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 `$$$P' $P $$ $$P The Neo-Comintern Electronic Magazine -- Installment Number 215 .... .. . . . . . . . . . . . . .. .... `""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' Subversive Literature for Subverted People Date: December 1st, 2002 Editor: BMC Writers: AlterEcho ada Spite Melatonin Heckat Gnarly Wayne BMC d""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""b. ;P Featured in this installment: .b $ $ $ Visions of Pizza Delivery in an Undead Apocalypse - AlterEcho $ $ Dear Management - ada $ $ oven - ada $ $ My Dinner with Pierre Elliot Trudeau - Spite $ $ 1-800-EAT-NCOM - Melatonin $ $ Pizza for Dummies - Heckat $ $ Neo-Comintern Delicious Monstrosity Pizza - Gnarly Wayne $ $ The Super Incredible Coins of Pizza - BMC $ `q p' `nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn' EDITOR'S NOTE (please do not read the following) Good people of the world, I have defected yet again, and this time I have invited the entire Neo-Comintern staff to come with me. We all live in Pizza now. Or wait - is The Neo-Comintern is no longer a magazine, but a pizza? It's hard to say. I like pizza. Enjoy your pizza. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' Visions of Pizza Delivery in an Undead Apocalypse ,$$ $$: by AlterEcho ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' Ernesto is speeding down the Calder, doing at least 125. Just gone ten - full moon still rising - and the highway is empty, just a few cop cars, one or two hoons, and some Government Pizza delivery turds in their fucking bright orange cars and uniforms. Cops don't really care if you break the curfew. You get mauled by something that goes bump in the night, that's your own problem. Ernesto ain't scared of zombies or skellies anyway, and 'sides, he has no choice. Just doin' his job. He swings the old beast left into the Johnstone Lakes exit. Got some circles of culinary pleasure to deliver in the Lakes. Oh yeah, Ernie's a delivery boy. Not for one of those Government Pizza franchise shits, but for Luigi Bros. Pizzeria, old school and freakin' delicious. Ernesto can't stand Government Pizza. For starters, their pizzas suck. Ernesto would rather go down on Mrs. Luigi than be forced to actually try and keep that shit down. And secondly, well, he can't stand the idea of the monopoly the government has, in pizza, for crying out loud. Stick to telecommunications, or art, or something. Leave the cooking to people who know what they're doing. And thirdly, and most importantly, fuck the man. You know? Left at McLean, right at Costello. He finds the house, honks the horn. A nice looking teenage girl runs from the front door to the car, wearing tight jeans and a sleeveless top. Ernesto would like to explore the curves under that top, but he's a professional. Strictly business. Unless, of course, she makes the first move. He doesn't say anything, just hands over the box and accepts the money. The Hawaiian Tropics ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Cheese, ham, pineapple on a standard base. Salt and pepper. In a word: Boring The girl smiles at him, before turning and jogging back inside, pizza box under her arm. Ernesto shrugs and chucks a three-point-turn. He loves driving. And he loves his car. He's had the beast ever since he was fifteen, a red Datsun Sunny. Red ones go faster, they say. Ernesto knows it. He's done a few custom jobs on the car, but hey, technical details are boring. But you gotta love that Nissan Rallyability. Outside, the car is pretty much immaculate. Dent-free, and no scratches in the paintwork. Inside, looks like a small scale apocalypse. The pizzas sit up in the front with him, along with a small pile of MDs, empty bottles and a half-finished Chicken Coke(tm). In the back, he's got an old guitar, some textbooks, and some empty pizza boxes. Ernesto loves his job, and the discount pizza that comes with it. Luigi makes a mean special, you can bet your left butt-cheek on it. Luigi's Special ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Three types of cheese, salami, meatballs, capsicum, mushrooms, egg, on an extra- thick herb base. Salt and pepper. In a word: Orgasmic! It's early, but Ernesto's finishing early tonight. Got some study to do, and a gig later on. Maybe he'll drop in on that last chick, Ms. Hawaiian Tropics. The night is still young, and there's only one delivery left. He roars past the all-night milkbar and skids left into Jackson with a perfectly executed handbrake turn. Number 44. He slams on the brakes, leans on the horn. Nothing. Ernesto curses; he hates these fuckers who haven't managed to grasp the niceties of pizza delivery. Fuck it, he's not leaving without a 250% tip. He kills the engine, grabs the pizza - another Special - and gets out of the car. There's no response when he rings the doorbell, but the door isn't locked and Ernesto lets himself in. A lot of people would be a bit weirded out by now - shit, but it looks a lot like a B-grade horror movie. But Ernesto's not worried. He gets this at least 10% of the time. Most likely, customer's getting himself laid, or she's got herself wedged in the toilet bowl again. Inconsiderate, yes. Knee-trembling bloody horror, no. Well, not yet. Inside, the house is a mess. There's a lot of glass and ceramic pieces on the tiles, and there's a number of holes in the walls. Ernesto shrugs. He doesn't care, he's seen a purse. Best bet is to chuck the pizza on a table and grab his pay, which has just quadrupled in the last ten minutes. As he extracts a new fifty dollar bill from the purse, he nears a noise and a muffled groan behind him. A pair of what used to be humans shuffle into the kitchen. Ernesto opines that they still are humans, just dead humans. Otherwise known as zombies. He vaults over the kitchen bench and looks to head back out the front, but finds his way blocked by a another pair of smaller zombies. Kids. Great. Ernesto sighs; he's going to have to do this the hard way. Luigi Bros. Pizzeria doesn't make their drivers wear a uniform, but Ernesto is happy to wear a t-shirt with the company name on it. He's proud to be working for the best pizzeria in the whole damn city. And 'sides, chicks dig it. Other than the t-shirt, Ernesto's wearing a pair of faded jeans and old sneakers. He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and whips out a small metal tube. Laser knife, standard for any delivery driver. He's never had to actually use it before, although he has pulled it on a couple of jerks who thought they'd rip him off. And, yep, the chicks love it. The safest bet is probably to go through the two smaller zombies and back out the front, but Ernesto is pissed. He hates it when people don't come and get their food. And it's bad manners to order a pizza, die, and then try and eat the driver instead of the pizza. Don't eat the messenger, right? He presses a small button on the side of the metal tube, and a thin blue line, maybe 3.5 inches long, pops up. He leaps back up on the kitchen bench, where mummy and daddy start groping his leg. He kicks mum in the face and slices down with the knife. Who would have thought a zombie was capable of surprise? Guess anyone'd be the same, just had their arm sliced off. The purse is safely in his back pocket, so now it's time to leave. A couple of zombies in western suburbia aren't really his problem, but Ernesto likes to do what he can. Left pocket, he carries a zippo. Ernesto doesn't smoke, much, but it's a great way to meet women. He jumps down to the floor, where mum is still trying to get back to her decaying feet. Two seconds later, she's trying to put the fire in her hair out. Ernesto's not particularly fond of the stench of burning flesh, and less than two minutes later, he's back in the beast, leaving four burning zombies in his wake. He's up around $750 and he's still got the Special to chow down on. He hasn't even broken a sweat. Oh yeah, but it's sweet being a pizza boy. He figures the neighbours'll call someone about the small fire he's left at number 44, and as he roars back to the Pizzeria to sign off, he turns on the radio, a slice of Luigi's Special already hanging from his mouth. Zombie Surprise ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Lightly grilled chunks of zombie flesh, covered with a thick layer of cheese on a thin base. A few olives; moderate 'shrooms. Salt and pepper. In a word: Dead Ernesto shudders. Keeping his eyes on the road and one hand on the wheel, he reaches across and grabbs a small bottle from the glove box. He popps the lid and upends six or seven little blue pills into his mouth. And after that, well, he's pretty much a zombie himself. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' Dear Management, ,$$ $$: by ada ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' Neo-Comintern Pizzeria Owner: BMC November 20, 2002 Dear Management, Maybe it's not like me to complain, but I've been here my whole life and haven't said a word about the unnecessary amounts of abuse and harassment I have endured because of your employees. I feel that I'm not respected at our place of business and although my role is a crucial one, I don't feel that my ideas are taken seriously in regards to the development of the pizzas. I may be an inanimate object but that does not mean my life exists solely to serve others. It's harder when you aren't human because humans tend to think that we inanimate objects are simply here to provide benefits to their everyday lives. Why can't I have a deeper purpose? I always wanted to be a shell collector at the bottom of an ocean, or an astronaut (although my eyes aren't what they used to be) or an insurance agent. Instead I'm here baking pizzas and taking abuse from the chefs. I know you think my life is filled with misery... okay, it may be filled with misery, but if it wasn't for me, your damn pizza would be raw. I've been talking with the cheese and black olives and they agree with me, but they're too scared to speak out. They're afraid of losing their jobs, and being replaced the way the mushrooms were when they asked for a pay increase. We have to work for you because we're in this kitchen, and all you do is take advantage of us. I guess what I want is more respect. I want a better understanding from all the staff of what we go through to make n-com pizzas. I want a little more credit for my contributions as a crucial part of the pizza making process. Sincerely, Oven ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' oven ,$$ $$: by ada ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' yesterday I yawned and burnt another one boss says I'm gonna get fired if I keep sleeping on the job. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' My Dinner with Pierre Elliot Trudeau ,$$ $$: by Spite ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' He arrived on time, just like he said he would. I heard his distinctive knock at the front door and ran down the stairs to let him in. As I hurried with my coat and mittens, he filled me in on all the exciting news from the Hill. The driver had left the car running and warm for us and within minutes we arrived at our destination. It was no surprise when the car stopped in front of the Pizza Hut. It was Pierre's night to choose the restaurant and this particular one was his favourite. The waiters expected his arrival and had saved his usual booth. As we sat down, the head waiter brought us the list of the finest wines that Pizza Hut had to offer. Soothing muzak played softly overhead and the glowing candles added a touch of ambiance to the romantic atmosphere. My stomach seemed to be a bundle of knots with the anticipation of what was ahead. I don't know how I managed to conceal my nervousness. We ate silently and contemplatively. He ordered the same thing he always did, a large pizza with everything on it. Sometimes, when he wasn't too preoccupied with politics and such, he be more thoughtful and only order half of the pizza with everything on it; then I wouldn't have to pick off the things I didn't like. I sighed heavily as I picked all the green peppers and onions off of the slice on my plate. Now was the time for my confession. The moment of truth. He looked up as I cleared my throat and I held his gaze for what seemed like an eternity before I finally spoke. I told him the truth about all the nights I had told him I was working late, when I was really going to see Jacques Parizeau. I knew I was breaking his heart, but I couldn't hide my love for Jacques any longer. I apologized the best I could and gathered my things to leave. When I got to the door, I turned around for one last look. He was staring absentmindedly through the window at the cars driving by. He had not said a word to me after my confession, but the single tear that slid gently down his cheek onto his half-eaten pizza spoke volumes. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' 1-800-EAT-NCOM ,$$ $$: by Melatonin ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' (Sound of a phone ringing.) BMC: (answers) Good evening, N-Com Pizza. If You Can Think It, We Can Bake It. BMC speaking. How may I help you? MELATONIN: Hi BMC, this is Melatonin. I don't eat pizza, and as a result, I can't participate in your magazine's pizzariffic funfest. B: Ah, but Melatonin, this isn't just any old pizza delivery shop -- this is The Neo-Comintern Pizza Delivery Shop, and here our pizzas contain whatever you want them to. The ingredients are limited only by your imagination, so think away! M: I don't get it. B: Just think about everything you love, slap it on a layer of crust, add some toppings, and there you have it: your very own dream pizza. M: Everything I love? You mean like robots and blind samurai? B: If you want a robot on your slice of the N-Com pizza, that can be easily done. (away from phone) Cog! One robo-supreme to go! COG: (distant) Please, no. No more cooking. B: Shut up, traitor. You'll cook Comintern pizza until I tell you to stop. And even then you'll keep cooking because my forgiveness doesn't come cheap. You can't hijack a man's shit and not expect reciprocity. Now cook you magnificent bastard, cook! M: But wait, BMC! To eat a robot would be to kill it, would it not? B: Hmm. Good point. (away) Cog, stop cooking! M: So maybe I should put all the things I hate on my pizza, and destroy them that way. B: What do you hate? M: I hate apathy, and aversion to silliness. B: I don't think we can put that on a pizza. M: What about greed and avarice? B: No and... no. M: What is avarice anyway? B: I have no idea. M: I hate the sound of people clipping their toe nails. Can I put that on my pizza? B: Well, you can't really eat sound, but I guess I could have someone sprinkle a few of their toe nail clippings into the sauce bucket for you. M: No, it wouldn't be the same. B: Hmm. M: What about Hitler? I hate him. B: Now Hitler I can do. How much Hitler do you want on your pizza? M: Good question. B: You want the feet, the hands, the stomach? M: Er, on second thought. B: You want our special mustache topping? M: Actually, as much as I hate Hitler, I don't think I want to ingest him on my pizza. B: A less odious dictator, perhaps? M: No, I think this whole eat-what-you-hate theory has some serious flaws in it. B: Like what? M: Like the part where I have to eat Hitler's feet. B: You mean the part where you GET to eat Hitler's feet. M: I think I'm going to hang up now. B: Wait, I don't even know what kind of pizza to send you. M: Just put some cheese and some sauce on it. B: But you don't eat cheese. M: Whatever. I'll feed it to my dog. B: That sounds like an insult. M: I think you're stupid. B: We don't carry cheese. M: Your pizza sucks. B: Sorry, wrong number. (Click.) ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' Pizza for Dummies ,$$ $$: by Heckat ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' I used to deliver pizza when I was a teenager for the local hack pizza factory in my small town. I basically hated the job. The tips sucked. My boss was an A-1 asshole. Our establishment was in a strip-mall. Heh? This is like the Neo-Comintern how? Well, it doesn't take a swift-kit to put this one together. Tips? You guessed it, non-existent. BMC? Jerk, and I'm not talking Caribbean chicken. Headquarters? A run-down shack at the end of a foot bridge. There is no escape. Ahh, but one thing I loved about that yorkel machine-shop I worked in as a teenager was the free merchandise. Each night I worked there delivering pizza, my boyfriend worked in the back making it. When the boss would go home (usually piss-drunk by 4 o'clock from sipping his flask beneath the cash register) we would hang out and watch the TV in the back. There wasn't much business at that ol' excuse for a bootstrap, so we pretty much did whatever we wanted - doing whatever we wanted, of course, involved making and eating our own pizzas. We weren't supposed to make pizzas for ourselves. That boss wanted all the monies for pizzas and he didn't want to give no kids handouts no way. He wanted us to bring our own bag lunches with spotted apples and week-old bologna. But we fooled him and we dealt a cold blow to Capitalism in the meantime. Now, the Neo-Comintern, as I have already mentioned, is as treacherous a workplace as Papa's Pizza ever was, but it has its perks as well. Granted, it doesn't have delicious pizza to steal (although, from the thrust of this theme issue, BMC would have you believe that pizza is a bi-product of article writing), however, it does have the articles themselves. Yes, I consider myself a thief of the imagination, a burglar of beauty, a con-artist of the creative conscience. It's difficult to say how stealing articles works exactly, especially considering that BMC posts them on the internet for free and anyone can look at them. I think that the covert appropriation of N-Com material has more to do with evil intellectualizing than it has to do with the physical acquisition of the BMC's property. Perhaps an illustration is in order. "Rock Bottom" is mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, Mine, Mine, Mine, MINE, MINE, MINE, MINE MINE MINE MINEMINEMINEMINEMINEMINEMINEMINE MINE ALL MINE ALL ALL ALL MINE hahahahahahahahhahahahahahhahahahahahahahahaha. You see? "Rock Bottom" doesn't belong to the BMC anymore. The chef isn't his. The noodles aren't his. They aren't even noodles either, it's a vegetarian pizza. The convenience store is actually Papa's Pizza and I'm delivering pizza for them on weekends. I ran that chef out of business. He worked for the Debbie's Family chain. Rats in that restaurant, cockroach soup. That chef is BMC. I ran him out of business and now his last meal will be the pizza that I deliver to him. This is your pizza BMC. This is your last meal. Take a bite you jerk. Eat it. Eat it all up. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' Neo-Comintern Delicious Monstrosity Pizza ,$$ $$: by Gnarly Wayne ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' So I get this eMail from the BMC, world-renowned editor of the Neo-Comintern emag, asking for submissions for some kind of N-Com pizza. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. I was not sure exactly what it was that he wanted me to submit, so I walked over to his house. Yes, the one he is currently in. This article is in present tense, you know. Upon my arrival, I asked the guy what he talking about. It was then I noticed him wearing a floppy white chef hat and he made a little moustache out of the hair that he cut from my head when we were 14. He kept yelling Mama Mia and referring to his pet cat as Luigi. The moustache kinda creeped me out a bit so I walked back home to ponder the night's assignment. I suppose I could just copy some pizza recipe out of one of my many cookbooks. I was against that because I figured a normal old recipe would be so above any of my other articles that someone used to material of my calibre would just shut down and slip into an everlasting coma. I then got to thinking that perhaps I should do one of my everlasting guides; this time... to pizza. I also decided against that because we don't want the world to just be eating hamburger, ham, pepperoni, salami, and bacon pizza from now on. Oh man, one of those sounds good right about now. Be right back. Well that didn't happen. On my way to get pizza, I ended up doing some laundry and getting a drink instead. Geez, can I ever keep my mind on one thing for more than 2 seconds? IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?!?!? The pizza format I'm going with is the same one that probably everyone else is going to use as well. Sometimes I think theme issues are BMC's little way of telling me that he hates me. Replace sometimes with most times and hates with loathes. Okay, here goes: Neo-Comintern Delicious Monstrosity Pizza Dough: represents the solid foundation of the N-Com magazine because of all the writers double majors in English. Sauce: represents the smooth, cool, and tasty style of the N-Com writing staff that sometimes have oregano in them. Ham: represents the often overlooked "funny" side of the Neo-Comintern. Pepperoni: represents the often overlooked "meat" side of the Neo-Comintern. Loonies & Toonies: represents a terrible name for calling money. I mean, come on, it's no wonder the world thinks Canadians are a bunch of weirdos. "Hi, I am from Canada. We named our currency after a duck." In the case of the pizza, though, it represents the awesome empire of capital that the Neo-Comintern has gained over the years. Pieces of Komrade B's "Mangslaughter" shirt: represents the ne'er dying memory of tha eternal B. Cheese: represents 98% of Neo-Comintern. You can use whatever measurements you like for this pizza, because it is going to turn out totally rad no matter what. ,o$o o$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$Y$$$$b d$$$' ` `$$b d$$' The Super Incredible Coins of Pizza ,$$ $$: by BMC ,$P `$n,.. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..P' `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' Man, I just got to Pizza today and I was splendidly surprised by the wild and wonderful coins they have here. They're much unlike any coins I have ever seen. I say they are unlike any other because, of course, they are better. I am an honourary citizen of Pizza now. I've even started a collection of its coins. Let me give you a brief description of each one, just to put you a little bit more into the know as to what kind of wonderful world we can live in. The currency of Pizza falls into three categories, and I will describe each one in exquisite detail for you. The categories are as follows: The basic coins, The meat coins, and the vegetable coins. There is also a fourth, extra special category. I call this one the "extra special coins" category, since that's exactly what it is. Let's talk basic. Not to be confused with the long-obsolete coding language, the basic coins of Pizza appear in three varieties: Dough, Sauce, and Cheese. Dough: This is the least valuable of the basic coins. It is very large and also very floppy. It looks like a mix of flour and water, but it is spread out very far and roundly with everything else on top of it. It is pretty much worthless and does not have much of an impact on the overall economy of Pizza. Sauce: This is one coin that you may not want to keep in your pocket all day long. It is worth more than dough, but tends to leak through the side of your pocket, unlike other currencies that tend to burn a hole in your pocket! Cheese: The mint has traditionally created these coins in lacto-format, but I prefer the updated soy variety. I refuse to accept the old kind as change, and I think they are actively being recalled by the bank of Pizza. The Meaty Moneys Like the lacto-cheeses of the basic division, true meats are quickly becoming a thing of the past, finding themselves replaced by soys. Soys are much more attractive and I tend to want to save them rather than spend them, but spend them I do, and everything purchased with these coins feels all the more well-earned. Veggie Pepperoni: Small and round, much like the 20 cent coin of Brussels. For this reason I pledge my undying affection to it and have a shrine set up to it where I worship and praise it before spending it. Veggie Ham: The largest of all currency, it is somewhat like the Fredericton "Toonie." I'm not sure what to think about this one. It takes up a lot of space in my pocket. I wish they'd come up with a bill for this so it isn't so hard to break an olive. Don't worry, we'll be getting to olives in a second. The Veggitty Veggies Although the coins I previously categorized as meats are actually vegetable coins, these coins are vegetables too. So much so, in fact, that they get their own category. While both of them grow on trees or in the ground, they have some differences as well. Let us explore them together. Onions: The staple of any Pizza inhabitant's changepurse, onion coins seem to leave a strange smell on your fingers and nobody seems to want to exchange them for other merchandise. On second thought, maybe these aren't actually coins, but something else that I found in my pocket and mistook for a coin. OK, this one doesn't count anymore. Olives: Like onions, they also start with the letter O. This is an important feature of these coins, as Os are round much like coins are. Of course, some are rounder than others. Sauce, for example, tends not to be quite as round as this except for when it is in its natural environment (ie the vaccuum of space) and becomes spheroid. Olives, however, are round all of the time. Except in the land of Pizza, of course, where they are sliced up and spread out all over the place. They're really the tops and I love them even more than the Veggie Pepperoni, if that's possible. EXTRA SPECIAL You may have thought that the Pizza mint could not have possibly thought of anything better for its citizens to spend. You may have been wrong. Chili Peppers: Can't be beat. These tiny coins are rare and unavailable in many parts of Pizza. But I have stockpiled these in my cupboard and use them whenever I can. They make me flip my wig, and they're worth more to me than money. They're made especially for eating. So there you have it - a handy coin directory that you can use whenever you visit Pizza. If you decide to move here, you'll be even better off. As you can see from this article and all of the articles in this issue, Pizza is the best place in the world to be (and real estate is cheap). .d&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&b. The Neo-Comintern Magazine / Online Magazine is seeking submissions. 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 | |___________________________________________________| |The Current Text Scene : http://scene.textfiles.com| |___________________________________________________| - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - copyright 2002 by #215-12/01/02 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.