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The Neo-Comintern 128
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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 z i n e
I n s t a l l m e n t N u m b e r 1 2 8
We Are the New International
November 12th, 2000
Editor: BMC
Writers:
Margarina Cataclysma
BMC
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;P Featured in this installment .b
$ $
$ Data Entry - BMC $
$ Perpetual Hype Machine - Margarina Cataclysma $
`q p'
`nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'
EDITOR'S NOTE
Hi[phi
p horay * : >
.sdoolb ,
COMING SOON - This symbol -> ~ !
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;P DATA ENTRY .b
`q by BMC p'
`nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'
A day of data entry is like a day in hell. Today is data entry day.
Yesterday was also data entry day, and tomorrow will be data entry day too.
Is the task of data entry fun? No. Is the data I'm entering at least
interesting? No.
Data enter. Enter data. Blahblahblahblahblahblah.
Time to go to the bathroom. What a wonderful break from the
monotony. I print off something to read while I am in there. It happens to
be this article (about entering data). As I read, I think that there can be
nothing more mundane than my pathetic existence. This article informs me
that I am right.
Back to entering data. I wish my girlfriend would email me. She is
probably off somewhere, most likely at work. I imagine that right now she
is entering data like I am. We are both entering data, but I imagine that
hers is more interesting. She is entering data. I am entering data. How
datarifically romantic. But then again, don't we all enter data - in our
own little ways?
I hear a ding. I have email. Oh hooray. It is work related. It
says "Please continue to enter data." So I do.
Data data data data data data data data data data data data data data data.
I stop entering data for awhile and attempt to daydream, but just
like flooring the gas pedal on a car that is in neutral I find my brain
revving at an amazing speed but my thoughts go nowhere. There is no
creativity in that brain. So I close my eyes and see visions of data. I
see a clear and open Regina sky where data drifts by me at a slow warm
breezy pace. It is relaxing. Ahh, the beautiful, pointless data...
Suddenly the data speeds up until it is flying past my eyes at
speeds that make me dizzy to the point of nausea. I look around and I am
naked in my data entry chair and I cover my genitals so that the data can
not see my exposed and vulnerable humanity. I realize it is useless as the
data bears down on me and I awake screaming.
Well I'm not screaming so much as startled, because the phone on my
desk has just started to ring and I pick it up and say, "Hello?"
"Is the data entered yet?"
"Almost," I reply. And that means it's time for me to get back to
data entry.
That accounts for the first ten minutes of my day, and then there
are only four-hundred-and-seventy more minutes that must pass before I can
go home.
Ahh to drag my body home to bed after eight hours of data entry. To
sleep, perchance to dream. Aye, but there is the rub. I know what my
dreams will hold. Visions of data entry will seep out from between the
cracks of my closed mind and I will be at work again even though I am not
conscious. All of the boredom and stress of work will be mine, though I am
not getting paid for these hours. Should I be though? I think so, but my
data seems to think otherwise.
I apologize for ending this so abruptly, but I must bid you
farewell. My master and life partner by the name of data entry is calling
me, and it will destroy me if I don't cater to its whims. Goodbye forever.
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;P PERPETUAL HYPE MACHINE .b
`q by Margarina Cataclysma p'
`nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn'
"As the mist leaves no scar/ On the dark green hill/ So my body leaves no
scar/ On you, nor ever will." L. Cohen
On this day, comrades and compadres, I find myself with a mess of jewels,
magnetic and transparent, to share with you...
In the absence of your company these long months I have had periods of
headbanging insanity and calmer, more lucid times as well (will elaborate
further if pressed).
Perpetual Hype Machine:
nasal infirmities
clairvoyant jewelry
the silly thrum
dimpled and dyed
Debunker:
and the devil may care,
but knowing what I know of human nature
he probably does not but rather is
merely obsessed with his state of being
in other being's eyes... therefore whatever
... and then there's that sick feeling you get when you're riding behind a
logging truck, and then you start imagining that his tie-downs snap and and
all the logs roll off and come barrelling down through your windshield. and
you think to yourself "it's just not logical" but truly (troth) fear hiccups.
(that's what he likes, girl.)
Partial:
partial to the colour green
sensitive like cats
sensitive to dry rot
and the cone tips
over, spills it's fruit
into your lap, so i dance.
Finalement:
is not that one road more treacherous
but twisty accidents will happen.
earth claims toll
from place to place.
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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 at: http://members.home.com/comintern |
| Email BMC at: thebmc@home.com |
|___________________________________________________|
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Copyright 2000 by The Neo-Comintern #128-11/12/00
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.
