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The Neo-Comintern Electronic Magazine -- Installment Number 217
.... .. . . . . . . . . . . . . .. ....
`""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'
Subversive Literature for Subverted People
Date: December 15th, 2002
Editor: BMC
Writers: Melatonin
Komrade B
BMC
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;P Featured in this installment: .b
$ $
$ Guest Editor's Note - Melatonin $
$ Life Before Death - Komrade B $
$ Fries (Part 2) - BMC $
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EDITOR'S NOTE
(PLEASE DO NOT EAT THE FOLLOWING!)
I was hauling a claw-footed bathtub across the Painted Desert when BMC
came riding up to me on a grey pony. "What up?" said he. "I've been
thoroughly swamped with my various BMC activities, for example, learning
how to surf. Can you help me out, old chap, and write up a guest editor's
note for this week's Comintern?"
"I don't know, BMC," I said. "I'm kind of busy myself, what with me
hauling this bathtub across the desert for no reason whatsoever."
BMC stared at me, unimpressed. He plucked his monocle from his eye and
began to polish it with the sleeve of his coat.
"Surfing, Melatonin, surfing," he whispered, then gave the pony a kick in
the ribs and went riding off into the sunset.
"Oh dear," I thought, and climbed into the tub. "This is awful. Now BMC
hates me and will never let me write for his magazine again." I felt
horrible. I wanted to kill myself. I decided to drown myself in the
bathtub just to make BMC feel bad. I turned on the taps but nothing came
out -- not because I was in the middle of the desert, as you might think,
but because the pipes were clogged. I increased the water pressure until
the tub gave a low groan and a clump of soggy paper came blasting from the
tap. I picked it up and began to read the story below, a harrowing look
into Komrade B's love for BMC.
After I was finished, I felt a lot better. Thanks Komrade B! Your pain
and anguish really cheered me up! Good work.
,o$o
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