_____ _ |_ _| |__ ___ | | | '_ \ / _ \ | | | | | | __/ |_| |_| |_|\___| _____ _____ _____ | | __| _ | _____ | | | __| |_| | |_____| |__|__|_____|_____| ______ __________ / ____ \ _____ |____ ____| ____ _ | / \_|___ |\ /||__ __||\ | || | _ | \ |\ | | | | / \ | \_/ | | | | \ | || |/ _ \ | ~ / | \ | | | | _| O | | |\_/| | _| |_ | |\ \| || | __/ | |\ \ | |\ \| | | \____/ \___/ |_| |_||_____||_| \__||__|\___\ |_| \_\|_| \__| \______/ E-MAG -\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/- The Neo-Comintern Installment 16 We are The 5th International May 1st, 1998 Editor: BMC Writers: Cog BMC -\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/- Featured in this installment: Editor's Note My Childhood- Cog Remembering My Father, W.O. Mitchell- BMC -\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/- GROWING UP IN SASKATCHEWAN In the midwest we all have our own unique stories of upbringing. It's true! I was told that people in other parts of the world were raised according to some format, or perhaps with the aid of some "baby boom", if I have correct understanding of that term. I also have been told that in other regions of the world, kids can wear shoes in the house, and they refer to pop as "soda". Oh well, it matters not, for it is through experience that you gain wisdom. Here is a sample of such wisdom. -\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/- MY CHILDHOOD By Cog ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Whatever happen'd to the days when Uncle Dad would pick you up under his arms and run the lengths of the family plot, the entire time telling you tales of the Dark Times? One such day, running about on those 3 by 6 parcels of land I learn'd a great lesson, indeed. That lesson, my brethren and sistren, is that no-one knows nose like you knows your nose. Loosely translat'd from the ancient Druid, it means that if you're going to screw around, you better wipe your nose first. Or something like that, anyways. And no-one, not even my evil two-head'd Uncle Dad can change that belief now. I miss those times as much as I miss the lessons. Upon returning to our sod house, I would be command'd by my Auntie Vuunderwhiiv to recite. If I did not immediately recite my memoriz'd lines, my backside would be swatt'd with her greasy manipulos. Most days, however, I would promptly recite the prose I had learn'd that Day: MurderTowen (Translat'd from the ancient Druid) If one were to travel To MurderTowen now, One would almost certainly Lose thy Head in a row. If ye Soul be clean, And ye Mind be free, Then now is the time If ye listen to me. Ye Soul must be clean'd To successfully mold And ye Mind must be free'd To be rightly Controll'd Come with me, my young charge Where the happy will frown Where the goodly do perish In olde MurderTowen. If I successfully remember'd each syllable, and recit'd with most impeccable pronunciation and annunciation, I would escape the horrors which wait for the tardy and stupid in the Night Room. I tell you now, I only had miss'd a syllable once...for one visit is enough in the Night Room! The Night Room is a place where the damn'd find rest, but all other visitors will discover quite the opposite. Wand'ring Souls, Good Intentions, Unforseen Results, and Unfourtunate Events all reside within this 3 by 6 chamber. With no light, and no food (along with the requir'd stay of six months), all that could be perceiv'd were the above mention'd Apparitions. No mortal companionship lurk'd within because THERE WAS NOT ENOUGH ROOM FOR RATS. horror. After my stay in the Night Room, I was releas'd to find that my olde knives were replac'd with new knives, and that my olde mind was replac'd with a new mind, as well; this one as sharp as a knife. I vow'd never to succumb to the demon Sloth again, and promptly learn'd my lessons as they were present'd to me. The days of family end'd on the third day of the month of Mars, 1987. A mystic group of vigilates call'd The Police charg'd our house. They damn'd my family to hell for things They call'd "Child Abuse", "Unlawful Confinement", and something about administering a substance call'd L.S.D. to a minor constantly since birth. I have never seen my family since, and in sooth I vow that the Dark Times will rise once more. Damn ye all to Hell. -\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/- REMBERING MY FATHER, W.O. MITCHELL By BMC ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- I fondly remember the days when my father, W.O. Mitchell, raised me on a southern Saskatchewan farm, just bordering on a small but growing town in the late 1920's. I remember the chores, the long hours of labour on the farm, the hard work which earned me a nickel a month, which in those days was more than enough for me to buy my coca cola, or gumdrops, or crack cocaine, whatever I fancied during the month. So anyway, I remember the dark-haired man who ran the general store, I remember his smile if I would tell him a new cuss I heard dad say the other day. I remember pretending that I was sheriff of that small town when dad was sleeping in the afternoons. I rember that dad never had a job, but he would tend to sleep during the day and afternoon, but I still don't remember why. I rember how that store man would laugh as I came into the store with my sheriff's badge, and I remember how the good man would point out that the badge, which I found, was just a 5-star whiskey label which I found in a pile of garbage beside dad's bed. I remember how dad loved to "write" a good story. I actually remember how dad used to lock me in the closet with a pad and pen, he wouldn't feed me and he'd make me stay in there until I wrote what he referred to as "gold". I remember how when I used to write this "gold", dad used to dissappear for a few days, then he'd arrive home with 2 strange new women, who he would sometimes insist that I refer to as "mom". I remember how he used to make me take his chewing tobacco out of his mouth for him as part of my chores. I remeber the day when I was insolent, and dad put me in the conservatory and beat me with the lead pipe. I remember my father, and how I loved him, and I remember the loving, spiritual Communist that he was. And I remember poisoning his hot bourbon with asbestos the night he died. The End -\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/- ___________________________________________________ |THE COMINTERN IS AVAILIABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBS'S | |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~| | BRING ON THE NIGHT (306) 373-4218 | | CLUB PARADISE (306) 978-2542 | | THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME (306) 373-9778 | |___________________________________________________| |Website http://ncom.base.org | |Email BMC at manta1@hotmail.com | |___________________________________________________| -\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/-\-/- Copyright (c) 1998 Comintern Publications and BMC All Rights Reserved. #16-5/1/98