 
       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 225
 .... .. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . .. ....
    `""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'
      
                  Subversive Literature for Subverted People

                  Date:                  February 11th, 2003

                  Editor:                                BMC

                  Writers:                         Ei'det-ik
                                                         gir
                                         The Prime Anarchist
                                                       Socko
                                                   KJames199
                                             The Net Prophet
                                    Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro
                                               Metal K. Dick
                                                         ada
                                              Ahmed Balfouni
                                                   AlterEcho
                                                      linear
                                                       Spite
                                                   Melatonin
                                                      Heckat
                                      The Capitalism Monster
                                        Margarina Cataclysma
                                               Junior Haagis
                                                         Cog
                                                Gnarly Wayne
                                                   Komrade B
                                                         BMC


  d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b.
 ;P                      Featured in this installment:                     .b
 $                                                                          $
 $                  TERRIBIL[IS] ALPHABET SOUP - Ei'det-ik                  $
 $                      Five Years of Rejection - gir                       $
 $           5 Years: Has It Been That Already? - The Prime Anarchist       $
 $                              Mein Kamp - Socko                           $
 $    The Neo Comintern: Lighting My Path To Self-Recognition - KJames199   $
 $              The Great Spectre of Death - The Net Prophet                $
 $       What The Toast of Subversive Literature Means To Me - Leandro      $
 $                   The Winning Weapon - Metal K. Dick                     $
 $                              Wood Haikus - ada                           $
 $                          Daphne - Ahmed Balfouni                         $
 $                        Voices of Angels - AlterEcho                      $
 $                         A Secret Revealed - linear                       $
 $          Five Reasons Why I Enjoy Writing for The N-Com - Spite          $
 $                          The Elephant - Melatonin                        $
 $                   I Got a Lot On My Mind Pedro! - Heckat                 $
 $    Perpetual Winter is The N-Com's Only Hope - The Capitalism Monster    $
 $               Luck Is Nothing, Chum - Margarina Cataclysma               $
 $                         Balsa Wood - Junior Haagis                       $
 $            Here's What They're Saying About Us In China - Cog            $
 $                      The Wood Article - Gnarly Wayne                     $
 $                       Two Old Friends - Gnarly Wayne                     $
 $                      The Eight-Year Road - Komrade B                     $
 $                         BMC vs K-Rad B - Komrade B                       $
 $                           Heartbeat Props - BMC                          $
 `q                                                                        p'
   `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'

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

  Bonus issue.

  Friends, this is a very special day.  Not only are we saying goodbye to
  another faithful header (goodbye, header), but we're also. . . hmm. . .
  what was that other thing again?  Oh yeah, The Neo-Comintern's 5-year
  anniversary.  

  Wait.

  5-year anniversary?  Oh, ok!  That explains why I've been getting all of
  these special 5th anniversary submissions for the past few days.  I guess
  I should publish them.  But before doing so, I'll follow the leaders and
  say a few words about the Neo-Comintern myself.  I will do this in the
  form of an analysis of each year of The Neo-Comintern's existence.


  Year 1:
  The N-Com released its first 52 issues and hit some of the toughest topics
  in the world as we saw them.  Komrade B, Gnarly Wayne, Cog, and I talked
  about monsters and video games with a frankness that most other zines were
  afraid of, and when it came to talking about the careers of rappers we
  always had the freshest stories and most in-depth biographies, even if we
  had to make it all up ourselves.

  We got a website at around issue 10.  It said "Comintern Files" at the top
  and had links to each issue.  That's it.  Cog and I put up hundreds of
  posters at the University of Saskatchewan, resulting in 2 or 3 new
  visitors to our site.  Someone corrected the spelling mistakes on one of
  our posters.  Any combination of me, Komrade B, Gnarly Wayne, and Cog used
  to get together and write articles after getting drunk and high.  Our
  articles were inventive and high-energy, but lacking in finesse.  Late in
  the year Junior Haagis joined our ranks and gave small bits of his soul to
  the zine.

  We had no concept of how the English language worked, and an editor's note
  was likely to contain a sentence or less, but certain to have an
  improperly-placed punctuation mark.  Around issue 32, I took the hint and
  got myself registered in university and slowly began to learn how to
  construct a sentence.  Things started improving.


  Year 2:
  Monstars took a back seat and to the foreground stepped the heroes of
  Atlantis, and a pro-zombie organization called Zombies4Life.  OK, OK.
  These are monsters, I admit it, but they are not the nameless monstArs
  that we once spoke of.  This marked a shift where we began writing fewer
  pointless articles and more pointless fiction.  "Video Games" were still
  on priority, though the fad was dying out, and as we started up a rap
  spin-off zine, "Suburban Terrorism Online," rap articles were purged from
  The Neo-Comintern.

  I got a cable internet connection and we moved the website onto the cable
  provider's webspace as we raced to issue 95 by the end of the year.
  During year 2, I took my first creative writing class, in which I met
  Margarina Cataclysma, who came onboard halfway through the year.  I also
  met Heckat, Melatonin, and ada in that class, all of which eventually
  became unofficially official N-Com writers.

  While the Neo-Comintern saw several new faces, it also lost one.  Komrade
  B passed away in many different ways, depending whose article you read.
  We mourned and mourned, and while we missed him, we were also angry with
  him for not writing articles anymore.  He eventually started coming back
  to life a bit, and that is evidenced by the articles that he has in this
  very issue.

  This era of The N-Com saw "The Love," and in many ways this series was all
  about love.  From heartbreak to heartbreak we played, and at the end of 95
  I believe all of us were heartbroken in some way or another.  But we
  simply admitted that we were the young world and that the world was ours,
  and continued on into the future.

 
  Year 3:
  We said goodbye to Atlantis and zombies and moved bravely on into a year
  of airtight articles.  I moved in with Gnarly Wayne in Regina and at our
  new N-Com HQ we wrote articles every night and chose the very best for
  your reading pleasure.  But while I was walled away within my writing
  chamber, the rest of the N-Com staff disappeared one by one.  I took this
  to be a sign that they had been devoured by capitalism itself, and when I
  turned around I found that I too was a captive.  The Capitalism Monster
  had captured me and forced me to write countless articles for The Weekly
  Capitalist.

  After The Weekly Capitalist, we continued travelling from issue 95 to
  #141.  During this time, Heckat and Melatonin contributed their first
  articles to the zine and The N-Com was all the better for it.  We also had
  our first two theme issues, which featured guest articles from our friends
  aster and Bu Joe.  In the third year I also became webmaster for The
  Current Text Scene, a project that keeps tab on the publishings of all of
  the text zines of today.  Hooray for .txt!


  Year 4:
  The fiction kept getting hotter and hotter.  Theme issues became a trend,
  much to Cog's dismay.  Everyone else has always loved them.  In this year
  we saw the first appearances of staff-writers Spite and Ahmed Balfouni,
  and cameo appearances by Gloomchen, Will Minor, linear, AlterEcho,
  cv.crud, Trilobyte, Lobo Licious, xod, aerialisticish, and the great Jet
  Jaguar.  We got to issue 191 without a fuss.  Reuban O'Neill's
  undiscovered manuscript was discovered and the legend began to grow.  We
  threatened suicide, wrote top 10 articles, and penned 10-word stories.
  Life was ignorant bliss.  To cap it all off, we finally got to register
  our domain name, www.neo-comintern.com.


  Year 5:
  The Neo-Comintern lost all of its innocence and walked straight forward,
  harsh and steady.  ada became our newest staff writer.  This era became
  known as "The Year of the ada," and we were flooded with fanmail both from
  around the world and also from other worlds that we had never even heard
  of.

  We hit issue 200.

  Cog destroyed the zine and forced me to release TRIPE for 2 months.

  The zine came back.

  The zine lives.

  The zine LIVES!

  While TRIPE infected the world, there was an undercurrent of The N-Com and
  friends sending emails back and forth viciously, finding out everything we
  could about one another, and finally culminating all of this information
  in one huge interview issue.  From that point on, there has been nothing
  you have not known about us.

  The world continued to respond with adulation.  World famous writers
  started banging our door and we ended up with first-time contributions
  from Pavement, Jobe, Rank Swiney, Pepe Marart, and Steak.

  Eventually we reached issue 225, and that is the issue you are reading
  right at this very second.  And I think you're loving it.  I think you're
  excited to see what everyone has to say about this fifth, this
  two-twenty-fifth, this everything.  But first, let's gaze into this
  crystal ball.


  Year 6:
  The N-Com writers will attack the page with a vengeance.  We will produce
  our best literature yet.  This zine will be the best it has ever been.  I
  will lay off on some of my other projects and spend more time writing and
  editing The N-Com.  I will write something for every issue.  The Comintern
  staff will strive to please you every day.  We will be relentless in our
  quest to produce articles and fiction that will steal your wallet and beat
  the shit out of you.  We will fuck you for money.

  And more monsters?  Only time will tell.

  In the meantime, all you have to do is keep reading and make sure to
  spread the word.  If you know someone who hasn't heard of The
  Neo-Comintern yet, tell them now.

  Now let's go read this fucking issue!


  +-----------------------------------------------------+
  |  Ei'det-ik                                          |
  |                                                     |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                            |
  |  "TERRIBIL[IS] ALPHABET SOUP]                       |
  |  N-Com #225                                         |
  |  February 11, 2003                                  |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom225.txt  |               
  +-----------------------------------------------------+                 
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                     TERRIBIL[IS] ALPHABET SOUP                      ,$$
 $$:                             by Ei'det-ik                            ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  Many people sit around tinkering with fading motivations.  The real do-ers
  (anyone before the age of 10) have already predicted many worlds,
  histories, colour subjectivities, and unarticulated life-forms.  This
  often occurs while digging for worms and sometimes eating grasshoppers.

  Kids have the motivation to do the world their way.

  If you tried to describe the motion of falling objects or truly notice the
  difference between up and down, I can safely assure you, you are probably
  wrong.  What I want you to think about is causality.

  And, [O0oo0h] how I've more than tinkered.

  5 years is an easy blip in a timeline to capture, cut, paste, toggle and
  skew.  5 years (+- lost years and edited possibilities) of the
  Neo-Comintern.  You all think your hunky-dory editor BMC has been the
  originator of this "subversive socialist satire" (in his words-- which I
  implanted) publication?  Well let me introduce myself: I am the
  indubitable-and very elliptic- editor of the TRUE history of the
  Neo-Comintern.

  everyone needs a good introductory splash of words.

                                   [][][]

  Disclaimer--What I am about to tell you, is all that matters.  All other
  stories of what has occurred-- are merely the ripples of what was
  intended.  Characters represented, and what I am about to reveal about
  them, are indisputable.  Characters not mentioned are variables 'allowed'
  to appear in their spontaneity.

                                   [][][]

  It really all began with a mind-over-matter battle with alphabet soup.
  Somehow, I caused the surprising result of altering the properties of
  alphabet soup world-wide.  In Kalamazoo, Michigan, Padlo was sitting down
  to enjoy his alphabet soup when the little pasty letters formed the words
  "Western Columbia".  He went there immediately.

  A pale metallic green Phyllobates Terribilis (Poison Dart Frog) was eating
  his toast and alphabet soup when he saw a paradox in the formation of
  pasty letters.  Poor Phyl was very confused.  Climbing his tree (number
  3,40067 in Western Columbia's frog welfare district), he churned his
  little brain for ten minutes, four feet from the ground.

  Padlo was passing tree number 3,40067 with his old sidekick pooch, Denis.
  Within 30 seconds of his arrival, Phyl freaked out and dropped on Denis,
  causing the sad and fatal happenstance of Batrachotoxin poisoning.  Padlo
  was stricken and lost touch with the order of the world.  Losing what
  little rationality he had, Padlo decided to be the instigator of
  meaningless and semi-random doom.  Extracting some Batrachotoxin from
  dazed Phyl, he set out to a miscellaneous and (apparently) meaningless
  city in western Canada (Saskatoon).

  Meanwhile, somewhere between the events of the frog freaking and the
  moment it lands on golden pooch shag, I eat a grasshopper in my sandbox.

  Padlo decided he would target the demographic of superhero-dreamers.
  Because, he figured, these are the people who believed that the world can
  be changed.  Scoffing, he chose to place a minute amount of Batrachotoxin
  in an issue of The Fantastic Four.  He chose to poison the words: "Whatsa
  matter, lady?  Ain't you never seen a thing before?"

  While Padlo was squeezing the poison on the words, on a farm outside of
  Biggar (pop. 2,351), little (non-poisonous) frogs watched from a pail as I
  picked them up one by one and rubbed their white bellies.  They squirmed a
  little in my palm, weaseling little white lies, attempting to confuse me
  from my purpose.  But, the alphabet soup had already warned me of their
  tall tales.

  I went home, and refused to wash my left hand.  My parents, disgusted by
  the grasshopper leg trapped between my teeth, booted me to the local comic
  store.  Which was exactly as I intended.  I darted directly to that
  specific comic book intended to cause havoc and rubbed my frog gooey left
  hand on the particular statement contaminated with batrachotoxin.  The
  particular frogs I had handled were the only instance in the world of an
  antidote to chaos.

  Moments later, the pre-Comintern BMC first touched the ex-contaminated
  comic and was rapt enough to stroke the type: "Whatsa matter, lady?  Ain't
  you never seen a thing before?"

  Second series of events that could have led to catastrophe --> averted.

                                   [][][]
				
  The first series of events involved Man #2, let's call him Eric, as he
  forgoes his bowl of alphabet soup.  Instead, he becomes engrossed by a
  pamphlet he found under his windshield wiper.

  This occurs just before Phyl falls from his tree. 

  [This pre-dates me smiling, with a grasshopper wriggling between my lips,
  by about 3 hours.]

  Inspired, Eric runs to his old-school computer, envisioning the future of
  the internet.  He also envisions the profitability of internet
  toll-booths.  He also designs this system to an exactitude that no heroic
  hacker could evade, that no socially conscious person could speak down.
  Essentially, he will be richer than the moguls of today's computer
  industry (although, 5 years later he is 'disappeared' by the biggest mogul
  of all, company assimilated and profits hoarded.)

  2.7 hours later, Eric is almost complete the programming of his
  masterpiece, when a sly-faced, green, yellow, and black striped
  grasshopper climbs on his shoulder.

  Simultaneously, I have another mind-over-matter battle.  This time, with
  star M8973-3855-76 (K7-class yellow dwarf star).  It insults my brother.
  I dish the punishment.  Light-speed rays of exotic matter are blasted in
  precise directions towards western Canada (Saskatoon).

  The grasshopper reflects one of those rays off of its thorax into the ear
  of Eric.

  Eric was last seen ten days later, making alphabet soup for frogs in
  Western Columbia.

  At the 3 hour mark, as Eric is staring out a plane window, I smile with
  the grasshopper between my lips.  For you see.  The sly-faced, green,
  yellow, and black striped insect came to me with an ultimatum.  She had
  seen the way to constrict free communication; she had also foreseen the
  future creation of a publication called the Neo-Comintern.

  Her ultimatum was: either join powers with her and her frog minions, or be
  left out, a loser in the wake of her glory.  After all, with HER knowledge
  and my might, we could rule the Neo-Comintern and in turn, THE WORLD!!

  Well, I ate the silly little thing with such an altruistic appetite that I
  am sure The Fantastic Four would be doubly impressed.
		
                                   [][][]

  SO, now that it has been 5 years since I watched the inevitable beginnings
  of the Neo-Comintern, I thought it was the perfect time to give a 5th
  anniversary gift or two.  First, I have revealed to you all crucial
  information, and in the process, introduced myself.  Secondly, I am
  relinquishing my power (and secret tinkering) to give you your
  publication.  Use it wisely.


  +-----------------------------------------------------+
  |  gir                                                |
  |                                                     |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                            |
  |  "Five Years of Rejection"                          |
  |  N-Com #225                                         |
  |  February 11, 2003                                  |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom225.txt  |
  |                                                     |
  |  Website:                                           |
  |  "angstmonster"                                     |
  |  http://www.angstmonster.org/txt                    |
  +-----------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                       Five Years of Rejection                       ,$$
 $$:                                by gir                               ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'
         ___  
      _ (___) _   Have you ever wondered where it all started?  Who is the 
     ((_______))  person responsible for the very first tfile ever?
    /   *  *   \  Is this piece of our history documented somewhere?
    |\/\/\/\/\/|  Do the best of the best in our community know all 
    |   [{}]   |  the details of the situation by heart?  Could it
    |/\/\/\/\/\|  be that through the wonders of modern technology
   /\__________/\ this is the very first tfile ever and you just 
   \/\        /\/ don't know it yet?  Well, what do you know about
    \ \      / /  this tfile or the first tfile ever written?
    |\ \    / /|  
    | \ \  / / |  For that matter, what do you know about the BMC and
    |  \ \/ /  |  his group of Neo-ComIntern writers?  Perhaps you've 
    |  /\/\/\  |  heard nothing of this group and this issue is the
    |  \/\/\/  |  FIRST textfile you've ever read.  If that's so,
    |   \__/   |  let me be the first to warmly invite you into the
    |    __    |  magic place where tfiles are written, somewhere 
    \_|_/  \_|_/  on the playground of the ADD riddled imagination of

  anyone who's ever spent the entire night romancing a machine.  But don't
  let me turn what has been a bloody battle of conquer into something
  cutesy.  Because if anything, writing tfiles is not cutesy.  It's
  exponentially better than being cutesy or any other adjective you might
  conjure up as you read this, because I bet you aren't able to conjure up
  any more adjectives anymore.  You see in order to right this file with a
  minimal of distractions I invited my friend Cruller the adjective demon to
  keep watch over you mischievous readers.  He is armed with a knowledge of
  adjective think and will stop at nothing to make sure YOU READ THE ENTIRE
  TEXT OF THIS NCOM FILE!  Cruller spent most of his time in school studying
  the art of subversive enlightenment and to make up for the untimeliness of
  my article, he is here to show everyone why this textfile publication IS
  THE BEST THING EVER!

  While Cruller handles that, I'm going to continue to spew out all sorts of
  misguided thoughts on why it's important to celebrate one another's
  accomplishments in the current textfile scene.  In short, the
  {few|brave|proud|} who take it upon themselves to continually put out
  tfiles in today's turbulent climate of doom and gloom are making things
  a little less doomy and gloomy one byte of text at a time.  AND WE'RE JUST
  THAT FUCKING COOL!

  You could be cool too, you know.  You could write for the N-Com.  You
  could take this spot from me.  You could do all that and more.  That is
  until you get an email from BMC concerning you latest submission and how
  it WASN'T COOL ENOUGH FOR THE NCOM BECAUSE THE NCOM IS THE COOLEST THING
  EVER!  BMC FOR PRESIDENT!  So your last minute, furiously written file 
  doesn't make it into the five year anniversary issue of NCOM and suddenly
  a rush of emotion pours over you, if only you were the Incredible Hulk so
  that you might allow the ANGST to take over and unleash the MONSTER 
  inside you.  You realize, that maybe NCOM isn't for you because NCOM IS
  COOL and you aren't.  But that's the beauty of it.  You know can take that
  ANGST MONSTER inside you and go form your very own textfile publication
  with him.  Then the family you create shall rule over all that is angsty,
  and lay plague and famine to those who think fucking shit up is nothing
  more than knocking some benches over!  Yes, THE ANGST MONSTER will conquer
  all!

  And finally, when you've made your way through space time again, and that
  Mr. BMC asks you to write him a file, you hold off until the last minute
  so that in a rush of nervousness he forgets to read it, thus not seeing
  the pile of ASCII crap you've cleverly disguised with cute ASCII art.  The
  takeover begins.

  The ANGST MONSTER set loose by rejection has taken his revenge and no one
  is safe.

  But BMC is a crafty Canadian and he foresaw all of this in the crystal ball
  he keeps locked away in the NCOM compound.  EVERY COOL EZINE MUST HAVE A
  CRYSTAL BALL!  THE CRYSTAL BALL IS WHAT KEEPS THE ANGST MONSTER AT BAY!
  BECAUSE UNKNOWN TO MOST PEOPLE, THERE IS AN ANGST MONSTER INSIDE
  EVERYONE.  Long before there was ever a publication called Angstmonster,
  the MIGHTY BMC WHO EVERYONE SHOULD WORSHIP AS SAVIOR OF THE WESTERN
  HEMISPHERE did battle with his own ANGST MONSTER high above the mountains
  where the NCOM compound stands today.  There was lots of blood and gore
  involved, like a zombie movie directed by Fulcci.  But no amount of gore
  could stop the furious machine that is the BMC.

  He's being going for five years after the defeat of his ANGST MONSTER.
  Let's see that he and his NCOM make it another few million years through
  time.  LET THIS AGE OF TEXTFILES BE KNOWN FOR THE NCOM IN ALL OF IT'S
  GOODNESS AND RIDDING THE WORLD OF DOOM AND GLOOM ONE FILE AT A TIME!


  +-------------------------------------------------------+
  |  The Prime Anarchist                                  |
  |                                                       |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                              |
  |  "5 Years: Has It Been That Already?"                 |
  |  N-Com #225                                           |
  |  February 11, 2003                                    |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom225.txt    |
  |                                                       |
  |  Website:                                             |
  |  "Activist Times, Inc."                               |
  |  http://flag.blackened.net/ati/zine/infomaniack.html  |
  +-------------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                 5 Years: Has It Been That Already?                  ,$$
 $$:                        by The Prime Anarchist                       ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  Wow.
  
  A Zine with staying power -- really says something.  Say what you want
  about a "mag," any mag, if it's lasted a 4th year, that's something.  It's
  a bit like in the restaurant business.  A foodstuff idea can be really hip
  for two years straight -- yeah, 8 full seasons, looking like it's rolling
  in dough, but if it doesn't last a third full year, give it up.  Failure.
  Done for.  How many cafes have failed in just under three?

  Well, drive around any north american town - you'll catch my drift.

  How many mags have failed at 3 or 4?  You might ask John F. Kennedy
  Junior's relatives, his friends, and coworkers trying desperately carrying
  on George magazine having to watch it run itself into grounds just several
  issues after his death.  If I remember right, George's total run was about
  5 or 6 years, but if you delineate from JohnJohn's airplane crash, perhaps
  you can call it OldGeorge and NewGeorge.  Dare I try "Neo-George?"  Now
  OldGeorge might have been long for this world leading up to that fateful
  day; but not so with NewGeorge.  The magazine folded in what can only 
  be described as 2-3 years.

  Now you'd ask, was it the wreck what killed George Mag?  Nah, somewhat.
  But with the grit and determination (and honestly, mega-millions of
  Kennedy cash at the ready) of those around him when he passed on nothing
  should have killed off a "men's magazine" like George.  Nothing.  Why,
  they had every formula down.  Even the hidden image embedded on the front
  cover for "something extra to do," like Playboy and MAD magazine.  Well,
  Playboy still pubs.  And don't even get me started on MAD.

  George is gone -- Gonzo. Why? 

  Who the heck knows.  The zine world is full of variables, with few if any
  "knowns."

  One is likely:

  If you can make it past 3 - whether you're a weekly, monthly,
  wheneverly -- make it over that "hump" and you're home free.

  So it goes with the Neo-Com.  Want my honest opinion how?  From the
  earliest, N-Com has embraced both print and web form in a big way.  Long
  before NYTimes, Globe and Mail, or even your local periodicals were even 
  willing to try putting email addy or URL anywhere near their pages.  Yes,
  while everyone else was hemming and hawing, N-Com was out there making
  mistakes and successes -- try, fail, hit-the-nail-on-the-head. Rinse, 
  repeat.  Over and over and over.  They got it right, and carried it on.

  For five years. [count 'em 5]

  Here's to five more, and then some. 


  +-----------------------------------------------------+
  |  Socko                                              |
  |                                                     |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                            |
  |  "Mein Kamp"                                        |
  |  N-Com #225                                         |
  |  February 11, 2003                                  |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom225.txt  |
  +-----------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                             Mein Kamp                               ,$$
 $$:                               by Socko                              ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  When one thinks of the Neo-Comintern, one thinks of ultimate grooviness
  and dazzling wit.  Well, I possess neither of the two, but in honour of
  the N-COM's fifth birthday, I have devised a plan to develop young minds
  in the ways of the Meisters of Socialism.

  This summer a camp shall be created.  Kamp Komrade (or, if you really,
  intensely hate unnecessary Ks, Camp Comintern) will be an action-packed
  socialist extravaganza that lasts for two whole weeks.

  Any books that the children bring will be confiscated (unless the books
  happen to be copies of The Communist Manifesto or Marxism in 90 Minutes),
  and the childrens' only other reading material will be the N-COM.

  Borrowing from BMC's plan to raise his children (as well as adding some
  half-baked ideas of my own), the days will be divided somewhat like this:

  Marxism Mornings
  Leninism Lunch Hours
  Freedom-Fighting at Three O'Clock
  Democratic Dancin'
  Commie Camp Fire (including such treats as Socialist S'mores)

  For the especially pious children, there will be a designated time to
  visit Komrade B's grave to pay respect to the brilliant writer for whom
  the camp will be partially named.

  On the last day of camp, BMC's "father", W.O. Mitchell will somehow appear
  and rant at the children for awhile (BMC will be there to explain things
  afterwards).  The children will also recieve a complimentary copy of
  Gnarly Wayne's "The Wax Cat", along with a Cog's comic from '98 that
  features the line "Sovereign!", both from the N-COM's very first printed
  issue.

  Clearly, the next generation will be ultimately cooler.


  +-----------------------------------------------------+
  |  KJames99                                           |
  |                                                     |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                            |
  |  "Margarina Cataclysma's Advice Column" (as Kayaa)  |
  |  N-Com #91                                          |
  |  January 4, 2000                                    |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom091.txt  |
  +-----------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'       The Neo Comintern: Lighting My Path To Self-Recognition       ,$$
 $$:                             by KJames199                            ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  Hello.  I have asked to share a story.  Instead, I share my story.

  I am a goat.  I did not discover this until 1999.  For several years, I
  had been under the belief that I was an adult human.  Before that, I
  thought myself to be a kid, which was accurate if inaccurate.

  One Tuesday during the aforementioned 1999, I was sitting in a classroom
  at a high-priced, low-budget computer school.  On this day, we were being 
  taught the marvels of electronic mail.  Now, I'm pretty smart for a goat, 
  and I was bored.  The fellow behind me, with his chubby cheeks and orange 
  hair and psychotic ranting about the evils of gay Internet porn - that was 
  who this course was designed for.  Not me.

  We were encouraged, as part of the learning process, to use the electronic 
  mail system to communicate with each other.  Now, at the time, the school 
  had two classes.  Being a goat, I was placed in what was affectionately 
  called the "Stupid" class.  The other class was known as Room 8.  Among
  the students of Room 8 was a tall skinny narcoleptic boy with no buttocks.
  This story is not about him.  Rather, it's about his classmate, a man with
  a head like an unshaven head, a man I would eventually come to know as
  Cog.

  He mastered the electronic mail quicker than most, and with it regaled us 
  with stories, strange and exotic.  In these, yellow DJs (or "Yella," as is 
  the parlance) would hop into their frankfurter cars and race to Boloball 
  tournaments where the prize would be the sweet release of death and 
  subsequent entrance into the fraternity of seibmoz.  My electronically-
  mailed recreations of Meat Loaf lyrics paled in comparison, but I took
  consolation in being the only member of Camp Stupid who contributed to the
  electronic conversations.

  Soon, the rumours began to fly.  Members of Room 8 had been spotted at the 
  doorway of Stupid Room, trying to determine who I was.  Their motives were 
  unclear.  Not long after, the man known as Cog released a surveillance 
  photo he'd taken of me.  What I saw in that picture shocked me.  I'd like 
  to include it here, using the power of your imagination.

  Imagine a goat.

  I remember very little else about that day.  I quit participating in the 
  electronic mailings, leaving Cog free to propel himself to superstardom.
  And though his world-wide fame was yet to come, he became a superstar in
  my heart one day when he astutely pointed out that Michael Jordan is a
  talented basketball player.

  As for the rest of the Neo-Comintern crew, they're all very talented hands 
  who perform admirably on those weeks when Cog is too busy to contribute.
  I have put my electronic mailing skills to use and have contacted BMC on 
  several occasions, and he seems like a nice young lad.  He keeps moving, 
  though, and I don't approve of that.  But then I am just a goat, and he 
  doesn't have to answer to me.  Nobody does, really, except the delicious 
  overalls that the farmhands wear.

  The Neo-Comintern is delicious too, but it is delicious in mind and soul 
  and spirit, not in stomach.

  Today I am 26 years old, which is quite old for a goat.  I have lived over 
  twice as long as most goats, and I attribute this to the power of the 
  Neo-Comintern.  As long as it publishes, I shall be alive to read it, and 
  as it dies, so shall I die.  Needless to say, I had a bit of a scare a few 
  months ago.  Don't do that again.


  +--------------------------------------------+
  |  The Net Prophet                           |
  |                                            |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                   |
  |  "Guest Editor's Note Fron Random Person"  |
  |  TRIPE #9                                  |
  |  October 6, 2002                           |
  +--------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                     The Great Spectre of Death                      ,$$
 $$:                          by The Net Prophet                         ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  I am the Great Spectre of Death that hangs over BMC.

  Okay, well not really the Great Spectre of Death, because while black
  robes are extremely comfortable in hot climes and warm saunas, they also
  make one look fat, and I will not be seen if I could in any way be
  considered pudgy.

  Instead, I am a Relatively Imposing Figure of Death that hangs over BMC.

  Okay, well not really Death.  I am to BMC and his writing projects what
  Komrade B is to inconsistent murder-suicide stories.

  I am a Relatively Imposing Shadowy Figure of Text-Scene Writing
  Arrestment, Particularly When Concerning a Man Called BMC.

  I like to be known as RISFTSWAPWCMCBMC (pronounced
  Rizfitswaapwikmikbeemik, not rissfutswapwukmukbeemcee as some other
  people, or people who are actually goats, like to believe), because that's
  easier to remember.

  I have come to the conclusion that I am, indeed, one of the mythological
  RISFTSWAPWCMCBMCs through painstaking research, which included not reading
  the Neo-Comintern for months at a time, and then reading it in really
  quick, short bursts, and then talking to BMC and pretending that I had
  actually read it and then not reading it again.

  This was a scientific survey.  I had no placebo, nor control group.  With
  this information, I have compiled a chronological account of my decimation
  of BMC's prolonged success as text-scene editor.

  Let me take you back, through the magical use of time-travelling phone
  booths and dancing blue midgets, well beyond the days of Namor and the
  Atlanteans, well beyond the days of the MoOn MonStars, back when the Sons
  of Prozac were merely a glint in the eye of the pus-spewing cow's rectum
  that would one day give birth to the Corte Maderan delight, Prozac.

  I was a child.

  Skip ahead ten-fifteen years.  It is the mid-to-late-90s, and my view of
  the world is slowly becoming fuzzy by the ultimate power of boobies and
  Pentiums.  My mind was blown when these two were put together, and as I
  put the shards of my exploded brain back together with a tube of
  superglue, there was a knock at the door.  Actually, it was more of a
  scratching, since members of the human race who are more goat-like in
  appearance tend not to have fingers or opposable thumbs.

  * The Death of the Sons of Prozac

  It was a friend of mine.  He came to visit.  We listened to Sons of
  Prozac, not knowing that the RISFTSWAPWCMCBMC was my true nature, and not
  knowing that the Sons of Prozac would never reach the MP3.com pop charts
  in any capacity again.

  I killed the SoP by listening to them.  I should also point out, however,
  that I also killed their parents by listening to them, and they damn near
  killed me with their awesome CRAP (comedy rap).

  * The BMC is kicked out of office.

  I stopped reading the Neo-Comintern slightly after that.  A few weeks
  later, the Weekly Capitalist took it's place.  I take the full blame for
  the hideous, cigar-smoking creature that ousted BMC for a number of weeks.
  When it was restored, I didn't read for fear of my RISFTSWAPWCMCBMC powers
  coming to surface again.

  It's hard being a Relatively Imposing Shadowy Figure of Text-Scene Writing
  Arrestment, Particularly When Concerning a Man Called BMC when you have
  love in your heart.  And I loved Atlantis.

  * Komrade B dies

  So I went back to the N-Com.  And Komrade B died the very next day.

  * Namor vanishes.

  I realized my true destiny, that as a Relatively Imposing Shadowy Figure
  of Text-Scene Writing Arrestment, Particularly When Concerning a Man
  Called BMC, and decided that once and for all, I must leave Namor to his
  coral sea-suit and let him rule Atlantis forever without my guidance.  Not
  that he listened to me in the first place, stupid git, and BMC told me
  that they dropped his ungrateful ass from the pages of the N-Com soon
  after I left.

  I killed Namor.  I felt awful, but knew my place in the world.

  * TRIPE

  Months later, I finally manage to rebuild my broken heart, and start to
  feel happiness again.  But just as I was heading out to the Fields of
  Glory and Beauty to spread positivity and give half-full glasses to
  children with two toes, BMC asked me to write a guest editorial for his
  newly founded TRIPE magazine.  I trusted in myself that the Curse was
  Lifted, and wrote.

  The magazine vanished one issue later.

  COINCIDENCE?!

  And now, I write to you, my fellows.  Perhaps I have signed the death
  knell for this magazine on the eve of it's fifth anniversary.  Or perhaps
  the spirit of the Neo-Communist International flows freely through the
  galaxy, binding us together as men and women and children and goats, and
  keeping the glory of former pizza establishments from the evil fascist
  rulers of Belgium (they are there now; I know, I live in Germany these
  days).

  I can only hope.

  I can only pray.

  Neo-Comintern, rest in peace.  I wish you well.

  The Relatively Imposing Shadowy Figure of Text-Scene Writing Arrestment,
  Particularly When Concerning a Man Called BMC.


  +----------------------------+
  |  Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro  |
  |                            |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:   |
  |  "The Joy of TRIPE"        |
  |  TRIPE #2                  |
  |  August 14, 2002           |
  |                            |
  |  Website:                  |
  |  "Capital of Nasty"        |
  |  http://www.con.ca         |
  +----------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'         What The Toast of Subversive Literature Means To Me         ,$$
 $$:                      by Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro                    ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  If you're reading this, you should consider yourself very lucky.

  It isn't because this particular piece of writing is anywhere near clever,
  creative or well written.  If that was the case, chances are, you wouldn't
  read it here.   I'd probably have a real job somewhere, writing
  mortuaries, births and what not on a newspaper.  But you're reading it
  here, mostly because BMC, in one of those rare moments in which he felt he
  was to do something nice for someone, decided to print which ever drivel I
  managed to spew out of my loins.

  But I was saying, you are very lucky.  Allow me to explain.

  The reason for such luck, if I may be so bold, though my hairline is
  receding as a matter of fact and frankly, I wish it would make up its
  mind and fall either evenly or stop tormenting me.

  Seriously, if you're reading this, you are very lucky.  This is a very
  special issue of this fine publication, with articles picked by hand by
  our fearless editor.  With the exception of this one, which, as I said
  previously, is nothing more than a random act of generosity by him.

  Neo-Comintern is very much like toast.  Except this is subversive toast,
  with five essential nutrients and grains that help you go pay tributes to
  the porcelain gods.

  You see, toast has the tendency to fall always on the buttered side.  This
  is a known fact.  This is monotony.  This is conventional.  This is what
  makes people conformists and stick to the norm and follow the man like
  sheep, whoever "they" or "the man" may actually be.

  But not Neo-Comintern.

  To give you an example of how Neo-Comintern works, grab your toast and
  butter the other side.  It's a little difficult, I know, but you can do
  it.  Nothing comes without a price, but the results are well worth it in
  the end.  Trust me.

  And once you've done that, drop it.  Don't drop it violently, but more of
  a slip-of-the-hand type of drop.

  I can assure you that your toast will have fallen on the non-buttered
  side.  It took a lot of butter, toast and practice to figure this out,
  believe me.  It also took a lot of explaining to do to the people around
  me when they saw me butter the wrong side of the toast and drop it.

  But what really shocked them and made them true believers was when I
  lifted the toast off the ground and not a hair or lint was stuck to the
  buttered side. The butter was gleaming, in it's buttery glory, towards me,
  clean as mother nature had meant it to be.

  That's what Neo-Comintern is all about.  It's against the grain, cutting-
  edge and non-buttered side falling face down.  When our toast falls, we
  don't curse and whine and complain.  Because we know there is no need,
  having done our toast up in the subversive Neo-Comintern kind of way.

  In conclusion, with toast in one hand and China hamster ding dong
  helicopter green.


  +-----------------------------------------------------+
  |  Metal K. Dick                                      |
  |                                                     |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                            |
  |  "Notes from 'Manif Bush'"                          |
  |  N-Com #203                                         |
  |  June 2, 2002                                       |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom203.txt  |
  +-----------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                         The Winning Weapon                          ,$$
 $$:                           by Metal K. Dick                          ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  BMC,

  Margarina, using the usual precautions, transmitted your urgent request to
  me.  Two days from now, the new Five Year Plan for Novelty and Community
  is due.  The fundamental document of our struggle.  The beacon we're all
  looking to, down here in the stink of capitalism.

  Kind of you to invite dissenting views this time around.

  As we've been saying for years, the struggle has to be broadened and
  democratized.  Turn the righteous indignation of the movement against
  injustice everywhere.  Activate our people in Brussels, Gotham, Caracas
  and Riyadh.  We need more flags (to burn) and more voices, speaking
  different languages.  Get our message out in new ways: radio, (street)
  theatre, music, culture jamming, public humiliations, calculated and
  shocking interventions against complacency.  Create a buzz.  Create the
  impression that the visible activity of the movement is the tip of the
  iceberg.

  Diversify content.  Yes, the labels 'fact' and 'fiction' are arbitrary.
  Seize the issues of the day, run with them for a while.  Exert enough
  intellectual pressure to transform these lumps of coal into diamonds.

  Delocalize production and dissemination of our propaganda.  Our security
  measures are pathetic.  But reach out to the like-minded.  Someone out
  there has the same dream.  Let us swallow our pride, find them and help
  them.

  Yours,
  MKD


  +-----------------------------------------------------+
  |  ada                                                |
  |                                                     |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                            |
  |  "When Night Ends"                                  |
  |  N-Com #184                                         |
  |  January 6, 2002                                    |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom184.txt  |
  |                                                     |
  |  Website:                                           |
  |  "ada"                                              |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/writers/ada.html      |
  +-----------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                             Wood Haikus                             ,$$
 $$:                                by ada                               ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  hi everyone,

  I wanted to address you all since not only is this the five year
  anniversary of the n-com, it is also my one year anniversary of being a
  staff writer.  so I want to tell you a few things I've learned over the
  past year, mistakes I've made, lessons I've been taught, friends I've had
  the pleasure of acquiring, and my overall journey into the mouth of the
  neo-comintern - and how I made it out alive, or lived to tell about it.

  first of all, I've learned that in order to write for the n-com you have
  to take two hits of acid and examine your past, particularly making a note
  of the elephant you talked to about your life long dream to become a
  pirate.  remember to mention the word pirate several times in order to
  please certain members of the n-com staff.  remember that elephants
  usually lie, and pirates don't really exist...

  second, I learned that ice cream isn't nearly as satisfying now as it was
  a year ago.  do I blame this on the n-com?  no, but I do have to wonder...
  what's the connection here?

  third, sometimes small windows are quite enjoyable.  not only do you get
  to look out them, but you get to pretend you are a little person, looking
  out of a little window.  what does this have to do with the n-com?
  nothing.

  what have been my mistakes, you ask?  c'mon, you didn't really think I was
  serious about that part, did you?

  as for the friends I've made... well, I was working on this letter when
  along came a little bug, marching around on my desk like he owned the
  place.  and I was like, 'you're lost little bug aren't you?'  and he was
  like, 'nope,' and I was like, 'you're crawling all over my gst cheque,
  maybe hoping it's a new shelter,'  and he was like, well, actually by this
  point he couldn't hear me, and I was like, 'nope, that gst cheque is
  mine'.  so right then and there we had a conversation, and I had acquired
  yet another new friend.  so you see, when you are a part of the n-com
  writing staff, you can make friends with all types of beings, even little
  bugs who try to steal your government cheques.

  entering the mouth of the n-com was much like plunging yourself into an
  ice cold bath/pond/stream/river/lack/ocean/outer space.  it's a cold cruel
  world out there and the n-com in full of competitive bastards and a boss
  who milks you for every word you have.  but then you get your own page on
  the website.  and you get to pick a new name for yourself, a better name,
  one that tells the whole world, 'I'm me... but actually, I'm a fake me'
  and you get to join in the ranks with others who want to tell the world
  that we all love pirates.  and ourselves.

  the following are five real haikus about true stories of wood, and what
  wood can do for you.  These are in honor of the n-com's fifth anniversary.
  Although these haikus are true (in the sense that they don't cheat with
  the syllables), no being was injured or suffered any type of mental
  anxiety in the events that happen within these haikus.  yes they are
  actual events, they really did happen....but you might as well pretend
  they're fiction because nobody was killed, or severely maimed.  in other
  words, they aren't all that exciting.  but if you want to learn more about
  the plethora of uses that wood has, please, read on.

  yours very truly,

  ada
  (staff writer since jan 2002
   wood lover since may 1989)



  1.
  camping

  dad always told us
  (when we got lost) to find a
  log and sit on it

  2.
  one good use

  take some wood, burn it
  and you will always be warm
  inside your small house

  3.
  my house

  it is made of wood
  I can knock if I want to
  and you can't stop me

  4.
  another good use

  I used to climb trees
  read calvin and hobbes and spy
  with binoculars

  5.
  one downside

  slide my hand along
  the banister, a splinter
  lodges in my skin


  +-----------------------------------------------------+
  |  Ahmed Balfouni                                     |
  |                                                     |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                            |
  |  "tenor and baritone"                               |
  |  N-Com #161                                         |
  |  July 8, 2001                                       |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom161.txt  |
  |                                                     |
  |  Website:                                           |
  |  "Ahmed Balfouni"                                   |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/writers/ahmed.html    |
  +-----------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                               Daphne                                ,$$
 $$:                          by Ahmed Balfouni                          ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  Apollo chased her and she lightly ran 
  nubilous and grinning like an oil 
  or silkscreen of an Andy Warhol can 
  of soup oh yes she made the godhead toil 
  and then some seconds later she grew green 
  and leafy praying for the destined end 
  of girlish fate or weatherward 'gan lean 
  to meet the sungod whither he would tend 
  the chariots of fire sunup bade 
  furrow misty earth to noon and go 
  downhill coasting to the ocean's sad 
  extinction and the fall of night but so 
  miserably loved Apollo she 
  that glory had he of her though a tree


  +-----------------------------------------------------+
  |  AlterEcho                                          |
  |                                                     |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                            |
  |  "Aye.  Eye.  I."                                   |
  |  N-Com #159                                         |
  |  June 24, 2001                                      |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom159.txt  |
  |                                                     |
  |  Website:                                           |
  |  "CLiT"                                             |
  |  http://clit.freeshell.org                          |
  +-----------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                          Voices of Angels                           ,$$
 $$:                             by AlterEcho                            ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  Down here, the days are as long as weeks, and the weeks as long as years.
  Down here, all the colours have long since faded, and the sun leaves a
  dirty grey mark in a dirty grey sky.  Down here, to look into another's
  eyes is to look into endless hopelessness, from which there cannot be any
  escape.  Down here, there are no dreams.

  The infinite burden cuts cruelly into the soul, and I lie still, in the
  futile hope that it may one day pass.  My eyes close, and my breath
  stills, till it is naught, undetectable save for the tiniest sighs I
  release.  And in this moment of nothingness, the sweet, sweet whispers of
  BMC and Gnarly Wayne, of Cog and Heckat, of Komrade B, Junior Haagis,
  Margarina Cataclysma and myriads of others bathe me in the only peace I
  shall ever know.  The world slips away, and the waking becomes the
  dreaming becomes the waking.  And who am I to tell the difference?


  +-----------------------------------------------------+
  |  linear                                             |
  |                                                     |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                            |
  |  "Green Light"                                      |
  |  N-Com #154                                         |
  |  May 13, 2001                                       |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom154.txt  |
  |                                                     |
  |  Website:                                           |
  |  "Impulse Reality"                                  |
  |  http://phonelosers.net/ir/                         |
  +-----------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                         A Secret Revealed                           ,$$
 $$:                               by linear                             ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  I can't imagine what I was doing in 1998.

  "1998" really doesn't seem like it was that far back, but folks, five
  years is a really long time.  I promise.  I was a freshman in high school
  back then.

  "A socialist e'zine?  I don't want to read that commie trash!" I would
  have stated, if I was aware of such a thing as the N-Com back in those
  days.

  Actually, I probably would have just chortled and drooled a bit.  I was 
  really dumb back then.  But I like the word chortle.  I really do.

  You see, unfortunately I can't claim "N-COM OLD SKEWL KREW!" because I
  was never aware of the mag until probably 2000 or 2001, already years into
  its glorious reign over the subversion-comedy genre.  Or is that
  Subcomedy?  Ba-dum!

  Anyway, everything I've written up to this point in the article has
  nothing to do with what I really want to talk about.  What I really wanted
  to say was that
 
  BMC IS A BIG FAT LIAR AND THIS ISN'T REALLY THE 5TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE 
  N-COM!

  You see, I'm sure some of you have been in the situation where you've had
  a girlfriend/boyfriend for a certain amount of time, and then something 
  happens and you break up for a short amount of time, only to get back
  together again later on.  Then sometime after that, someone asks how long
  you've been going out.  One of you answers with the amount of time you
  were together before plus how long you've been together the second time
  around, whereas the other one in the relationship answers only with how
  long you've been together through-out ROUND TWO of your happy fun
  togetherness.

  Well the person who adds the previous time is a sinner, and therefore
  wrong.  Only NOW counts, you bastards.

  So there is a point to this.  I'm trying to show you that The
  Neo-Comintern is actually only about seven months old.

  YOU ARE BEING LIED TO.

  The Neo-Comintern was officially and without dispute put to rest by Cog
  in issue #211.  As we all know, that was to be the FINAL N-Com release.
  BMC accepted the fate of his former zine, and went on to found the much
  superior TRIPE.  But TRIPE was too good for the BMC, and left him cold and
  alone.  With no other place to turn, The Boss MC returned to the N-Com,
  begging for a renewal of Subversive goodness.  And the N-Com obliged.

  So the Neo-Comintern has only been around for a mere thirteen issues,
  starting at #212.  How thirteen issues in seven months equals out to five
  years is beyond me.  Obviously BMC and all those other bastard N-Commers
  are liars.  You should have nothing to do with the lot of them!

  Besides, you don't want to read that commie trash.


  +-----------------------------------------------------+
  |  Spite                                              |
  |                                                     |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                            |
  |  "The Gypsies"                                      |
  |  N-Com #147                                         |
  |  March 25, 2001                                     |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom147.txt  |
  |                                                     |
  |  Website:                                           |
  |  "Spite"                                            |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/writers/spite.html    |
  +-----------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'           Five Reasons Why I Enjoy Writing for The N-Com            ,$$
 $$:                               by Spite                              ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  I can still remember the first article I submitted for the Neo-Comintern.
  It was something I had written as a joke between BMC and I, and it made no
  sense whatsoever.  I suppose that BMC must have seen my overwhelming
  potential, because he encouraged me to write more often.  I can't recall
  when, exactly, it was that I wrote it, but I eventually became a regular
  contributor to the zine and even got my own web page!  Now that the N-Com
  has reached its fifth anniversary, I've been reflecting on my past few
  years with the zine.  I took this opportunity to compile a list of some of
  the great things I love about writing for the Neo-Comintern.


  5. Writing is a creative outlet for me.  I was never blessed with any sort
     of musical talent or artistic touch, and that didn't leave me much of a
     choice.  It was pretty well the only option on the table.

  4. When I am feeling particularly snotty and pretentious, I'll casually
     throw the fact that I write for a zine into a conversation.  I get a
     big kick out of the fact that most people have no idea what I am
     talking about.  I like to think it makes me seem exciting and
     dangerous.  Like a secret spy or something.

  3. I can happily enjoy the effects of "expanding my mind" and still be
     productive.  I seem to be able to find more to write about in that
     state of mind and, sadly enough, it is usually far more interesting
     than anything else I write.

  2. Having deadlines gives me something to put off until the very last
     minute.  I am a magnificent procrastinator and I missed the rush of
     being up all night frantically scribbling out some spiel of nonsense
     explaining what I thought the hidden symbolism behind one of those
     stupid Canterbury Tales characters was.  Ah, those happy school days.

  1. I've had the distinct pleasure of getting to know people like Cog and
     BMC.  I've known them both for a few years now, and we've had lots of
     fun adventures.  One of my favourites is the time the three of us went
     to Boston Pizza and Cog would only talk to the waitress with a weird
     gangster-style accent.  They then proceeded to beat me up in the BP
     parking lot for about 20 minutes.


  +-------------------------------------------------------+
  |  Melatonin                                            |
  |                                                       |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                              |
  |  "Selected Excerpts from The Luddite's Diary"         |
  |  N-Com #140                                           |
  |  February 4, 2001                                     |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom140.txt    |
  |                                                       |
  |  Website:                                             |
  |  "Melatonin"                                          |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/writers/melatonin.html  |
  +-------------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                            The Elephant                             ,$$
 $$:                             by Melatonin                            ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'
                 
  "Listen Scratch," I said, "it's not a matter of how many raspberries you
  can fit in your mouth, it's a matter of a) What is this elephant doing
  here?, and b) What are we going to do to get its grey ass out?"

  "Bhht Mhhltnhnn-" mumbled Scratch.

  "I can't understand a word you're saying."

  Scratch leaned forward and spit the clump of raspberries into his cupped
  hand.  I looked at his tiny, 12-year-old face in disgust.  What a
  pathetic, scrawny, sorry-excuse-for-a-human-being I'd chosen as a
  sidekick.

  "But Melatonin," he said, "you're forgetting something.  It's the
  Comintern's fifth anniversary!  Don't you know what that means?"

  "Yeah, it means we gotta write about wood."

  "Nope, not anymore; now we can write about whatever the fuck we want to."

  "Scratch," I winced.  "What did I just tell you about swearing?" 

  "Oops, sorry Mr. M. I forgot.  You want I should wash my mouth out with
  fruit again?"

  I shook my head.  "I'll let it go this time, Scratch, on account of our
  little elephant dilemma.  But one more 'fuck' and you can't be my sidekick
  anymore."

  At the thought of this, Scratch fell to his knees, grabbed hold of my leg,
  and started to sob something awful.  His level of affection left me
  nauseous and disoriented.  I quickly shook him off.

  "Quit crying you crying baby," I said.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. M."

  "OK, OK, I forgive you.  Now just shut up and tell me what this elephant
  is doing in BMC's apartment!"

  "Whatever you say, boss.  Is it all right if I tell you in verse?" he
  asked, rising to his feet with a toothy, teary-eyed grin.

  "What-you mean like a sonnet?"

  "Mmm, I was thinking more along the lines of a haiku, if that's all right
  with you."

  "Haiku away!" I said.

  Scratch cleared his throat and began like this:


    Elephant After Rain

    High on candy and
    the county fair called to me 
    with its elephants.

    Five years of joyous 
    Comintern, I thought, and danced 
    on a sparrow's wing. 

    'Twas the perfect gift 
    for our fine socialist friend-
    much better than wood. 

    O sweet elephant, 
    I will steal you, make you mine, 
    caress your trunk and 

    ride you like a wild 
    child of the woods, hair in knots, 
    my sweaty thighs on 

    your sandpaper skin! 
    Love me, good elephant, for 
    tonight I am weary.

    O how my heart y-

  "Stop! Wait, wait.  Stop stop stop," I interrupted. 

  "What?  What is it?" Scratch stammered, his heart still beating fast, his
  brow still damp with the passion of his ode.

  "I'm sorry, Scratch.  That last line was six syllables.  I'm afraid your
  haiku has failed."

  "But it's a loose haiku."

  "By 'loose' do you mean 'bad'?"

  "No, I-"

  "Listen Scratch, you're just digging yourself deeper and deeper.  Why
  don't you go stand in the corner for a little while and pretend like you
  don't exist."

  "But I-"

  "Chop chop!"

  Scratch shuffled over to the corner with reluctant obedience and hung his
  head in shame.  "It sure is nice to be alone again," I said to no one in
  particular, then turned my attention to the giant circus elephant sleeping
  in the middle of BMC's living room.  Haiku or no haiku, Scratch was right:
  this elephant was a truly magnificent beast.  Stepping forward, I quietly
  studied her every nuance: the hard, curving arch of her back, the smooth
  flat of her toenails, the thick skin of her slow, breathing lungs, her
  sweet, virile trunk, her sweet, virile trunk, her sweet, virile-

  Just then the door to the apartment opened and BMC and Heckat stepped
  inside, groceries in hand.

  "Melatonin!  What are you doing?" screamed BMC.  "My God, put on some
  pants!"

  "Quit humping our cat you jerk!" roared Heckat, then she threw a package
  of tofu at my head.  BMC followed up with a package of dulce and Return of
  the Living Dead on DVD.

  "Ouch," I yelled.  "Scratch!  Help!  Save me!"

  Rising up with the vigour of a true sidekick, Scratch jumped between
  myself and the onslaught of vegetarian groceries.

  "It's OK, Mr. M.!  I'll protect you!" he shouted.  "Use me as a shield!"

  "Great idea, Scratch!" I said, and wrapped him around me like a coat and
  went charging out of the apartment.

  "Yee-ha!" Scratch cheered with delight, and then a flying carton of soy
  milk hit him in the head and knocked him unconscious.


                                    * 

  Two days later, BMC received the following note of apology in the mail. 

    Dear friend, 

    I'm sorry that yesterday's surprise visit turned out so terribly.
    Scratch and I had only wanted to give you a basket of hand-picked
    raspberries on this, the fifth anniversary of your socialist zine, but
    alas, it wasn't to be.  When Scratch realized that you'd accidentally
    left your door unlocked, he suggested that we "really" surprise you with
    the raspberries.  Next thing you know there's cursing and haiku and me
    trying to have sex with your cat and, well, you know how it is.

    Anyway, I hope we can put this little faux pas behind us.  Our
    friendship has weathered stormier waters, and I truly believe it can
    weather this as well.

    Viva la Comintern! 

    Sincerely, 
    Melatonin

    P.S. You will be happy to hear that Scratch is doing well, and has
    almost regained full use of his left hand.


  +-----------------------------------------------------+
  |  Heckat                                             |
  |                                                     |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                            |
  |  "Planette"                                         |
  |  N-Com #130                                         |
  |  November 26, 2000                                  |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom130.txt  |
  |                                                     |
  |  Website:                                           |
  |  "Heckat"                                           |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/writers/hechat.html   |
  +-----------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                    I Got a Lot On My Mind Pedro!                    ,$$
 $$:                               by Heckat                             ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  Pedro is what I call the BMC when he's slave-driving me to write articles
  for this or that issue.  It's not a reference to anything; it's just what
  comes out when I'm yelling at the top of my lungs for him to please please
  please leave me alone.  I imagine that Pedro is some czar, some dictator,
  some emperor, and now that I'm looking in my brilliant Oxford Canadian
  Dictionary I find out I'm right.

  _Pedro I_

  First emperor of Brazil.  But this guy doesn't fit at all.  It turns out,
  he's benevolent.  Not only does he declare Brazilian independence from
  Portugal (yay), but he lets his son take over without any KingLearlike
  fuss.

  _Pedro II_

  Second (makes sense) and last (violent takeover) emperor of Brazil.  This
  guy's even better than his pa.  He abolishes slavery!  So he's not exactly
  the model evil plantation owner I was hoping he'd be.

  _Pedro Ximenez_

  Red-eyed drugdealer of Atlantis.  Just kidding.  This Pedro's actually a
  pretty, large, sweet grape, or the wine that gets made from the grape.
  So, again, foiled.  If BMC is a Pedro, he's a sweet, slavery-hating,
  son-loving, drunken kind of guy.

                                      *

  So maybe I could have chosen a better name to insult my true love when he
  handcuffs me to my computer and forces me to compose, but I suppose my
  intended insult was actually an endearment.  Pedro was a subconscious way
  to admit that I adore the Neo-Comintern and that I'm happy someone has the
  authority to put a lid on _Arden of Faversham_, or _The Crying Game_, or
  any other text I happen to be scholasticizing in order to wish my
  favourite e-zine a happy 5th anniversary.


  +-----------------------------------------------------+
  |  The Capitalism Monster                             |
  |                                                     |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                            |
  |  "Monster's Note"                                   |
  |  N-Com #115                                         |
  |  July 12, 2000                                      |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom115.txt  |
  |                                                     |
  |  Website:                                           |
  |  "The Capitalism Monster"                           |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/writers/cm.html       |
  +-----------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'              Perpetual Winter is The N-Com's Only Hope              ,$$
 $$:                      by The Capitalism Monster                      ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  Dear N-Com,

  January and February are already the worst months for Capitalism.  It's
  cold -- snow drifts blocking the sidewalks, ice dressing the streets --
  and everybody stays inside being depressed instead of heading out on the
  town to spend money.
 
  And now this.

  The fifth anniversary issue of the Neo-Comintern is the proverbial straw
  that broke the hypothetical camel's back.  Yes, yes, you readers and
  writers think you can rub it in, prove yourselves to the world, remind
  Capitalism that kindness, compassion, and critical thinking still exist.
  I was content to remain quiet until I saw this obviously inflammatory
  puff-piece designed to extol the virtues of one of the last vestiges of
  socialism.  NOW I WILL REMAIN SILENT NO LONGER!!!!!!

  Let me remind you: it may be cold, it may be slippery, N-Com may have
  reached birthday number 5, but by no means is this a victory for
  Capitalism's enemies.  Spring will come, my friends, and Capitalism will
  wait you out.  Soon the warm weather will usher in a new era of money
  spending.  Automobiles will be purchased, patio luncheons will be
  frequent, and all the little school children will get summer jobs to
  support their most fashionable habits.  Sometimes greed may be dampened by
  the winter blues, sometimes it may succumb to financial burdens in those
  after-Christmas months, but trust me, it never goes out of style.  Just
  like flare pants, the thirst for wealth keeps cropping up again and again,
  generation after generation.  What the hippies called bell bottoms, we
  call "give us the fuckin' oil or you're DEAD!"

  And 5 really isn't all that old, now is it?  The N-Com hasn't even learned
  to tie its shoes yet.  And what about booster shots?  Just like the
  kiddies on the playground, the Comintern is still swinging from the jungle
  gym, learning how to colour within the lines.  Just like the slow boy
  no-one ever liked, the magazine still doesn't know how to read and write
  (perhaps a symptom of its less-than-intelligent staff.  Were they those
  unpopular tots?  One has to wonder).  And what about this immature sop:
  "Absurdism is a message!"  Barely intelligible infantile drivel.  Yeah,
  you're 5 alright N-Com, and your naivete is embarrassing.  Grow up.  It's
  the message that's absurd and it's worn as thin as five-year-old long
  johns in Nunavut.

  In short, who knows when the Neo-Comintern will freeze to death in the
  embrace of it's own wintery heyday or suffer childhood leukemia, poisoned
  by its own blood.  Languishing away on its deathbed provided by
  textscene.com, daily hits will fade to zero, writers will become the
  yuppies they were designed to be, BMC will write a manifesto that will
  secure his position as societal freak, and The Weekly Capitalist will
  appropriately and suavely re-establish itself.  The new Capitalist
  foundation will be built on the broken dreams of N-Com idealists, welcomed
  warmly with relief by those same idealists who only wish someone would
  offer them the shiny Dublin shoes they can't buy in Belfast.

  So, let's call this good-bye.  Good-bye to bad writing, ineffective
  satire, witless humour, and over-confident politics.  I'd say I'll miss
  you but...

  Yours Truly,
  Capitalism Monster
  Card-Carrying Realist


  +-------------------------------------------------------+
  |  Margarina Cataclysma                                 |
  |                                                       |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                              |
  |  "Oh My God, This Sandwich is Moldy!"                 |
  |  N-Com #87                                            |
  |  December 7, 1999                                     |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom087.txt    |
  |                                                       |
  |  Website:                                             |
  |  "Margarina Cataclysma"                               |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/writers/margarina.html  |
  +-------------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                       Luck Is Nothing, Chum                         ,$$
 $$:                       by Margarina Cataclysma                       ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  deaR everyone,

  understand
  it is time for you to justify yourself. 
  this is not new 
  new thing but more imperative as the time draws nigh.  
  no more double think or second guess.  
  the twiggy rung is too far up from floor.  don't idiofy self.  
  justify self.  idolify self and bear true upon others.
  understand wood and fire and the element of reason
  and the sing of rust 
  and know this 
  that you are not special.  

  love, MC


  +-----------------------------------------------------+
  |  Junior Haagis                                      |
  |                                                     |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                            |
  |  "Mother, You're Just Like A Brother To Me"         |
  |  N-Com #47                                          |
  |  January 1, 1999                                    |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom047.txt  |
  |                                                     |
  |  Website:                                           |
  |  "Junior Haagis"                                    |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/writers/haagis.html   |
  +-----------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                             Balsa Wood                              ,$$
 $$:                           by Junior Haagis                          ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  It's some of the funniest shit in the world.  I can't help but burst about
  in teary laughter when I think about someone gettin blind-sided by a balsa 
  chair or a balsa table to the face or to the shoulder blades.  And the
  best part is, I don't think anybody gets hurt.  I think they get stunned.
  Like it's when someone fires a gun at your heart, but they're blanks, but
  you go down anyways.  It's like the sudden trauma puts you into such a
  state of disbelief.  Cuz you look for that sucking chest-wound and people
  are like... "Ahhhahahahhaaaaaaaa!!!" and you're like "Shut-up! People are
  tryin t'kill me, yknow!!"

  Ffffffffu-u-u-u-ck!

  Yeah but balsa wood is some funny funny shit.  I love it!  In actuality
  it's like styrofoam covered in fulmica or paint or somethin'.  Or no!..I
  think it's like a genetically unsound... really shitty tree that's died,
  or... I dunno.  And you can just fuckin.... ERGGHHHHHHHH!!

  I mean... just lean all your shit into it and just....
  UGHHHHHHHHHH!!

  Fuckin pound the fuck outta someone with it and it don't mean nuthin!!... 
  NUTHIN!!!!  What better thing in the world is there?!!


  Here's some things I like to do with it:

  - 2 am in my apartment building.  I get people walkin' out of the
  elevator onto their floors comin' home from the bar.  Also helps with the
  frustration of being too broke to go out to the clubs or having no
  friends-period!

  - Girlfriends.  I like to feign a lot of angst for a few weeks and then
  pop her one during dinner with a fake chair planted at the table prior to 
  mealtime.  In the end, and after a good laugh, it shows what a true 
  sweetheart I really am, cuz I'd never really do that... only feign it.

  - Disciplining the pets.  Works better than a water-pistol.

  - WWE Events.  Get that $60 ringside seat and when Triple H is pounding
  away at a female member of his opponent's entourage, just lay a chair over
  his sweaty cranium.  And when he realizes its not real, he'll think it's
  part of that match, and look at you also thinkin maybe you started work
  for the company that week.  Cuz superstars like him don't really remember
  the little people.  Unless he's a real people-person.  And that could work
  for you too.

  - Fake ransom tapes.  I often tie myself to a chair in front of the
  camcorder and have Cog in disguise pound away at me with some tables to 
  show that the people who have inadvertedly abducted me mean some serious
  business.  Lately though, that routine only gets me a few hundred a pop.
  You can only go to the well so often.  Plus, my family doesn't consider me
  to be an actual offspring, ..only 'theoretical'.  Their words... not mine.

  - Getting on Worker's Comp.  Oh the possibilities.  So many ways to
  utilize the wood.  Mind you this works best for fields dealing mainly
  with construction or carpentry.  Although a clever lad like myself has
  come up with some convincing scenerios concerning my delivery van and a
  rather unstable looking bridge or two in the past.

  - Food.  Hey!  With a little imagination, it can easily... EASILY pass
  for sponge toffy.


  Anyways... on top of all this, I wanna wish everyone, besides myself, at
  the Comintern a Happy Fifth Anniversary.  May her freak-flag never lower
  to even half-mast!

  I LOVE YOU GUYS!!

  MMMMMMMWUAHHH!!!!!


  +-----------------------------------------------------+
  |  Cog                                                |
  |                                                     |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                            |
  |  "Modern 'Convenience'"                             |
  |  N-Com #4                                           |
  |  February 26, 1998                                  |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom004.txt  |
  |                                                     |
  |  Website:                                           |
  |  "Cog"                                              |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/writers/cog.html      |
  +-----------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'            Here's What They're Saying About Us In China             ,$$
 $$:                                by Cog                               ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  It looks as if nothing can stop the Neo-Comintern, folks.  After all, it's
  survived all manner of attack by the huns (thanks to the "Way Greater Wall
  of China" we built), and the blitz bombings of the earlier part of last
  century.  Even I tried to kill it this past summer, but obviously it has
  risen like the Jesu.

  I must be getting older, too; you'll notice I didn't make a reference to
  Jesus' penis, there.

  On this occassion of the fifth anniversary, I've looked over the N-Com
  archives to see what can be said.  I must say, I've noticed some
  interesting coincidences.  Let's start almost five years ago:

        February, 1998
        I was working at a convenience store at the time.
        The Neo-Comintern, in some bizarre twist of fate,
        published an article about me working at a
        convenience store.  How do it know?

  I'm not going to go over every single instance, but you gotta admit that
  it's a pretty creepy coincidence.  Or should that read "petty creepy
  coincidence"?  One never know.

  The Neo-Comintern has somehow published articles which parallel my own
  life throughout its five year run.  It covers my firing from the
  convenience store, my stint on Employment Insurance, the troubles with my
  car... It even chronicles what the national press has dubbed my
  "Frakes-mania".

  Baffling as all this might be to me, I've still decided to write this
  article for the magazine that knows me inside and out.  Actually, BMC
  decided I should write this.  I wanted to write an article detailing
  things to do on a date.  A knock at the door soon changed my mind.

  As a compromise, I took a print issue of The Neo-Comintern out for a night
  on the town.  We had a wonderful time!  I've been single for the past
  year, and it was a welcome turn of events.  We went to see "The Hours",
  which was a delight.  We threw rocks at a group of inner-city youths as
  they left their "Boys and Girls Club".  I bought it a Valentine and it
  bought me one, too.  Mine had Wolverine on it.  It said, "You are a
  cut up, Valentine".

  Then we loved.

  The next day as I nursed the papercuts on my penis, I reflected on how I
  loved The Neo-Comintern and how the breakfast she made me was top-notch.
  I called her later but she seemed preoccupied and in a hurry to get off
  the phone.  She said she would call me tomorrow, but she didn't.  I called
  her the day after that and let it ring for awhile, but there was no
  answer.  Just to satisfy my curiosity, I called back a few seconds later
  after blocking my number.  She answered on the first ring.

  I hung up.

  I cried.

  I decided to go talk to the bartender like they do in movies, but he just
  laughed at me.  "You had sex with a magazine?" he chided.

  "Not just any magazine," I said.

  I sipped my favourite drink, a "Penis of Jesu", and tried to block out the
  laughter that was quickly filling the bar.  I had to leave.

  I burst out of the bar and ran deliriously down the street.  I noticed
  that there were huge neon signs swooping in behind me that said things
  like "Read The Neo-Comintern", "Magazines", and "Neo-Comintern available
  HERE!".

  "How terribly sad this moment would be," I thought, "if it were not so
  cliched and physically impossible."

  I fell to my knees and wailed.

  The next day I awoke to hear the phone ringing.  It was The Neo-Comintern!

  I felt great until she said that she just wanted to be friends.  I asked
  if we could be the kind of friends that regularly have sex with each other
  or at least the kind of friends that get married, but she politely
  declined and withdrew her offer of friendship.  I persisted and she hung
  up.

  That was this morning.  Now as I sit here writing this, I wonder...am I
  writing this for you?  Or am I writing this for the woman I love: that
  cold bitch The Neo-Comintern?

  Call me.


  +-----------------------------------------------------+
  |  Gnarly Wayne                                       |
  |                                                     |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                            |
  |  "Extreme Drunkenness"                              |
  |  N-Com #2                                           |
  |  February 19, 1998                                  |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/archives/ncom002.txt  |
  |                                                     |
  |  Website:                                           |
  |  "Gnarly Wayne"                                     |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/writers/gwayne.html   |
  +-----------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                          The Wood Article                           ,$$
 $$:                            by Gnarly Wayne                          ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  In an effort to seclude myself in preparation for the Neo-Comintern's big
  5th anniversary issue, I beat a hasty retreat to my hidden abode in the
  godforsaken land of northern Saskatchewan.  It was a lovely log cabin I
  had built by hand so many years ago.  While most of it was in ruins, the
  den had remained liveable for as long as I can remember.  This year
  however, as I arrived on the scene in my 2003 Jaguar XKR, I found the
  entire cabin in shambles and on fire and poisoned as well.  With a
  muttering of "Aww isht", I frolicked into the nearby woods to find
  inspiration for the big issue.  I found a secluded wooden glade in the
  heart of the weald.  After inhaling a very liberal dose of fresh pine-
  scented pine air, I sat with my back to one of the majestic coniferous
  trees and pulled out my inkwell, quill, and parchment and closed my eyes
  in anticipation of the oncoming creativity.  I also remembered to exhale
  as well this time.  Time grinded to a halt as I removed myself from the
  troubles of the world.

  "Mustn't disappoint tha BM", I said to an endangered malleefowl that had
  situated itself next to me.  It (I say it as I could not determine its
  sex, nor did I care to find out) cocked its head to me and then accepted
  some graham crackers I offered.  It ended up jacking me for all my
  crackers but I didn't even care.  I'd rather have a fair woodland creature
  of the air take my crackers than my co-workers who would surely have less
  tact in their acquisition of my precious crisps.  As I was still hungry, I
  decided I would look for some truffles to munch on.  I took out my
  portable Tamagotchi and summon up a boar to sniff me out some truffles.  I
  hadn't fed or played with him for a couple of days, so it was in a pig of
  a mood, but after I mentioned the before mentioned pig of a mood joke, the
  boar was more than ready to help me.  As luck may have had it, there was a
  trove of truffles right below the very tree I was sitting under!  I didn't
  share any with the boar, however, and got flipped the bird before I
  unsummoned it and began to embark on a journey of flavour that lasted the
  better part of the night.  As I was getting sleepy, I sliced a thin line
  in some of the moss and crawled in to make an effective sleeping bag.  At
  this rate, I would never get back to the Queen City.  As I drifted slowly
  into blackness with the night sky in full view and the fading song of a
  nightingale, my final thought was that maybe I should never finish the
  article.

                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                             Old Friends                             ,$$
 $$:                            by Gnarly Wayne                          ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  The two old friends sat on the porch of their shared condominium, slowly
  rocking back and forth on the old rocking chairs.  One was smoking a well
  veteraned meerschaum pipe; the other, a fist full of rolled up dollar
  bills.  A gentle breeze was steady in its washing o'er them.  The one with
  the pipe sucked back a mouthful of cherry scented tobacco and then slowly
  let the wisps of smoke climb up his face to eventual freedom.  The other
  leaned back and gave a gave a big smile to his partner, showing off his
  sparkling golden tooth in the process.  The one with the pipe grunted his
  approval and gave a slow nod and a wink and the gun.

  The man with the golden tooth said, "Well, I reckon issue #289,384 is
  about due soon there, my old friend."

  The man with the pipe took another long draw before answering, "Yeah... I
  reckon so."

  "Do you have any articles ready?" inquired the first.

  The second looked at him cock-eyed and raised a single bushy eyebrow.

  "No... no, I don't reckon I do," he replied.

  "Dammit, Wang, give me articles," said the first, scowling.

  The man referred to as Wang said, "I have something to tell you, Bizzo,
  and I think you might find it pleasantly surprising."

  "Oh yeah, hey Wang, what is it?" said the man whose name was Bizzo, I
  guess.

  "Remember back in '03 when I told you I was working on an article of epic
  proportions?"

  "No."

  "You might well also remember that today is the magazine's 64th birthday.
  As such, I present this smash hit, totally sexxxy and hottt, ummmm... fat
  free and stuff... article that I've been working on for the past 50 or so
  years."

  "Hey Wang, good stuff, hey Wang."

  Bizzo began to read the article out loud:

    "The two old friends sat on the porch of their shared condominium,
    slowly rocking back and forth on the old rocking chairs..."


  +------------------------------------------------------+
  |  Komrade B                                           |
  |                                                      |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                             |
  |  "Back To the Feudal Times"                          |
  |  The Comintern #6                                    |
  |  August 11, 1995                                     |
  |                                                      |
  |  Website:                                            |
  |  "Komrade B"                                         |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/writers/komradeb.html  |
  +------------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                        The Eight-Year Road                          ,$$
 $$:                             by Komrade B                            ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  So it's the N-Com's fifth anniversary.  Boy, has the world changed since
  those early days.  There's a new president (Same Prime Minster however).
  Eminem tops the charts instead of... uh... the Backstreet Boys.  DMX is
  still making platinum gold, and the N-Com is still spinning tin into
  gold (or is it the other way around?)

  In the early days, BMC used the Comintern as some sort of political
  forum.  He once tried to explain to me what it was about, but never being
  one to listen, I never really bothered to figure it out.

  So while he was tackling the right from the left, I was asking the
  important questions.  For instance, what if the world was more like Zany
  Golf or perhaps Street Rod II?

  I am fairly certain BMC despised those early articles, but a lack of
  content on his own part forced him to publish them.  The one last vestige
  of seriousness in BMC's life was stolen by the person that could never be
  serious.  Around this time I also stole his Brittany crackers.

  That was 8 long years ago.  We still had the same Prime Minister.  Drizzay
  ruled the rap world.  And I'm pretty sure we still hated Saddam, or maybe
  we were allied with him... I can't recall...

  So fast forward a few years into the future.  For some reason I am at the
  university with Gnarly Wayne and BMC.  I think it was to play Dragon Quiz
  or something.  Having our wits sharpened after wrapping Dragon Quiz, we
  went back to Wayne's car.  However, it would not start.  Fresh off a hot
  game of Dragon Quiz I assumed I had the know how to fix his car's engine.

  With his car on fire we retreated to the local confectionery.

  Inside the store there were a couple of arcade machines.  I think we had
  to wait for either Wayne's or BMC's mom to come and get us so we decide to
  play a game called Gal's Panic.  I think I can speak for all three of us
  when I say that game changed our lives.  I don't know if it was the
  gameplay, the intensity, or the fact that there was naked girls, but we
  dropped forty bucks in that machine.

  I don't like to think of it as spending forty bucks on a game.  I like to
  think of it as a down payment on what was to be the Neo-Commintern.  You
  see, those cartoon pictures of naked Asian girls are the backbone of the
  Neo-Comintern.  Add a splash of Kafka, and a dash of socialism, put it in
  the oven for four or five years, and this is what you get.

  Kind of crappy hey?  Perhaps we'll have the kinks worked out on the 10th
  Anniversary.

  Sincerely
  K-Rad B.

                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                         The BMC vs K-Rad B                          ,$$
 $$:                             by Komrade B                            ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  It's probably high time we settle the issue.  Our rivalry has been ongoing
  since the get go of this publication and unless you are quite dense you've
  detected the "thinly" veiled insults we've tossed each other's way.

  Are we really that different?  Are we the same?  Who takes the cake?


  1. Pen Vs. Sword

     It's been well documented that BMC likes to drop science wherever and
     whenever he can.  He likes to battle you with his large brain.

     K-Rad B most likely will opt to drop his fists on you, if only because
     he doesn't know if you insulted him with whatever comment you threw in
     his direction.  Then again, sometimes he's right, and few can stand up
     to his flurry of punches.  Just ask the boys from Rygal IV...


  2. Herbivore Vs. Carnivore

     Its well known that BMC has fallen in with the Vegans.  It's a
     respectable group -- I believe Da Vinci was a vegan and his comment,
     "My body shall not be a graveyard to animals," is quite endearing.

     K-Rad B on the other hand is a complete carnivore.  "Plants and trees
     are nature's perfect creation, completely in harmony with their
     surroundings.  They have no need or care for the animal world, be they
     parasites, porcupines, or humans."  How could he in good conscious eat
     such noble creatures?  In fact, one time after eating a messhall of
     MoON MonStaRs he made the comment that he wished he could eat humans,
     the least noble of all the world's creatures.


  3. Learned Vs. Unlearned.

     Of course you can't go 10 seconds without BMC talking about University,
     Qwerty, or political issues.  Who has time to concern themselves with
     such things?

     K-Rad B scorns all institutes of learning, he despises books, and he
     concerns himself not at all with the going ons of parliament.  He does,
     however openly seek knowledge from hermits and junkies in rubbie park,
     the true keepers of the flame of knowledge.


  4. Clean Vs. Unkempt

     To those that know the two, it's obvious that with all the side
     projects, BMC simply cannot find the time to properly groom.  His
     wardrobe is lacking.  He's been known to smell, and once he had a stain
     from eating cream corn on his shirt for a week.  Of course he passes it
     all off under the guise of image being a capitalist fallacy.

     Those who know K-Rad B know he wouldn't touch a filthy cricket even
     though Kirby the Gecko's life depended on eating that cricket.


  5. Love Vs. Bitterness

     BMC is in love.  I don't even have to know who she is to see it gush
     out of him.  I think her name is Heckat or Krystal or something like
     that.  That's all fine and dandy.

     K-Rad B often laments of lost love and the pursuit of true love, but
     those who know him well know he is far too shallow to understand the
     true depths of love and the joy that is female companionship... other
     than the wenching he does Friday nights at the Sizzler...


  6. Worldly Vs. Recluse

     BMC is world traveled and well versed in the ways and events of the
     world.  He soaks in the culture and experiences of these exotic places
     and turns them into powerful literature that captures the spirit and
     the mind.

     K-Rad B rarely if ever leaves the high walls of Saskatoon the City of
     Night, and when he does he's very mistrusting and highly skeptical of
     the foreigners from Delisle and North Battleford.


  7. Pride Vs. Shame

     BMC is proud it is known... Openly vocal about the N-com and his works.
     Going to reading sessions, selling hardcopies, promoting and
     advertising wherever he can.  All signs of a man that is proud of his
     work and wants to share it with the world.

     The best K-Rad B can come up with is that occasionally he feels less
     shame than usual.


  8. Realism Vs. Insanity

     BMC has specific desires.  He makes the necessary plans, and then takes
     the necessary steps to meet those goals.

     K-Rad B once had a dream that he was his idol, King Leopold of Belgium.
     His biggest desire is to find a false wall in his house that contains a
     chest of money.


  9. Bashful Vs. Reserved

     BMC has a style best described as in your face.  If you've known him
     for any length of time then you've seen him naked...

     K-Rad B doesn't even like wearing shorts and pornography makes him
     uncomfortable.


 10. Imaginary

     In the end however both are fictional characters based loosely on the
     real lives of Cog and Gnarly Wang.


  +-------------------------------------------------+
  |  BMC                                            |
  |                                                 |
  |  First N-Com Appearance:                        |
  |  "Drugs=Conspiracy"                             |
  |  The Comintern #1                               |
  |  May 24, 1995                                   |
  |                                                 |
  |  Website:                                       |
  |  "BMC"                                          |
  |  http://www.neo-comintern.com/writers/bmc.html  |
  +-------------------------------------------------+
                                                                       ,o$o
   o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b
  d$$$'                                                               `  `$$b 
 d$$'                           Heartbeat Props                           ,$$
 $$:                                by BMC                               ,$P
  `$n,.. .  .   .    .     .      .        .      .     .    .   .  . ..P' 
    `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

  That's so embarrassing: my first article, "Drugs=Conspiracy."  I was young
  and foolish, but there was a truth behind my words.  I have always
  believed that alcohol and other mind-numbing substances are tools of the
  bourgeoisie.  They stupefy the working class, break their concentration,
  and prevent them from focussing their angst against those who oppress
  them.  Users of drugs alter their body chemistry in order to help them
  cope with the injustice of our world, but without drugs they might instead
  harness their frustration and make a positive change.

  And when people get addicted to drugs, motherfuckers be like, "Well if you
  didn't take so many drugs you could do whatever you wanted to.  It's all
  your fault, my man."  But seriously, none of us chose to be born into this
  kind of society, and as a solitary person it seems impossible to make a
  difference, so why not just get high?  It's a rough circle.  I usually
  alternate between the trying to make a difference and making bongs out of
  copper pots and children's toys, just to keep it fresh.

  That's what my first article ever was supposed to be about, more or less.
  And now I look at this zine, The Neo-Comintern, and I say "Damn.  We're
  doing it, making a difference with every word."  That's been my vision
  since day one, and somewhere along the line I realized the way to
  accomplish this was through articles and fiction that make people question
  the world they live in.  We've put out some top-notch bits with overt
  political messages, hitting up some of those perspectives like Socialism,
  Feminism, Animal Rights, Environmentalism, and Pacifism.  All in all, it
  boils down to a mandate of promoting a wide-ranging, all-encompassing,
  capital-C "Compassion."

  But wait, isn't The Neo-Comintern about weird stuff and not specifically
  political shiznit?  Yes, that is true for the most part.  But even when
  the writing isn't political, it still is.  I recall a discussion with one
  N-Com writer who told me that there was no message to anything that he had
  ever written, and that for the most part it was just absurd.  I pointed
  out that absurdism is a message in itself, since it challenges the reader
  to think about the way knowledge is constructed and rethink things they
  had previously taken for granted.  To make readers question their beliefs
  is an accomplishment, since it encourages people to steer away from the
  appeal to tradition and think for themselves instead.  So there you go.
  Political.  That's the shit Socrates was executed for.

  That's the shizzit we're going to be executed for someday.

  Looking around at the N-Com writing staff, I'm honoured to have such a
  wonderful group of people to work with.  Sometimes it might be tough to
  get people to submit articles, but all in all it is the greatest delight
  in my life to receive such great writing.  My dream has always been to
  write and publish the kind of shit that I always wanted to read but
  couldn't find anywhere else.  I feel like I'm doing that now.  Thank you,
  all of you wonderful persons.

  But my dream, my dream, my dream incorporated some sort of writing the
  stuff I wanted to be reading.  Well I must admit that I've slipped up in
  that department over the past year or so, and I would like to publicly
  apologize, both to the reading audience and to myself.  In the rush of
  administrating what seems like hundreds of projects, I'd forgotten what it
  was that drew me to this world in the very beginning: the mystery of being
  able to write something and then have other people read and enjoy it.  I
  don't know if I've stopped writing the things I love, or if I've just
  stopped having people read it, but I don't think anybody's been enjoying
  it much lately.  So I'm giving up on whatever else I need to give up on
  and dedicating my pen back to this project.  Wish me luck; as you can see
  by this article, my prose is starting to sound a little rusty.  But enough
  excuses.

  Did I thank the writers yet?  Yes I did, but let me again.  I love all of
  you.  I can't count how many times you folks have kept this zine alive
  when it was about to take a dive.  Aside from contributing articles, you
  also contribute love and emotional support.  You're more family than
  family.  I would drop some names, but how can I thank Komrade B for
  starting this zine with me, or Gnarly Wayne for contributing at least a
  hundred articles over the past 225 issues?  Or Cog for always putting
  effort in on the website, the print zine, and chipping in cash at key
  moments when cash was needed?  Or Junior Haagis for teaching us all the
  meaning of parasitic love with a tapeworm named Tol Chilibek?  Margarina
  Cataclysma gave us our first taste of poetry, followed up by superstar
  poets Heckat, Ahmed Balfouni, and ada.  Melatonin has been a force to be
  reckoned with in the N-Com lamp/nightstand world for the past year or two,
  and he also abducted the one we call Ei'det-ik and forced her to write
  thousands of articles and poems, the first of which appears in this very
  issue.  Spite, well, we have lots of stories; one time we fed goldfish to
  her turtle.  Our good friends, Socko, KJames199, and The Net Prophet, who
  have been long-time readers and short-time writers: let's not forget those
  great folk.  Metal K. Dick let me sleep on his floor and taught me how to
  love a woman called Stella Artois.  And then you factor in our
  Textscene.Com friends The Prime Anarchist, AlterEcho, Leandro, gir, and
  linear,  and you start to wonder how we could fail with such a great
  community of text zine writers who all scratch each other's backs and pick
  nits out of each other's fur.

  At the time of this writing, there are a few people who come to mind who
  haven't submitted to this issue, but still deserve a mention: aster and
  Trilobyte are my heroes of text.  cv.crud is my mellow ace, and Lobo
  Licious is also a force to be reckoned with.  Jet Jaguar has always been a
  good friend of mine and also a political mentor.  (Jet Jaguar, where are
  you?  E-mail me.)  Mogel has always had words of inspiration for me, of
  course between breaths when he was talking about .txt as a dead medium,
  but he's my man in spite of himself.  Bu Joe has always been a slice,
  whether releasing new DoC issues or flying through space at breakneck
  speeds in order to fuel the Maraken cause.

  This is so unfair!  I'm forgetting at least a dozen people (specifically
  all of the people who have contributed art to the print zine, and
  generally everyone else), and I also want to say more about the people
  I've already mentioned, but that could take me another 2000 words easy,
  and I don't know if I can do that.  I want to say at least another
  paragraph about everyone.

  Heckat is the love of my life.  We've been living together for half a year
  now.  Life hasn't always easy, but no obstacle has held us up for long.
  She is my greatest inspiration, except for when I have writer's block, in
  which case I can't blame her.  That's Cog's fault when that happens.

  linear and gir are the driving force behind Textscene.Com.  I can't say
  enough about two people who are so dedicated to the community as to invest
  time and effort in exchange for little reciprocation.  I bow down and
  worship the masters of text.

  The N-Com staff writers are the most loyal writers and best friends I
  could ever hope for.  I can't thank each of you individually.  This issue
  would become sticky with sap, and I'm basically thanking all of you for
  being such awesome friends and submitting the articles that keep this zine
  alive (except for Cog).

  I'd like to thank Cog for being the N-Com's scapegoat over the past 5
  years.  Anything goes wrong, blame Cog.   That's what I always do, and I
  know the rest of the writers do too.

  That's it.  Everybody who knows me knows more or less in what ways I
  appreciate them.  If not, just let me know and I'll send you a paragraph.

  Gnarly Wayne will take me up on that.


      To: Desk of the Editor
      From: An unappreciated lackey (Gnarly Wayne)

      Hi. You might remember me from such articles as every other friggin
      issue.  With the enormous quality and sheer volume of my works, I
      noticed that my name was still only mentioned twice.  If this is not
      rectified within 14 days of receiving this letter, I will have to take
      further action, possibly in the form of writing more articles.


  Well that ought to conclude the thank yous. THANK YOU EVERYONE!

  It's nigh time for me to stop this nonsense.  It's time to get started on
  next week's issue.  It's going to be good, I tell you.  IT WILL CHANGE THE
  WORLD!

  IT WILL CHANGE THE WORLD EVERY DAY!

  IT IS THE DAWN OF A NEW ERA step the fuck back Socrates, here's your
  philosophy, N-Com-style!  Compassion-style!  Subverted literature for
  subverted people!  Pass the hemlock, beeyotch!

  Execute me, motherfucker!  Compassion will never die!  Long live the N!

                         
 .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.

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   | THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME           (306) 373-9778 |
   |___________________________________________________|
   |     Website at: http://www.neo-comintern.com      |
   |        Questions?  Comments?  Submissions?        |
   |        Email BMC at bmc@neo-comintern.com         |
   |___________________________________________________|
   | The Current Text Scene : http://www.textscene.com |
   |___________________________________________________|

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  copyright 2003 by                                            #225-02/11/03
  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.
