[ C  H  E  E  S  E ] -

     $##################################################################$
     #NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN CCCCCCCCCC NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN#
     #NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN C NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN CCCCCCC NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN#
     #NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN CCCC NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN CCCC NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN#
     #NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN CCCCCCC NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN C NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN#
     #NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN CCCCCCCCCC NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN#
     $##################################################################$

                                                   - [ C  R  A  C  K  E  R  S ]

      cheese'n crackers
      [DE-CYPHERED, stupid.]

"I really believe, or want to believe, really that I am nuts, otherwise I'll
  never be sane."
                                                            - Allen Ginsberg

      ( Season 1; Episode 1 )
      ( Official Air Date: Tuesday 04/11/02 [Fourth of November, 2002 C.E. )


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------\+


founder & editor :
    brian

issue's contributing writers :
    brian                                             <brian@bubblemonkey.org>
    sam                                             <tocotronic09@hotmail.com>
    Cyber Sammy                                               <??????@???????>
    Billy Sped                                                <??????@???????>
    matt                                                <atarisrioter@aol.com>

 --> send submissions & comments to brian <brian@bubblemonkey.org>
  --> anything is acceptable though not necessarily publishable.
   -->                                                     =\~

      ISSUE [001-cannibal.txt] REMINDER(S) =

       -% in 0rder to receive optimal reception of this silly text zine,
          it is urged that you print this up onto hard paper, save it,
          and read it while you are either a) going to the bathroom, b)
          under the influence of drugs (viewed best while stoned), and/or
          c) whenever you damn well feel like being enlightened. prints
          best at 0.75" margins or smaller. 1.0" margins cut off some of
          the last letters of lines. for those technical people, my end
          point of each line is column 80.

       -% this is the first issue of Cheese'N Crackers. bear with us, for
          we are a small tightly-knit group of friends who don't exactly
          know what we're getting ourselves into.

    !!!!!! URL 2 US = http://www.bubblemonkey.org/cheesencrackers !!!!!!


    Holden Caulfield Sayz:

     "OKAY YOU GODDAMN MORONS!!
         Enjoy your crummy magazine."


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------\+


LETTERS TO THE EDITOR :
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
       .(
        ? From :
             N/A

          Message :
             [No letters have been received.]

          Reply :
             I guess that's what you get when it's the debut issue.
             Silly me! Dun Dun Dun! (cue AUDIENCE laughter; subtle.)

                                                                      ?
                                                                      ).


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------\+

THE PREAMBLE IN A SENSE DEPT.

This is it.  The debut issue of Cheese'N Crackers.  The idea's been around for
a while, though the Cheese'N Crackers concept has been around longer.  In fact,
Cheese'N Crackers has always been dedicated to paper and ink.  It all started
in high school, when my best friend and I decided to buy notebooks and write in
them during class.  We filled the pages with endless freestyles, short stories
of mutilation, rape, and Jewish prejudice, short comic strips, and anything we
really deemed to be funny.  This lasted for quite a while, indeed, until I lost
my notebook during drama class.

I was later confronted by my drama teacher about it.  The incident happened as
follows:

    TEACHER: Is this yours?
    ME:      Yeah, I left it here on accident.
    TEACHER: What's in here exactly?
    ME:      Just something my friend and I work on.
    TEACHER: Well, I don't like it.  I mean, there's anti-Semitism stuff in
             here.  I was going to report it to administration, but I saw
             your name in it.
    ME:      Yeah, my friend's Jewish and he was just making light of some of
             their traditions.
    TEACHER: You know this doesn't belong at school.  Here, take it back, I
             don't ever want to see this here again.

And so ended our writing in Cheese'N Crackers.

I started a small web site a year later that happened, and it was alright, but
I essentially got bored with it because I was losing focus of what needed the
most attention: the craft that made Cheese'N Crackers what it was.

(Like I've always said, FUCK E/N AND YOUR FAGGED-OUT BLOGS!)

The idea to zine-ize Cheese'N Crackers has finally been made possible, directly
from one of it's creators, and though I don't think the other original few are
even aware this text file exists, I guarantee you that they will some day.

Enjoy your magazine, kids.

                                                                          [CNC]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------\+

THE NEO-CLASSIC DEPT.

What follows is the first ever Cheese'N Crackers t-file before it became a
zine, released on the 15th of October, in the year of the Lord two-thousand-
two, as it originally appeared . . .

                              +|----------------|+

                    _,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,_
                  -[ C H E E S E ' N ]-
                    Ż```````````````Ż,,,,_
___|text file # 001|___-[ C R A C K E R S ]-______________!___________________
* *                      Ż````````````````Ż                                  _>
*  "story of my life"                                                       |`.
*______________________________________[ brian : 15th of October, 2002 c.e. ] *
                                         ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ * *
the sun bit down like a bear trap gnawing at a paw on the bright city below
when i met the man on the intersection corner holding his head betwixt his
knees, tightening every muscle in his face, ruddy cheeks revoltingly swirling
into bright blood vessels penetrating the hideous hide of the subhuman that
stood before me, bearing a sign he pieced together by tearing apart a box he
may have retrieved during a recycle dumpster binge.
   he turns to me, staring at me with his frozen eyes, scanning my business
attire--i assume he's jealous of the wrist-watch, and he says, "fella, there's
not too many men out there that really appreciate what they do."
   i jerked my head back and laughed, snickering behind my words: "i'm sure,
mister, whatever you say." and i left him there, vulnerable to the sharks and
vultures of the city niche.
   that night i drank myself silly and recorded these words onto a canvas,
transforming them into pictures and images, incorruptable and unscathed, draw-
ing out a complete portrait fit for the Sun King himself. i know two things at
this point: one, i am drunk, and two, i'm going to fly. but, first, let me sit
right here and dream my dreams my away. two-thirds of a cup of warm, liquid
intentions smother my neural hallways and spinal streetlamps. "this one time,
i saw a mermaid, and she moved like angel hair pasta in erupting boiling water
guided by a wooden spork."
    i woke up without a hangover and went to work in the later afternoon. upon
entering the Bank of America Tower, near-opaque black glass sheltering the ult-
ra-violet rays from my sensative eyes, nothing more than a seventy-six floor--
excluding the lost seven found underground--nine-hundred, sixty-seven foot
travesty erected on Fifth Avenue by Chester Lindsey Architects, i felt ridic-
ulously sluggish.
    "today," i told myself, "i will change the world." and i did just that. i
openly told my boss i was gay and found him excessivley attractive and proceed-
ed to slap his "manager's assistant" dead center on her right ass-cheek and i
somehow managed to ejaculate in the women's bathroom--yes, the reknowned wo-
men's bathroom on the seventy-sixth floor, overlooking the titivating mecca of
the Pacific Northwest.
    after eradicating all moral value of the city's prestige, i ran down the
escalators and met my father on the corner of the street.
    "fella, there's not too many men out there that appreciate what they do,"
he says to me.
    "but, dad," i say as the victory sets in, "it's a damn blessing to do what
you want to do."
_______________________________________________________________________________
                                    http://www.bubblemonkey.org/cheesencrackers

                                                   cnc-001.txt written by brian
                                                       <brian@bubblemonkey.org>


                         copyright (c) 2002, your mom.

                              +|----------------|+

Much love to the archives. <3<3<3

                                                                          [CNC]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------\+

THE STORY OF THE CLUB DEPT.

                              Slapshot in the Dark
                              ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
                                                                        by matt

    Alas, I have broken free!  As I drove down the empty road with my high
beams on, I searched the forest, making sure no one was on the side of the
road, watching my daring escape from my own personal Hell.  I turned the radio
on and listened as a newsman interrupted the program and stated that a crazed
maniac, armed and very dangerous, had just broken out of the Penitentiary.  I
began to laugh as the psycho was described.  Boy did they have everything
wrong!  My hair was not brown, it was chestnut coloured.  And my eyes were the
colors of a raging river, not the plain salt-water blue.

    I looked down at my red-stained hands, as I tried to wipe them on my cotton
pants.  The weapon of choice laid two feet behind me, in the back seat stuck
into an open wound of betrayal as my late-wife now lay sleeping in an innocent
chamber.  To her, a chamber of pearls laid with golden casing.  In reality, a
black plastic bag with her legs half out.

    Glancing in my rear-view mirror, I caught a glimpse of my eyes.  They were
foaming black at the tips and dyed red in the center.  Satan was in me, no
question about it.  I've been demonized but was alright with it.  After watch-
ing my wife with that other man in bed, all my angels had left me and were re-
placed with hellions.  I thought a pair of red eyes were watching me on the o-
ther lane, so I swerved, determined to hit whatever was watching my sins.  I
heard a thud but didn't stop to see what I nailed, as I continued to drive the
road of denial.

    I pulled up to a gas station to quench my empty tank, as a man noticed a
blood stain on my left front bumper, suggesting I hit a small deer, which was
common this late at night.  I asked where I could wash my hands, and he pointed
me to the back, as he gassed my car up and whistled a sweet tune.  The water
was cold as it dampened my hands; I watched red mix with white and slowly drain
away.  I was about to get away scott clean.

    A disgusted yelp aroused my attention at once, as I dropped the paper towel
on the ground and jumped outside.  My wife's arm had drooped out of the back
seat door, as the attendant opened it up to vacuum the rug.  My God!  This is
it, he had found the body.  Now he had to die too.  I snuck up behind him as he
opened up the plastic grave, shouting for help.  I took the squeegee from the
bucket he used to wash my windows, as I took the blunt handle and slammed it as
hard as I could across his skull.

    Not once did he fall, so I hit him again.  And again and again and again
until, alas, he dropped to the ground like a stone in a lake, the deed was
done.  His caved-in skull was gleaming with liquid red as I stuffed him into my
car, not bothering to cover the body up.  I threw the gas cap back on and
jumped into my precious death mobile, as I squealed off into the night, leaving
the scent of murder still lingering in the air.

    Doing 90 on the freeway I was nearly home.  Three cars ahead of me and two
behind, nothing could stop me now.  Blue and red flashed behind me like fire
and ice intertwined, as I cursed aloud several times and tried to think of what
to do.  If I stop I'll be caught but if I continue on I'll be destroyed.  I
wanted to take my chances because jail is no place for me.  I floored it even
harder, as I watched my speedometer creep past 110.  Right behind me was my
chaser, as the sirens started to breed in my head, creating sounds I've never
heard before.

    I heard two sudden pops followed by a shower of bright light coming from my
back tires.  Two down.  I trudged on, but noticed my speedometer dropping to
95.  In an attempt to lose my chaser, I continuously swerved in and out of
lanes, passing what few cars were still out there.  After thirty seconds of
this, my car squealed and then churned, as I watched my car, my getaway, roll
over three times and then crash into a white surrounding.  The flashing vehicle
skidded up next to my wreckage, as I listened to a dove cry a song and a man
shout for me to get out if I could.  A flame licked at my face as I quietly
smiled.  A burning sensation rang throughout my veins as it suddenly got com-
fortably warm in my humble surroundings.  The smell of rotting flesh encircled
the area, and I vomited.  But I didn't mind.  I just let out a small laugh as I
looked at the man reaching in to pull me out.  An ounce of blood had flowed out
of my nose by now.  My left eye was closed, I couldn't open it.  I counted eight
teeth missing, probably swallowed them all, as I lifted a finger to examine a
wound in my forehead.

    The man outreached his hand and shouted at me to take it, as he tried to
unbuckle me.  With what little strength I had, I tried to brush his hand away,
as I began to laugh out loud, quite hysterically.  My wife's hand had been ex-
posed once more, and I'm pretty sure the man saw it.  I could see her slender
fingers just perfectly.  A glimmering star caught my attention, as I reached to
the back seat and stole the ring she had left on her left hand.  I took mine
off as well and let them drop to the floor, as I closed my eyes and sighed, my
life had been good.

I woke up with a fright, screaming out my raging screams
The morning nurse rushed to the door analyzing the scheme
With a bottle of pills she fed me like a baby, tightening up my jacket
Afraid I would influence the other patients; she tried to quiet my racket
The walls were all padded and the room started to spin counter-clockwise
As I rolled my eyes a few times and tried not to swallow my tongue
The nurse reassured me it was nothing but a reoccurring dream
As she shot me up with my daily dose of morphine

                                                                          [CNC]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------\+

THE ANYONE CAN BE A POET DEPT.

                        Roses Are Red And Poets Are Gay*
                        ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
[by brian]

Poetry is for those faggots
It's just a bunch of sad art gurus
Upset over some chick that fucked their brother
And broke their stupid little hearts
It means nothing and
The only way it will ever be good
Is when it is in a kickass rock song
By those real poets like Alice Cooper or Axl Rose
They sang about real stuff
Axl is a real man
He knows how to treat an unloyal woman just fine
But then you got those fags brooding
In the gay district of downtown
Parading around the sidewalks and
Infesting all the coffeehouses
With their bongos and espresso cock cups
They need to get laid
Those poets
And just remember that life's a bitch
Then you die
There ain't nothing worth writing about, anyhow
Because it ain't gonna do shit in the long run
Not if you think about it

                                  *** *** ***

                       Steal This Poem_________________
                       ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻFor Abbie Hoffman*
[by brian]

Never before had I met an orphan of Amerika,
Glued to the idea of fixing his nation and
All of its inhabitants,
All of its problems,
All of me.
Here I am, a generation later,
Another orphan of Amerika, seeking parentship.
Dressed in your blue jeans,
Button-up shirt of this country's flag,
And a head band,
You stepped forward.
Anita, stop those tears, stop those tears from a-pouring.

Gentle hands through frizzy hair,
Cradling me like I was your own son,
Let alone a person at all.
I was on your shoulders
When you marched into Lincoln Park,
Your voice commanding the Yippies as though
You were their leader,
But you are no pig.

I was one of your acid trips,
Festering in your mind, your imagination,
Dying forty-two times,
But experiencing a rebirth after each demise.

Jerry jaywalked,
That Yippie gone Yuppie,
And was fatally hit,
The secret being:
It was all predestined, anyhow. . .

. . . Abbie's up to his old tricks again, eh?

Anita, stop those tears, stop those tears from a-pouring.

The system says, "Ten years for two joints."
You say, "One problem, it ain't fucking workin'!"
John, I spoke to Abbott,
So don't worry, he's not upset about
Your reluctance to play with MC5
Back in '68.
"We all have our problems."

"Burn, baby, burn," Barry Freed states,
As a thesis, perhaps, and
Reagan congratulates him for a
Job well done.
"Barry," he says, "thanks to you, I
Can say that the '60s are over."
Barry giggles; must be the new nose.
Abbie explodes with triumph.
Just another orphan of Amerika
Taking on the world.

                                  *** *** ***

                       His Love Killed Him___________
                       ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ(via poetry)*
[by brian]

Screaming kids drown out my worries of the punk
Standing in front of me.
Anti-Flag.
Anti-America?
Naw, man, anti-what-the-flag-fuckin-stands-for.
Freedom, man?
Not this time.

"Hey, buddy, you alright?" I ask the punk
Standing in front of me,
As his lifeless doll of a body
Is hunched over the stage
Resembling a priest worshipping a diety
That I can't quite understand;
Who was this freak?

Standing, branded by these crazy cats,
Demanding, commanding his friend to
"Get [his] ass over here!"
Now he's gone done himself canned,
That punk kid,
Gone done himself damned;
What if I ran?
I could forget this whole shit started,
But this boy, man, this boy's passed out,
Drooling from the mouth,
And we need some help.

I'd bet my concert ticket
That this punk
Standing in front of me
Has a love/hate relationship with his dad
Hate 'em 'cause he makes you love 'em,
Know what I mean?
He doesn't get out much, this punk
Standing in front of me,
'Cause he ain't a people person.
"I'm gonna jump on that fuckin' stage and
Take their fuckin' guitar!"
He screams in my face.
"Yeah, good luck, buddy," I wanna say,
But I'm too hesitant,
I try to avoid the skinheads.

This boy, man, this boy is passed out on the stage,
What happened to him?
Joe, dude, you know what the fuck happened to him?
"Hold on. . .
Hey buddy, you alright?"
No answer and Joe looks at me,
I look at him,
This kid needs some medical attention,
This punk
Standing in front of me,
He needs some help.

Get this boy some help,
'Cause he ain't standin' anymore,
Not in front of me.

                                  *** *** ***

                              Slippery When Wet*
                              ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
[by brian]

I said I had a secret and she frowned,
turned the volume up on her shower radio
and drug her fingertips over the showerhead--
chrome sunshine splashing aqua ultraviolet rays on her skin.

And where was I when she was burned and smothered by the exclusive weather?
I was caught up in this tranquil piano playing street outside my apartment
wondering when she'd be done in the bathroom,
closing my eyes, shading away the smiles of passerbys,
shaking away this piano playing street thats making me cry.

And where was my friend whom I was to meet an hour past?
She was caught up in the asphalt stripes,
coloured yellow and white to represent purity and death,
fooling even the sharpest of shears
and the pointiest of spears
that hide behind the automatic beast,
swirving like marlins through the slippery rock.

I said I had a secret,
"Here it is," I whispered to her
while she peeked her face out through the curtain.
"I have a friend, her name is tears,
but everyone calls her Rebecca."
We both looked down,
her thoughts scribbles of perception,
my thoughts focused on the yellow tile floor,
deciding whether or not to speak some more.
Instead, I looked up at her, still downcast.
The shampoo, I noticed, had lathered up so nicely in her hair
that she resembled a paper maché angel emblem,
yet I had to interrupt:
"And I am moving away with her..."

It was then that the curtains dropped,
the music faded in the echoes
and, finally, the actress had taken her bow,
leaving the audience aghast,
petrified,
and the theater had closed,
closing the show
and ending the drama,

so I poignantly put up myself into space,
and left through the door,
down the hall, out to the deck,
and just closed my eyes,
struggling to find the playing piano
amidst my burning retnas.

And where was my friend now?
She was caught up in the flashing yellow lights
listening to the piano playing from the roof,
closing her eyes,
while turning beautifully into the symphony composer.

These eyelids of mine hung lazily,
massaging sticky folds in human essence,
the sunlight plopping down on my irises--
my piano playing street drowned out by an ambulance,
swarming by the cars;
the only glimpse I could catch was white nothing,
speeding by on four wheels and a siren.

                                  *** *** ***

* - archived poetry from old texts before this zine was released. in other
    words, they are lost tfiles, or something. who cares? just keep reading
    the damn magazine.

                                                                          [CNC]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------\+

THE CYBER SAMMY LIVES IT UP DEPT.

                    Where, Oh Where, Has My Virginity Gone?
                    ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ      by Cyber Sammy

    Hi, my name is Samuel Kahina, but most of the online people call me Cyber
Sammy.  I have been friends with the people here at Cheese'N Crackers for a
long while.  I asked them if I could put up a story of mine and they said it
was okay as long as it had sexual content.  So, I thought I'd share about when
I lost my virginity online.  I remember it very well because it felt really
good when I did it.

    Her screen name was JimC314 and she lived in Salem, Oregon.  We met in a
chat room called "TeenChat01" and that was my favorite chat room because there
were a lot of teenagers my own age.  One time when I was in there, this girl
Instant Messaged me and asked me, very politely, "a/s/l?", which means, "What
is your age, sex, and where you do you live?"  I replied quickly with "14/m/
Cali".  She then asked me if I wanted to "cyber".  I was nervous.  I had never
done this before.  I was planning on waiting until I knew the person better.
Skeptical, I asked her for more information and a picture.

    "You've got mail," the deep, electronic voice sounded.  I double-clicked
the mail, opened it up, and viewed the mysterious JimC314.  She was beautiful.
Blonde hair. blue eyes, tall, great body, and, as fate would have it, in her
cheerleading uniform from New York High School.  What a great body.  If only I
could have it.  But, it dawned on me: I could.

    "You're hot," I confessed to JimC314.  What was her name?  Oh, how I had to
know her name!  "What's your name, sweetie?" I asked, my fingers trembling on
press of each key.

    "Candy," she replied, with a beautiful pink font that made me hotter for
her the more I thought about her in the nude.  Okay, I was convinced; she was
heavenly, she was sexy, she was everything I wanted in a cyber partner, and she
was all mine.  For all the taking.

    It started out with simple kissing.  I wasn't very good at it since it was
my first time making out online.  I felt like I was growing up; I felt like
this was the peak of puberty.  We kissed some more and she then stopped and
took my shirt off.  She then took off her clothes, making my hormones race like
a greyhound.  I was aroused and I was letting her know that: "You're making me
hard . . . really hard."  With that, she continued her path down my body.  It
felt so good, I wish more could happen.  Such luck!  Something did.

    She told me to take off her undergarments.  As I hooked my finger around
her panties, I felt myself sweat.  I was about to lose my cyber-virginity. Was
I ready?  I was a fourteen-year-old, on the turnpoint of manhood.  I was ready.
I was determined.  So, Candy then slipped out of her bra herself and got atop
me.  She was so beautiful.  Her font was pinker than ever.  The way she bolded
it made it even more erotic.  She told me to relax and that everything was al-
right.  And it was.  Everything felt great--I felt great.

    Just then, it felt as though the salmon finally cleared the dam and was on
his way home.  It felt as though the snow was melting off the Alps and gushing
toward the little Swiss city and wiping it out.  It felt like I was in heaven.
Was I?  Was this heaven and was Candy a sort of saint  No, she wasn't a saint,
but she was angel, alright.

    That was three years ago.  I am now seventeen and still cyber-sexually ac-
tive.  However, that day, I woke up a young, eager lad, but went to sleep a new
and bold man, a man who had conquered his dreams of losing his virginity before
death.

                                                                          [CNC]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------\+

THE ANARCHY RULES DEPT.

                                   Untitled
                                   ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
                                                                         by sam

    "And what will this prove?" he whispers to me.

    "This night drips on too slowly for the both of us, my friend.  Somebody's
going to have to die tonight to make this revolution work out.  You know, be-
tween the two of us, I don't see why I should fight for them when I could just
die in your arms tonight.  Hey, you're part of it, too.  Somebody's gonna have
to die tonght."

                              +|----------------|+

    "And, yes, I've figured it out.  I might as well just get out there and die
tonight.  That's the only way this will ever work.  I'll wear my 'FUCK CAPI-
TALISMS' t-shirt, walk into Gap and snuff out those sad little sheep.  I won't
even give them time to beg.  It's for their own good.  It's for the working
class, my friend.  The people.  And I'll die tonight when the cops finally
come, but why should I have to die for them?  I'd much rather prefer, in some
ways, my other option, which I previously mentioned.  Right now, I could slit
my wrists and bleed out my soul unto yours.  What more of a sacred embrace
could one seek?  And you can wear these clothes forever.  My blood, my soul, my
name.  And this is it tonight.  Somebody's gotta die.  If I don't do it, no one
will, because if there's one thing I've found, we can't depend on anyone but
ourselves in this world.  And what is death but a release from the bondage of
life?  Bondage of life, bondage of capitalism, bondage of emotion, bondage of
being alone.  And what is death on your own terms?  Death on your own terms is
a selfish insignificant nothing. And tonight means the rest of my life."

    He steps outside the car, old Converse, dark blue jeans, "FUCK CAPITALISM"
t-shirt.  Splishing and sploshing through fresh pools of rainwater lit by
street lights.  The mall is slowly dying at 7:30 p.m.  He swings open the Food
Court door, looking from empty face to empty face, seething with simultaneous
pity and contempt.  Walking down the bright wide hallways of the new American
Dream.  He slips into Gap, shoulders hunched, walking swiftly to the center of
the store, standing still for a moment and screams, "What you reap is what you
sow!"  And then watch it all come crashing down.  Idly frightened faces turn to
see, standing, a manifestation of frustration.  A woman behind the counter
calls security, a crowd staring at the man wondering whats to come next, si-
lence save heaving breathing and a few whispered words.  In a flash, he reach-
es into his pants, pulling out a gun.  Shots ring out, bullets piercing skin,
breaking bones; doesn't matter who was hit.  Drops a clip on the floor and re-
loads as the last man nears the exit. Shot in the back, falls flat. TV networks
ate it up.

                                                                          [CNC]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------\+

THE WHY WORK BLOWS NUTS DEPT.

                            First Slice of the Pie
                            ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
                                                                       by brian

    Upon waiting for the tow truck to arrive, I had plenty of time to sit, my
teeth chattering, skin cold as ice, eyes flush red, and my hands resting stick-
y-like on the driving console. To sit here and think about the night would be a
load, but I will attempt to organize my entire evening in order to figure out
why exactly I'm stuck here, dead center in the street of a residential cul-de-
sac, at 10:30 P.M. on a Monday night, the interior of my Jetta reeking like hot
fresh pizza.

    I went into work that day as I always had, full of disgust for most of my
fellow co-workers and bitter about the fifty-minute commute for . . . this?
For about six months now, I've been working for a somewhat reputable (and I say
this strictly speaking of "reputable" merely as a public's view of a) pizza
delivery chain.  My car has been acting up lately.  It just got out of the
shop--an evil dealership that will never see my service again--and sounds like
there is something grinding on my tires.  By turning the volume up on my CD
player, I've discovered, you can actually completely forget that that sound
even exists, but, eventually, it's presence seems to creep up back into your
mind.

    My car, a pitiful 1988 Volkswagen Jetta GL, mobbing on dirty hubcaps, two
broken handles on the outside of the rear doors, a broken right headlamp--a
blemish from when I accidentally ran into my friend's Rabbit's bumper, a huge
scrape that engulfs the entire right side of the car from when I was trying to
park it, but didn't take into effect the fact that there was a huge Dart Swing-
er just inches away, a gobbled-up front-end underneath the grill from when I
thought it'd be fun to drive my car, 25 mph, into a huge mound of old snow and
ice in the parking lot of a grocery store two or three years back, and one very
attractive man behind the wheel, was running out of gas.  I decided that I
really didn't have any time to stop and get any, but due to it's sluggish hand-
ling and spoots of fumes, I knew that it was essential.

    I pulled into a 76 gas station to fuel it up, after making turns upon turns
to reach it.  Though it was right across the street, it was, after all, rush
hour, and Highway 99 is not exactly known for it's promptness at this time of
the weekday. In any event, after I scrounged up what little change I could, I
went and converted it into fuel. $3.48 at $1.19 9/10 per gallon.  It may have
not filled my tank up, but it got my car started again, and off I went, with
five minutes to get to work and an ETA of about seventeen.

    When you drive for a living, your mind slowly metamorphasises into a sreet
beast.  You realize that everybody driving while you are is, in fact, worth-
less.  You realize that you can't control traffic, but you can find ways to a-
void it.  You also realize that if you, at any given moment, possessed either a
Tech Nine or AK-47, you would, without a doubt, unleash total hell upon the
simpletons before you.

    Finally, after about sixteen minutes, I stepped into the door of Papa
John's Pizza, the hub of my financial income and home a different breed of peo-
ple, the breed that seems to be reproducing far too rapidly for its own good.
The time is 5:42 p.m., and 5:30 p.m. was your scheduled clock-in time.  A sneer
from the manager is given, disapproval is shown from the assistant manager, and
a big sloppy smile shines from one of the in-store employees.

    "Sorry about being late," I said to the assistant manager, Kris, a twenty-
two year old, laid back, but serious about his job sort of man.

    "You could've called," he said.  His tone seemed light-hearted, but some-
times you can never tell with men in management positions.

    "Yeah I know."  e tossed the driver bank (a wad of ten $1 bills and two $5
bills) to me; I thanked him and then began my day (technically evening) of this
nonsense work.  I had to close that night and on weeknights (Sunday through
Thursday), we close at 12:00 a.m.

    Everything seemed to be working out well.  Nothing too spectacular hap-
pened.  My tips were average, most of the customers were still the same old
burdens that they always are and my car, up to that point, had been holding up
without any noticeable problems.

    10:00 p.m. rolls around.  The first delivery in about forty-five minutes.
I was happy to take it because, on a Monday night, there is absolutely nothing
to do except lull around pretending you're doing something. Splash the water in
the sink--"Look, I'm doing dishes!"  Fold a box or two--"Look, I'm folding box-
es!"  Empty out all the garbage cans--"Look, I'm taking the garbage out!"

    The delivery is finally clocked out around 10:15 and there I go, into my
car, leaving this hell hole behind.

    This particular house wasn't that far away, probably about a mile and a
half.  A mile and a half is nothing compared to some of the houses they make us
deliver to--thirty minute drive just to get there, and we guarantee thirty-five
to forty-five minute delivery times.  It's always a treat when we get to their
doorsteps. Or not.

    AH!  173rd ST!  There it is.  So I pull a left and follow the street down
until I get to the end of it.  As I'm pulling my car around in front of the
said house, I suddenly hear a

                                  -- POP!! --

    "Oh shit," I mutter, "this is not good." And at that point, all I can re-
collect is the number of times my car has been in the same shop for the past
few weeks (three) and all the money that's being wasted in its repairs (too
much).

    I step out of the car, deliver the pizza and receive no tip, curse the
customer silently to myself, and get closer to making a BLACK LIST for all the
customers who don't tip me.  Three strikes and they're out, basically.  I have
not figured out what exactly I'll do to my victims, but I've had a lot of time
to come up with some great ideas.

    OH!  And the car!  That's right!  It poppped!

    I closed the door, turned the key, and was ready to leave.  Thank god it
moves, onward, away from the house.  And then . . .

    It stops, dead.  It's in gear and I'm letting off the clutch while pressing
down on the accelerator, but no soup for me.  And that's when it happens.  The
car decides to sit there like a stubborn beagle, square in the middle of this
dark, less-than-abondoned cul-de-sac.

    There's absolutely nothing I can do except try to roll the car to the side
and call AAA.  There are, however, a few contradictions that prohibit me from
doing all of these.  First, I am stuck in the middle of a dip; I'm facing West,
as well as a big hill.  Behind me, East, there is another hill, both of which
are inclined.  I just flip on the hazard lights and take my cell phone out.

    Problem being?

    I forgot my cellular back at my apartment.  Of all the days to think I
don't need it, this one is definitely not it.  I get back in my car, and yell,
at the top of my lungs, "FUCK!", and just sit there for a couple minutes.

    Finally, I take some action and get out of my car, my only light gleaming
from the hazard lights and delivery person car-topper, flashing its boasting
white light on my path to safety.

    There happened to be a neighbor close by and he asked me if I needed to use
his phone.  He looked rather gruff and scary; forty-fiveish and just getting
home from what appeared to be a long day of work, so I made it quick.

    I had to call about three people.  My boss to let him know why I hadn't re-
turned.  My mother to let her know I'm dropping my car off at her house since
my apartment is so far away.  And AAA to let them know they need to tow me
there.

    I decided it was imperitive I call my boss, Kris.

    "Is Kris there?" I asked one of the drivers that answered.

    "Yeah, hold on," he says, and I'm left there waiting, until . . .

    "This is Kris, how can I help you?"

    "Kris? It's Brian.  Listen, my car broke down.  I'm going to call a tow
    truck to come get it and then I'll be able to pick up a spare car right
    after it's dropped off."

    He was actually understanding about it and he finally asked me when I'll
    be back.  I told him in about an hour and he gave his consents and hung up
    the phone, leaving me, once again, alone.

    Upon thanking the irritable man for letting me use his cell phone, I ven-
tured forward, attempting to walk a mile through some woods and a high school,
in order to get to the nearest pay phone to contact the remaining two.

    There was a ten minute lapse in which I walked, my face to the ground,
shivering from the bitter cold early-winter weather, mindlessly, without any
particular thought except, "Fuck, this really sucks," until I heard the distant
sounds of a car stereo playing.  After closer speculation, it was obvious that
someone was inside his car listening to talk radio.

    Is that . . . ?

    Yes, it is!

    An old friend of mine was outside of his house, listening to Love Line.  He
saw me walking up to his car and opened the door and stepped out.  After shoot-
ing the shit for a few minutes, he gave me his cellular to call the last two
people I needed to call.

    After getting a tow truck arranged and no answer from parent's house, I
thanked him and walked back, idly, to my car.

    I called AAA around 10:45 and they told me I should see the truck within
the hour.  And, like I said before, I had a lot of time to myself in that car,
waiting for help to arrive.

    Thirty-six minutes passed and finally, somewhere on the hill, I heard the
chugging-chugging of a truck engine and, finally--FINALLY!--the tow truck
inched its way down the hill to my safety.

    As the driver stepped out, he laughed and said:

    "They were right," through chuckles.

    "Who was right?" I asked, walking up to him to sign the paper.

    "The guys said that you'd probably be out delivering pizzas."

    "They remember me that well?"

    "Hell, man, you're our best company as of late," and he smirks as he says
this.  I just sort of let it slip and sat back and watched him do his job,
slowly and befuddled.

    I step into the truck when he's done and he tells me that this is the first
night that he was driving the flat-bed truck and he's silent for a moment, and
then says:

    "I noticed you were smoking a cigarette."

    "Oh, yeah," emotionlessly said.

    "You care if I get one?"

    "Not at all," and I really didn't.

    "Yeah, we're really not supposed to smoke in the car but it's 11:30 at
night and I really don't care.  You know, I stopped smoking, but I just have
one sometimes, you know?"

    "I know exactly how it goes," I said, even though I really didn't smoke all
that much.

    There we sat, sharing a moment with each of our dimly lit cigarettes.

    And after a short silence, he looks at me, smiling and anxious for some-
thing, though what it is I can't tell.  In fact, he looks rather excited and
leans into me, and asks, "What's it like, anyway?  Being a pizza guy?  I'm
looking for a second job."

    I simply laughed and told him, "Being a pizza guy?  Honestly?  It's really
not as bad you'd think."  And that was that.  Just another night of this god-
foresaken job.

                                                                          [CNC]

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------\+


to all you old skoolerz fan0rz lets rock u know whats goin down here.




the dieury of Billy Sped
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ

sa turd ay DEcemBer 4orth 19999
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
HAHAHAHAHA "turd"!!!!!!! TURD TURD TURD TURD@!!!!! i lick liek turds. today i
couldnt fine my walker so i couldnt walk and i just laid in my cradle. momma
said that i needed barZ on my bed so i wouldnt fawl off and i cant eat lemonade
becuz momma sed i am allergik to it. i like lemons. sometimes kiDs at skool
tell me i sound liek a lemon wutever that means. lem0ns are shy and dint talk
a lot i thawt. i assed my gurlfriend john y she was ignoreng me a few dayz aGo.
she said my name is fuck. my names not fuck, its billy. my name is billy, not
fuck. my name isny fuck. doesnt fuck meen a food? a froot i think. i think i
had fuck juice laStt night i think. i cut myself on my sheetz today cuz i wuz
sleeping and i got skared and i skreamed and i choked myself and i couldnt
breathe and i cut myself on purpose akshident. i need to go to bed now and take
my medecine. buy dieury.

--------------

funday december feefth 1999
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
i didnt have fun today becuz i got stuck in an escalater at the mall. i wuz
riding up it and it started to eat me. my shoez wernt tyed becuz i dont no how
ti ty them yet so they just ate them up and when i cryed my momma helped me.
also at the mall i went to auntee anns pretzel place and i saw my friend
Quagmire giving out samples to people walkeng by. i was kinda scared at first
when i saw him becuz he was trying to run to see me but couldnt becuz he was in
his wheelchair. i finally found my walker it was in a garbage can for sum
reazon i dont why no though but it was. i should go bevuz it's later and i have
skool tomarrow with my friendz and stuff bye dieury see u tomarrow.

--------------

m0nday decembere SEXth -99
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
today was my skool class. i got to draw cloUds with cotton. Lori the helper
showed me how to eat paste and i ate some and it tasted kinda like paste.
Maybe i can eat some rubber cement sum~time.  i also did some fingerpaynting.
tHats where you paynt with your fingers just in case you didnt no wut it was.
at lunch i spillt ketchip on my lap so joe the guy who pushes my wheelchair
helped me cleaned it off. somE kids were laughing but i think it was becuz they
were telling jokes. they said a guy named billy sped was fruity and a fag
wutever that means. i dont no becuz i wasnt really listening. oh and just so u
rememmer my name is billy SpEd and i am speshful to my friends and to this
wurld. my momma sayz i might gro up to be a proffessser or may-be a president
wutever that person does. i need to go finish working on my pixure for skool
bye.

--------------

toozday december 7 nyneteen99
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
i had skool agin today. it went by kinda slow fast. i DoNt really no wut dirt
is for. some kids told me it could be made into a pie but it tasted kinda like
dirt it was sick. i told the kids it was sick then they told me that i wuz sick
wutever that means. today i couldint fine my bus. i ride the small yello bus
with a pixure of a stick figger in a wheel chair thats blue on and on the back
of the window. i like to pretend thats me thats my dream. on the bus it took
twenty (23) minutez for them to get me in becuz i fell off the ramp eleven
times becuz i started suddenly shaking i dont no why though. theres this sport
at our skool and all the cool kids play it. its called 'chess" and i mite try
out for the team. you have to be in good shape to play it i think wutever that
means. im goign to bed now. its 730 and way past my bed tyme. bye.

--------------

wensday decembEr 88 199
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
today i go chrismas shopping for all my friends. they both want the name thing
tho. quagmire mostly wants a new helmet tho. i dont have a lot of munny though
becuz i gave it this guy at my skool hoo sed that he wuz a teacher. he said he
needed to buy some pot wutever that means. i didnt no guys cooked food becuz i
dont cook that much becuz im not allowed to. i need to go shoppinh now and ill
write in you latr diury.

okay im back diury i just got out from going poop it took me a long time becuz
i forgot how go at first but i am better now. i watches a movie today called
"full metal jacket" but i didnt really get it. the guy said something about
"boot camp' wutever that means. i wanna go to bread camp where i can eat a lot
of candy that wood be fun. im tired and im going. cya latur diury.

--------------

thursay decem. 90 1999
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
nothin really happened today except that i cant fine my walker agin. i lost it
at skool during lunch. i think it walked away becuz its called a walker. some
guys said they needed to uze becuz they needed to lern how to talk aND They ran
away wutever that means. bye.

--------------

FRYday december 10 `99
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
i watched a movie today called bambi and i dint reelly get it becuz it was
about this one dog who wuz a boy but a girl too. wutever i dont no. there wuz
a guy over with my mom today he was trying to do sumthing with her i think
sell her some poistcarDs or i dont no becuz he sed he had a pimp wutever that
means. i hurt my ankle at skool becuz i wuzent waring my helmet. i need to go
becuz i have to wake up erly in the morning tomarro for sumthing i dont no bye.

--------------

shat-erday december 011 1999
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
i wuz rushed to the emerguncee room today becuz i choked on a baskitball hoop
net but im a littul better now.

--------------

sunday decembr 12fth 1999
ŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
i think i no sumthing my momma got me for chrismas its a spoon but im not shure
yet. i saw her eating with it today and she wuz saying my name so i think its
for but maybee not. also today wuz church but i didnt go. my momma used to tell
me that a stumik ake wuz just god punisheng yoo for a sin wutever that means.
my arm itches so i need to go bye dieury.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------\+


ZINES I ENJOY (MURDERED OR SPARED) '`:....

angstmonster                -  <http://www.angstmonsterorg>
fitshaced                   -  <http://www.fitshaced.com>
grill                       -  <http://www.quarex.com/grill.html>
hogs of entropy             -  <http://www.hoe.nu>
iamhappyblue                -  <http://www.iamhappyblue.com>
long dark tunnel            -  <http://ldt.aguk.co.uk>
neo-comintern               -  <http://www.neo-comintern.com>
tripe                       -  <http://scene.textfiles.com/tripe/tripe.txt>
twisted young minds expand  -  <http://www.720.st/files/TYME>
y0lk                        -  <http://www.y0lk.org>

and, as always, http://scene.textfiles.com for 3t3rn-i-TEE<3


a sh0ut out 2 -

     aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa\
     /////// ////////////////////////////////////
     ///////////////////////////////////////////
     //////////////////////////////////////////
     ////////////////////////jŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻŻ
     ////////////////////////j  peace to brandon.
     ////////////////////////j     scrimps 4 life.
     ////////////////////////j   www.bubblemonkey.org 4 the future.
     ////////////////////////j         topanga eats salty negro nuts.
     ////////////////////////j________________________________________
     aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa\

                                                               </end shout out>

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------\+

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  &&&  Cheese'N Crackers can be distributed as you see fit. All material  &&&
  &&&  is copyrighted to its respective author. If you're offended, I'm   &&&
  &&&  sorry you can't take humor in a healthy sort of fashion. Respect   &&&
  &&&  the artist everywhere, in your soul, and in the air you breathe.   &&&
  &&&  You never know when you'll need him.                               &&&
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