:                   January 12th, 2003

                  Editor:                                BMC

                  Writers:                              Jobe
                                                Gnarly Wayne



  d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b.
 ;P                      Featured in this installment:                     .b
 $                                                                          $
 $                    My Neighbours Are Terrorists - Jobe                   $
 $                       Big Pizza Taste - Gnarly Wayne                    $
 `q                                                                        p'
   `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'

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

  Let's get serious here.  So fucking serious like beyond serious to the
  point where we don't know who to trust anymore including ourselves.  A
  place where perception is a detriment.  Like about 43.  Let's see if we
  can do that for just a moment, like a moment-long issue, ok?  Let's see.

                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                    My Neighbours Are Terrorists                     ,$$
 $$:                                by Jobe                              ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'
                                                               
  After hearing warnings from television news stations recently about the
  potential for terrorist attacks in Atlantic Canada, I've made a point of
  becoming more aware, more alert to suspicious characters and strange
  activities in my neighbourhood.  I don't mean the standard chicanery, like
  carfuls of male university students hooting and hollering at girls
  strolling along the sidewalks or downtown shops and restaurants locking up
  at 5:00 (5:30 in Newfoundland) or cunning pranksters grabbing garbage bags
  of raked leaves from the roadside and stacking them against people's front
  doors, taking great pains to ensure the bags are tied up tightly so as not
  to spill out their contents.  Nor the rows of minivans lining the
  driveways on my street, which seem to be multiplying at an exponential
  rate, although this may be partly attributable to the fact that birth
  control is still prohibited in all four Atlantic provinces.

  No, I'm talking about the really unusual behaviour, which is clearly
  associated with some overzealous reactionaries who have schemed their way
  into the city and are attempting to destroy its moral fibre.  They may be
  catching the general public unawares, but I'm on to them.  Take the place
  next door, for instance.  I thought it was a typical student house just
  like all the others in the neighbourhood, but what tipped me off that the
  people who lived in the house weren't from around here was the fact that
  they didn't drink alcohol.  At least four people lived there, but I'd
  never seen a single one of them drinking a beer, let alone Jack Daniels or
  screech.  They must have been from Utah or members of one of those
  newfangled religions or something.  But no matter, I live and let live.
  I'm not one to question other people's lifestyles, regardless of how
  outlandish or abnormal they are.

  However, something happened a few days later that piqued my curiosity.  If
  I was standing by my kitchen sink, I could see almost directly inside one
  of the windows on their main floor.  As I peered inside this particular
  night, I spotted several candles placed about the room.  They were
  projecting long shadows on the walls of the people sitting down on the
  floor amongst the candles.  It was becoming obvious to me that something
  nefarious was going on next door and I was determined to find out what it
  was.  So I began to spy on them almost nightly, partly out of curiosity
  and partly to ease my anxiety.

  At first, it appeared my next-door neighbours were operating a temple,
  though I couldn't figure out what religion they were practicing.  On a
  particularly warm Saturday night in September, people made pilgrimages
  from all over the city to visit this temple.  They often arrived looking
  rather disheveled-which I presumed to be a consequence of their long and
  grueling journey-wearing shoddy sandals and all manner of tattered rags.
  Occasionally, I would see these pilgrims at the front door of the
  structure trying to scrape together the last few dollar bills in their
  pockets in order to make a modest contribution to the temple.  In response
  to this gesture, the pilgrim would be allowed entry inside the place of
  worship for several minutes and leave holding some sacred offering, which
  he clutched eagerly and which seemed to infuse him with a renewed vigour.

  Yet, these journeys only happened late at night.  The place was virtually
  deserted in the daytime, during which time the worshippers must have been
  deep in prayer or in confession.  As the weeks passed, progressively more
  people brought donations to the temple, which I hoped would go towards
  paying for repairs to the appearance of the building, as the temple could
  actually have passed for a condemned building to the untrained eye.

  While walking my dog one evening, I saw a man wearing a black robe sitting
  at the entrance of the building, so I decided to approach him.  He must
  have just completed a lengthy fast, as he looked terribly thin, dark eyes
  set well back in his sockets and bare forearms all discoloured and veiny.
  I placed my palms together in front of me, bowed down before him and
  called out, "God bless you, my son."

  I didn't quite receive the response I expected.  Instead, the young man
  stared at me queerly and blurted out a few words in some unintelligible
  language, so I just smiled nervously and resumed walking.  I made my way
  around the block and, when he saw me walking up my front steps, he spoke
  to me again in the same foreign tongue, gesticulating wildly with his
  arms.  I hurried inside the house, convinced that he was threatening me,
  and even started questioning the legitimacy of this temple.  I grew
  suspicious that my next-door neighbours were brewing up some sinister plot
  against me, and was unable to sleep for the next two nights.  On the third
  day, I bought a pair of binoculars so that I could examine them more
  closely and improve my chances of foiling their underhanded scheme.

  I assumed my position by the kitchen sink and focused the binoculars on my
  next-door neighbours.  The young man who I had spoken to a couple of days
  earlier was leaning against the wall leafing through a book by a
  Baudelaire or Baudrillard or something like that.  Another was lighting a
  candle and moved his lips constantly as if reciting a chant.  A third guy
  lay on the floor, tugging at his bushy beard with one hand and scouring
  through pizza boxes and bags of potato chips with the other.  The last one
  sat underneath a lamp on a desk in the far corner of the room, back to the
  window and plastic gloves covering his hands.  Although the lighting in
  the room was fairly dim, I observed that these four young men looked
  different than most of the people I had seen in this town, different in an
  unsettling way.  They were all unshaven, and sported dark, scraggly hair
  that went well below their shoulders.  Each of them wore their distinctive
  ethnic hoods, which possessed unrecognizable symbols on the front but were
  otherwise suspiciously similar to our North American baseball caps,
  probably so as not to appear too conspicuous.

  I focused my attention on the guy wearing the gloves.  He was busily
  mixing a number of materials, as if concocting some type of potion, and
  was surrounded by dozens of clear plastic bags bulging with a powdery
  substance inside.  I suspected it must be anthrax and began to panic.  My
  knowledge of anthrax was fairly limited other than the fact that it was a
  white powdery substance that was usually administered to people in
  envelopes through the daily mail.

  My mind was racing.  Had they seen me watching them?  Does a steady diet
  of pizza and potato chips breed terrorism?  To whom were they planning to
  send this anthrax?  Was it weapons-grade?  Did pharmacies still carry
  Cipro?  I thought about calling the local drugstore, but decided I would
  be best served to treat the problem at its source.  I went down to my
  workroom, grabbed some tools and brought them outside with me.  I affixed
  a couple of wooden planks over my mailbox in a crisscross fashion and
  nailed them into place.  Then I wrapped a chain around it for good
  measure.  No sooner did I finish when my ghastly next-door neighbour
  spotted me from the doorway.  He held up some pipe-shaped weapon and
  mumbled, "Suh-vaw, mon-vwa-san", but he didn't look Japanese or "Suh-vaw,
  mo-nuh-mee, suh-vaw" over and over again, then started walking in my
  direction.

  I waved my hammer frantically in front of me while walking backwards up my
  porch steps, making sure not to take my eyes off of him.  As he drew
  closer, continuing to utter his perverse incantation, "Suh-vaw,
  mo-nuh-mee", I bolted inside the house and shut the door behind me.  I
  could still see him grinning madly outside my window, so I grabbed several
  more large stakes from my workroom and set to work securing them over the
  front door.

                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                          Big Pizza Taste                            ,$$
 $$:                           by Gnarly Wayne                           ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  After the a very relaxing night at the day spa, I went home to have a
  swell dinner of pizza pops and... nothing else.

  "Welcome to bachelordom!" I cheered myself.

  I put my microwave at power 6 for 6 minutes, a time tested and true
  strategy for evolving frozen pizza pops to hot, gooey taste sensations.
  It's like a tiny suicide bomber runs into my mouth with pizza pops
  strapped on his chest and he yells out:

  "You want big pizza taste?!?!  Well hang on then!  Here comes three
  different cheeses full force at your taste buds at two thousand fucking
  kilometres per hour, beeiach!"

  While I was waiting for my six minutes to be up, I ran back upstairs to
  sit alone in my room.  I figured six minutes had gone by but could not
  hear the microwave beeping.  After what I had thought to have been ten
  minutes went by and there was still no beep, I got started to thinking.

  "I hope this isn't some mad scientist's experiment to test out
  time-altering drugs on me."

  After several days, I finally managed to work up the nerve to check on my
  pizza pops.  To my surprise, there was no one in the kitchen at all.
  After checking the microwave, I found the pizza pops, right where they
  should be.  There was only one problem though... THEY WERE STILL FROZEN!

  bomm bomm BOMMMMMM!


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

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