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The Neo-Comintern 008
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E-MAG
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The Neo-Comintern Installment 8
We are The 5th International
March 17th, 1998
Editor: The BoSS MC
Assistant Editor: Komrade B
Writers:
Cog
BMC
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Featured in this installment:
Bouncers or Drones?- Cog
Baggin On Uno- BMC
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EDITORS NOTE
Ha Ha! This one's cool!
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BOUNCERS OR DRONES?
By Cog
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These days, there is surely one large group of people which stand for
everything that I am against. This group is intolerable, inhumane, and
immoral. Yes, folks...I speak of bouncers.
One would assume that a bouncer's job is simply to break up a fight
if and when it occurs, or to collect the cover charge...
Wait. Let's look at this whole "cover-charge" issue, first. If I'm
not mistaken, a cover charge is for someone who does not intend to buy
anything once they're inside. Why, then, do they extract said charge from
EVERY single would-be patron, regardless of whether they intend to purchase
anything? If you ask me, I think -- no -- I KNOW that this charge is used
to fund the semi-secret Bouncer Alliance. The organization must support
itself somehow, correct?
STEP 1 - PAY NO COVER-CHARGE
Now back to the issue at hand. The bouncers mainly rely on their
physical appearance to intimidate us. Failing that, they will use thinly
veiled threats of excessive violence. What next? Are they going to drag us
screaming from our homes in the dead of night? Not if I can help it!
STEP 2 - LOCK YOUR DOORS
Let me share a tale about my brush with the Bouncers last night. It
all started rather innocently, as a matter of actual fact. A few friends and I
were going for a night out on the town, when we happened upon one specific
place. Well, we thought, we might as well go here; it looks like quite a
fine establishment (FASCISM MAY LOOK GOOD ON THE OUTSIDE TO SOME, BUT BEWARE
ITS TEETH!). We then proceeded up to the door.
Upon entering, we were asked for a $2 cover charge. I payed their
vulgar charge with coins...coins that I had personally soiled with my own
urine. They are welcome to this money, I thought, as it symbolizes exactly
what the Bouncers are; the center of their organization is all about money,
while the part that we all encounter is made up of human waste and filth. I
had sent my message while still paying their vulgar charge. I would not be
beaten this night. You see! That is how they play the game. INTIMIDATION.
The "pay what we say, or you will get hurt" mentality makes me sick.
Everything was going as it should up to this point. That is, until
we were asked for identification. I had my photo-identification card at the
ready, since I know that if you cannot prove to the bouncers beyond a shadow
of doubt who you really are, they will drag you kicking and screaming to the
Monster Labour Camps. Believe me, I am in no hurry to end up there!
But, wait! Could it be? Yes. Oh, God yes. One of my friends
DOESN'T have photo-identification! The bouncer was slowly slithering up to
him at this point, and success for our side was imperitive!
"Need to see some i.d., worm", the bouncer wheezed.
"Sure. Just don't abduct me after seeing my address, Bouncer", said
my friend in an obvious tone of disgust. He is quite the sly one, making
stipulations so that it appears he has the upper-hand in the situation.
He pulled his i.d. out of his wallet; a near-avalanche of cards, both
paper and plastic, spilled out onto the counter. Each card bearing at least
two items: his name, and his age. Some were even imprinted with additional
information such as a short description, or an address.
"Need photo i.d., worm", said the bouncer.
You see, my friend doesn't go to the bar very often. He doesn't know
that the bouncers are quite specific in their demands, and that those demands
must be met in full before an audience with the bartender is granted. As a
result, he hadn't thought that photo-identificaion was a "must-have". How
wrong he was.
"Out", said the bouncer.
What? Had we come this far only to get beaten? I assured the foul
bouncer that my friend was indeed the person on the identification cards. No
use. I proposed that if my friend could get the p.i.n. number on his bank
card correct, then he must be the person listed on the card. It was of no
use. Bouncers, it seems, are beings without reason. Perhaps they are
nothing more than drones for some sort of Super-Bouncer. I was in no hurry
to find out, so I proposed that we leave and form some sort of "plan B".
<time was passing...>
We arrived back at the bar with a fresh plan in mind. We had grabbed
anything we could find that paired my friend's picture with his name.
Yearbooks, student cards, anything. We proudly walked up to the bouncer and
displayed what we had come up with, confident that victory was at hand.
He laughed.
We insisted that this was unrefutable photographic proof of who my
friend was. We even pointed out the name on the student card, and compared
the name to my friend's other identification. Although it matched, it
wouldn't convince the bouncer for some reason. The "drone" theory was really
starting to take root.
We noticed another bouncer that was traversing the bar had started
heading our way. "Trouble", I thought. The bouncer just came over and told
the other bouncer that we were to leave. Obviously this bouncer was a
"higher-up", and it would seem that there was telepathy at work here.
Perhaps the bouncers aren't all that different from the lowly ant. The only
difference being that the ant is noble, of course.
Back to the car. But...IT CAN'T BE! IT WAS LOCKED...and we didn't
have the door key. Out of the frying pan, as the saying goes. We had to use
the phone in the bar.
We walked back in, and behind us the walls were instantly riddled
with bullet-holes. I made a grab for the phone...AND REACHED IT! But it
promptly disintegrated. At this point, a bald-headed fat bouncer was rushing
towards us. His arms were covered in tatoos, which I imagine was supposed to
intimidate the average Yahoo. On the contrary, it made him look quite like a
prison-bitch. In light of this, I feared what he would do to me, so I left.
He was telling the rest that they had better leave "or else".
We regrouped on the steps amid warnings that we had better get off of
the property. But how could we? The car was locked! I had a plan!
I unsheathed my bionic arm, and used it to extract the lock-peg from
its housing. CLICK! Victory. The door was no longer locked, and likewise
we also were no longer locked in a battle for survival against the bouncer
colony. We decided the best thing to do would be to go somewhere else.
Somewhere peaceful. Somewhere that freedom prevails. Somewhere that we may
talk openly about Communism and its benefits to society. We went to Bud's on
Broadway, and sat down to some music and a cool, cool drink.
Then someone asked us for i.d.....
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BAGGIN ON UNO
By BMC
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Ok, now uno is a game that is fun to some, but not all. I, for one,
am opposed to the vile nature of the game, and I curse the foul beast who
created this travesty. Your uno is so fat when it sits on the toilet it
leaves a ring around the motherfucker. Uno is too simple of a game for
children to play, for it teaches that life is a thing based on luck instead
of skill. Uno is a game for nobody. Your uno is so old, it co-wrote the
10 commandments. Uno is a game that could be implemented in a communist
system, where the soldiers of heroism learn that however prepared, willing,
cunning and intelligent you are, some talentless loser (who may or may not
write for an e-mag) can still come into the game and beat you. Your uno is
so old, it's birthday expired. Uno is simply not a game for the masses,
instead it shall be restricted to the high ranking communist officials.
Word to Ra! I cut your uno's arms off so it couldn't kick it.
By The Bo$$ MC
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___________________________________________________
|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://www.sfn.saskatoon.sk.ca/~ad357 |
|Email The BoSS MC at manta1@hotmail.com |
|___________________________________________________|
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Copyright (c) 1998 Comintern Publications and The Boss MC
All Rights Reserved. #7-3/17/98
