- - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - cccccc, ccccc, cccccccccccc, ?$$$$$$$$$$, ,ccc, ,cc :`$$$$$$bc :`$$$$c ::`$$$$$$$$$$$$c`:"$$$$????$$b "$$$$c, `$$h `:`$$$$$$$$c,:`$$$$h `:: ?$$$b :::;$$h`:`?$$$,::`$$b `$$$$$$c, ?$$$c ``:`$$$$$$$$$$,`$$$$c ..,,,:"$$$b `:::` `:"$$$b :`?$B,:"$$$$$$$$$$?$b `::`$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$h:"$$$$c:`$$$b `:`?$$$c`:`$$b:`?$$b."?$$:`?$. `::`$$$$$$P?$$$$$$$$c:`????":`?$$b. ,?$$.`:?$$$h.;,?$$;:"$$$,`:"`:`$$ `::`$$$$$$.`"$$$$$$$h::`` :::"$$$, .,:d$$b`:`?$$$$$$$$$;``?$Fb `:` `::`$$$$$$.` "?$$$$$c, `:::"$$$$$$$$$$$$$.:.?????""";` `:::` `::`$$$$$$ `::"?$$$h. `:::`?@$$$000P?"' : :::::''` `::`$$$$$b `::`?$$c, ::: ""'''';,,:` `::`$$$$$b `::`;" ` ;;;:''' t h e `::,????), `::' n e o - c o m i n t e r n `::::::` e l e c t r o n i c m a g a z i n e n e o - c o m i n t e r n . c o m - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - s u b v e r s i v e l i t e r a t u r e f o r s u b v e r t e d p e o p l e m a r c h 1 0 t h , 2 0 0 2 e d i t o r - b m c - - - - ----==={ I N S T A L L M E N T 1 9 3 }===---- - - - - w r i t e r s : a h m e d b a l f o u n i m e l a t o n i n - - - - ----==={ F E A T U R E S }===---- - - - - these whispers among us many by Ahmed Balfouni Allergy Glasses by Melatonin - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - e d i t o r ' s n o t e - - - - ---==={PLEASE DO NOT READ THE FOLLOWING!}===--- - - - - True Story of this Morning: Sunday morning is when Neo-Comintern issues are put together. As I woke up this morning, I was feeling a bit sluggish because I had only slept for five hours last night. As I proceeded to N-Com HQ, I created a layout and editor's note in my head. But, as you all know, when composing intricate webs within the brain, one must be able to stay in a flexible and heightened state. When pushing one's reasoning to the outstretches, any little distraction can increase the tension, eventually snapping the strand of thought. Ahem. I got here, N-Com HQ, and guess what? I found out that there is a blackout. It could be hours before I reach a computer. If this message reaches you, please know that my death was not in vain. It warns about the blahblahblah of somethingsomethingsomething. Right? Right? Actually, my point was that it broke my train of thought. So there I was, sitting around and waiting for the power to go on, when I decided to look at some notes I had written on my portable notetaking device. There I beheld some amazing words that I had indeed written, but did not remember writing. It takes me back to a time of approximately two weeks ago. Please come on this voyage through time with me: [Two weeks ago:] I got my wisdom teeth pulled. All of them. When I was given Ibuprofin and T3 with my antibiotics, I believed that I was supposed to take them every six hours along with the antibiotics. Apparently you are only supposed to take them as needed, so I spent the first week high off my ass on codeine and painkillers. I don't remember anything that happened that week. It all started in the office. They gave me this gas that made me laugh and I didn't even know why I was laughing. Then they gave me a needle and I closed my eyes and it seemed like the next time I opened them was when I was in the next room. But I actually got my teeth pulled out, holes drilled in my jaw, the skin of my gums peeled back like a cap, and all that stuff. I didn't remember a thing. Apparently, another thing that I didn't remember was an important note that I wrote to myself on my portable notetaking device. I only use this device when I get ideas for stories, so I know this was supposed to be an article, poem, or short story. Can you tell which? [Untitled Work, composed in drug-induced blackout] my mooth ie dry k- it hill seenibalwatt hith bloo yao in kfor no reasnn2 dryy mouth lithor is 1 od goodru combos While I admit that this work is not my best, it certainly ranks among those that are the most peculiar. On that note, I think you will agree with me that the recently discovered work is much better as an editor's note than as a column. In this issue you will get a chance to read two pieces, one by Amhed Balfouni, and one by Melatonin. Both of these writers are bold, poetic, and also quite strange. These guys are real N-Com superstars, so I'll leave the rest of the issue to them. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - THESE WHISPERS AMONG US MANY - - - - -- -------===={by Ahmed Balfouni}====------- -- - - - - the matamore of Bobadil he were a very pretty fellow with his bit of Ribband on his sleeve and his poison pen yellow bless you Sir 'a was a good man in a bad time Sir round about he drove mad as any March hare Sir yet who would not be so mad in quest of a Spanish Main it were a long time pissing out the conflagration in Pudding Lane he waked as out of a bad dream the signification of which was Mallarmé or Frost his woodchuck or his navigator's art until at last slept out at door my gallant gentleman no more - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - ALLERGY GLASSES (From the Odd Life of Jonny Strange) - - - - -- -------======{by Melatonin}=======------- -- - - - - Like all men, the man began as a boy, and the boy was born into a world overrun by corporate slogans and capitalist propaganda. At first it didn't bother him, or, if it did, it did so only slightly. A rash here, a bit of a cough there. Nothing his parents couldn't dismiss as the traditional, minor illnesses of a newborn babe. But at five the symptoms increased -- mumps, measles, the flu every day at school, swollen glands during Saturday morning cartoons. Finally the boy's parents took their son to an allergist and after a comprehensive series of specialized tests, it was soon determined that Jonny Strange, only child of Bob and Ella Strange, was, in fact, allergic to advertising. That was twenty years ago, and after a long hard life lived mostly indoors, in dank basement cellars and cramped, mothy attics, free from TVs, radios, magazines, labels, and any other object that could infiltrate Jonny's sloganless world, a change finally came. Bob and Ella passed from old age within weeks of each other, and poor Jonny, sheltered, pale, and utterly out of the cultural loop, found himself confronted first with an endless onslaught of bills, and later the sleepless vigilance of the repo man. Our hero was given a scant two weeks to reintigrate into society, which would seem like a stretch, given this eccentric tale, but Jonny had a secret up his sleeve. Having spent the bulk of his life lost and forgotten in the cracks of society, he had developed a key skill: scavenger invention, culled to perfection out of years of boredom and isolation. Jonny could build almost anything out of anything, and it was this that he fell back on now, in his time of utmost crisis. All that stood between him and freedom was a pair of glasses, pieced together from boxes of broken electronics and bits of rusted machinery, that, like a mute button for the world, had the amazing ability of "blocking out" every piece of advertising society could throw at him. And so Jonny placed the finishing touches on his priceless invention and, trembling with fear and anticipation, tried them on for the first time one chilly autumn night. With clutched chest he quickly stumbled into his parents' old bedroom and peered deep, deep into his father's classic Coca-Cola mirror -- an act that under any other circumstance would have been suicidal. Jonny stared and waited, counting the seconds and sweating all over. Finally, after a full minute, the first symptom appeared. A nose bleed, black and warm. Jonny wiped the two running lines aside and leaned in, challenging the mirror, his mind reeling with the wonderful, terrible wait. But in the end there were no more problems, and Jonny, drunk with the joy of newfound freedom, threw his head back and yelled to the Heavens, "My invention has worked. Oh thank you, thank you, my invention has worked!" And the next day, after eight thankless hours on the job, the repo man stopped into his favourite bar for a cold mug of beer, bearing with him strange stories of a mysterious man-child who whistled a happy tune as he lost his home forever. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - 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 . Submissions of 25-4000 words are wanted; the average article length is approximately 200-1000 words. Send submissions via email attachment to , or through ICQ to #29981964. Contributors will receive copies of the most recent print issue of The Neo-Comintern; works of any length and type will be considered for publication in The Neo-Comintern Online Magazine and/or The Neo-Comintern Magazine. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - ___________________________________________________ |THE COMINTERN IS AVAILIABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBS'S | |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~| | TWILIGHT ZONE (905) 432-7667 | | BRING ON THE NIGHT (306) 373-4218 | | CLUB PARADISE (306) 978-2542 | | THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME (306) 373-9778 | |___________________________________________________| | Website at: http://www.neo-comintern.com | | Questions? Comments? Submissions? | | Email BMC at bmc@neo-comintern.com | |___________________________________________________| - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - c o p y r i g h t 2 0 0 2 b y #193-03/10/02 t h e n e o - c o m i n t e r n 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.