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                   `""""""""~    ."               `""""""""~
                               ."

                         this is chemical chocolate!

                               _______________
                             ||    |__|    |__||
			     :|    |  |    |  |:
			     .|    |  |    |  |
			      |_______|_______|
                             .chemicalchocolate.
                                .issue three.

                          .%$!a juke production!$%.
				    __.__
				 |\'_   _`/|
			   _.--_.' @ `v' @ '.,--))._
			 _,----( `--'`m'`--' )_((_
			   __---`.__,-.-.__.'   ))`--
				   `\	/'     ,''`-
				   ,/_._\.===-'
				   (	 )
				    '-v-'

                                  'cc is me'
                                      -juke

 .-- -    ------ --  -- -------------   --      -----------------       ------.

	.- coffee? -.

		coffee anyone? only serve it black here. none of the fancy
		stuff for all you alternative types. just black.

			.- his soul -.

	This is about a boy. A boy who wants to know who he is. People look
at him and say he's lonely, but he isn't. People look at him and say his ideas'
are stupid, but he knows they aren't. The boy looks at these people and wonders
"do they feel the same things I do? Probably not. Do they really know me? No,
I'm sure of that. No one really knows what is inside of me. No one, not a soul.
He repeats that to himself over and over, time after time. No one, not a soul.
No one, not a soul. No one, not a soul. No one, not a soul.

  .- a muzzle -.

	  sometimes, the feeling of that restraint is nice, get's
		everyone all tense inside.

		     to the man that put that restraint on me, thanks. i
			thank you for it. now when i see you, because of that
			  restraint -- i know what i see. it got me all
		       tense inside, and made me learn; want to learn. oh,
			 because you made me all tense inside with that muzzle
	   over my mind. i can now see all the other muzzles
			around me. thanks, man.

							i love ya.

     .- the repented gimcrackery -.

       . (cheap advertisement) .

	     one three o nine four five two five six three nine

		[d2o] this is a doomed to obscurity bbs [d2o]

			       � ��
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		  . o ( the repented gimcrackery ) o .
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			   [d2o]������[d2o]

		       'call, or we'll shoot you'

      back in '96. or shortly after that. but it will be, i promise.

		.-welcome to cc-.

	so, chemical chocolate looks a little different this issue. So it does.
chemical chocolate will probably change aesthetically every issue, since there
isn't a certain 'look' per say that i am looking for.

	in other news.

	i was on #zines about an hour ago and had a rather interesting
conversation with cerkit of slinky. man, he has an ego. or did, he says he
didn't get enough sleep. i believe him, i guess. but anyways, the conversation
was about chemical chocolate 'merging' with slinky like it was some sort of an
ansi group.

        if whoever writes for me wants to write for slinky, go ahead. but i
refuse to stop doing cc like it is some sort of commercial product that it's
only purpose is to make money.

	because it isn't. it isn't out there to impress people. it's out there
to impress me. if it impresses you, great -- i'm happy for you.

	oh, some of these pieces may have been seen in something called
'muzzle.' 'muzzle' was just something i was doing one night when i was bored.
i think the only guy i gave a copy to was belial. no big whoop.

        if you have any questions about my reasoning for not wanting to
'merge' with slinky, read _Fountainhead_ by Ayn Rand.

	.- desolation isolation -.

	Joe was a guy who liked to spend a lot of his free time by himself.
Most of this free time was spent by himself, at the local Denny's. Which,
ironically, is where the majority of today's high school students spend their
free time on Friday and Saturday nights. Following some sort of logical
reasoning here, this would mean Joe was not alone. But, for some reason,
sitting in that booth somehow isolated himself from the rest of the people in
that restaurant.

	Tonight, though, was Christmas Eve. And tonight, he was alone. Usually
this would make him happy, but tonight it didn't. It didn't make him sad
either, though. Which, was a really weird feeling for him. He was neither
occupied by himself, which is usually what he always was, or lonely. What this
did do, was make him think more than usual.

	The things he was thinking about were a bit unusual, though. Never
before had he studied where he had been probably at least 100 times or more
before. On his table were 12 objects, 2 being the same thing. Around him were 4
booths and 5 tables.

	The 12 objects on his table included a straw, a fork and knife set, a
book, an ice cappucino advertisement, a dessert menu, a salt shaker, a pepper
shaker, a sugar packet holder, a ketchup bottle, a glass of water, a glass of
Mr. Pibb, and two ash trays.

	All tables around him were empty. He was in the back smoking room, all
alone.	Joe never smoked, but liked having the smell of cigarettes around him.

	His thoughts drifted past what was around him, now concentrating on
what seemed like a more serious subject. Joe believed in God. He didn't know
why, but he did. No one forced him to believe as what he did as a child. No one
forced him now, either. He just did, and he didn't know why. Sometimes, he
thought, the Christmas season will do this to people. Get them all riled up.
It's all around, how can people not help but get caught up in the feelings. Why
shouldn't people believe what is all around them? They get all sorts of
wonderful presents if they say they believe in God and Christ, so what's there
to lose? Joe knew it wasn't this. He was sure of it.

	Joe's food is here now. Chicken strips, bowl of chicken soup. Total
should come to about six bucks. Joe's thoughts forgot about his God and moved
on to how much money he wasted on food here every week.

	"Man," Joe thought to himself. "I'm a loser."

	It was then he felt happy with himself and was happily alone, but not
lonely.

                                .- love -.

                                  .- written by that happinin' hal08 -.

  deon warick came to me in a wet dream and said, "halo, you suck."

  well, normally i would put that off as normal #zines bantar, but
  it was different, very different. For one thing it was deon warick
  the hot babe of the #fortune_tellers 'scene.'

  so i quickly retorted, "deon, wassup girlfriend, im just waiting to exhale."

  she then cracked a mild smile, and you could tell cause her white ass
  teeth gleemed at me. then she pleasently kissed me on the forehead and
  said, "hal, im here to help you, your a horrid writer. everything you write
  makes my black ass white. come hal, take my hand."

  thinking im in a previous dto jamesy article, i take her hand. "deon, where
  are you taking me?"

  "to a private room of mine, its where i sell crack."

  "oh, okay."

  so we sit across from each other, and she begins to break into conversation.

  "ok hal, here's what your problem is. you think everyone *thinks* they know
  you correct?"

  "yah deon, a lot of people tend to judge me by how i act, which is wrong."

  "well hal, how are they supposed to judge you? the only opinion people get
  from you is how you do act. you should start to care what people think,
  unless of course you plan to become a hermit, you halfta involve yourself
  with your enviorment."

  "well deon, easier said then done. people already have an opinion, and
  i cant do much to change that. i'm the perfect lamer cause i say i don't
  care, when i think i don't care. i'm sure somewhere i care about everything,
  and for me to interact with my fellow human beings, i guess i'll halfta
  bring that part of me out."

  "good, your starting to learn from your experinces'. you have many faults
  to overcome."

  "fuck you deon. i don't want to hear about my faults. i know i suck. i dont
  need some ugly ass negro getting in muh face telling me shyt. i'm god. i
  think that, why cant everyone else?!@ PLUS, i dont need sum stank ass
  underground rail road hopper nigguh's help, im cool, i will do my own mutha
  fuckin thing yoe!"

  "see, there you go, just like calm down and everything will be okay."

  "1... 2.... 3.... 4.... ok, i'm calm."

  "you halfta ammount for something in your life, ascii wont take you
  anywhere."

  "you're right deon, i am clueless. i now know the error of my ways."

                                                .- Everything Else -.

   A boy sits next to his mother,
   thinking of what his future could be.
   So much to choose from,
   so much to do.
   He is himself,
   and nothing else.
   The boy's mother asks him what he wants to be when he grows up.
   He says he wants to be everything in the world.
   He is himself,
   and nothing else.

	   The boy sits next to his friends,
	   thinking of what he is doing.
	   What should he be doing?
	   What will they think of him?
	   He is not himself,
	   and everything else.
	   No longer did he care for them,
	   no longer did he care for himself.
	   He is not himself,
	   and everything else

   The boy sits next to his grave.
   Thinking of what his past could have been.
   What should he have done?
   There was nothing he could do, he swears!
   It was just him,
   and nothing else.
   They ask him what was wrong,
   but there really wasn't a problem.
   it was just him,
   and nothing else.

	A little history on this poem. This was originally written about a year
ago (2/15/95) in a math class. The poem went on, in a revised form, to be the
words behind "a disturbing, moody piece about the turmoil and struggle of being
oneself (The Pantagraph, Saturday, July 29, 1995."  "Everything Else," the
performing arts piece was done by myself and a friend, Jason Huls, was
critically acclaimed by many. It rocked.


                                .- for fun -.

i did this. i have no use for it. so i'm going to put it here.

               ____    ____   ________0________----0-  .______
              /    \?\/  u|_+_| _    \| _   z \    \| |    .\ |
            /  m |   \   |  ||/    //|/    //| l /  ____ |___| -
        *--_\----|-\/-\-----|---z--- --- --- |---|--'--|--|---|_--*
            /_______\ /__\ ___,\-------|\------|\_______/ __e___|

                                                    juke

there. it says muzzle if you couldn't read it.


        .- biscuits for your soul -.

        "This boy, is your soul."

        The old man pointed at a biscuit in front of him. I can't believe this.
I came to Hardee's to eat my Ultimate Omelet biscuit, now I'm learning
about my soul. From a guy about sixty years old, no less. And using a biscuit
for a reference object.

        "You have to eat the biscuit, son. It is what will make you grow. It
is what will allow you to learn."

        After listening to the man babble for awhile, I figured it was time for
me to respond. "So what you are telling me, is that "the biscuit" is what
allows people to grow and learn? And it's what keeps the soul alive?"

        "It's where you go when you die! The biscuit is everything to this
world. In fact, it is the world."

        What I'm getting from the guy is this. "There isn't any sort of God or
God's then, right? Just a biscuit."

        "If you butter your biscuit just right, you'll be happy forever. But if
it's too dry or too soggy, watch out. The biscuit can be pretty touchy. Now,
that 'Ultimate Omelet' biscuit you got there."

        "Yeah, what about it?"

        "It's pretty greasy. Don't you think?"

        "I guess. What's your point?"

        "My point is, the biscuit don't like to be greasy. It likes to be
nat-u-ral. The eggs is fine. It likes the eggs. The eggs can be good for you
and the biscuit, but that fake bacon can be a dangerous thing."

        "Yeah? Why's that?"

        "Cause it ain't natural, boy! It's fake. The biscuit only likes natural
things."

        I'm down to about 3 hash rounds and about two bites of my supposed
high powered biscuit. "What if I like that fake stuff and want to eat it? Is
there a problem with that?"

        "It's for your soul, boy. It's for your soul. Just remember that."

        The old man got up after that last comment and walked away. Biscuits'
for your soul, eh?


        .- chemical chocolate info -.

the chemical chocolate staff include juke and hal08.

if you like us, tell us. if you love us, write for us. only rules: no sex
stories, no poorly written poetry, and no senseless profanity.

check out the home of chemical chocolate, coming soon AGAIN:

the repented gimcrackery -@-^-@- [309]452-5639.

check out our home page too, although i'm not sure of the address. it's on
zinew0rld, so if you can find that, you can find all sorts of neat CC stuff.

                        .- legal info -.

everything in chemical chocolate is property of the writer. got questions?
asked the author. chemical chocolate itself is @1995 juke. offended by
anything; don't care. you can't sue me.

oh yeah, my email address is owilliam@ice.net. email me any comments or
suggestions.

chemical chocolate three was completed on December 30, 1995. Wow, I'm early
this issue.

.- eof -.