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A Word From the Glorious Socialist-Pirate-Leadership

Well, I haven't heard pipsqueak from the SFP Leadership lately, so I'll just go ahead make some shit up, how's that?...


purported image of the legendary glorious-socialist-pirate teacher-leader



Let's see, it’s been highly entertaining week for the Socialist Freedom Party (SFP), the e-Global Anarcho-Syndicalist Movement (eGASM), and our external, semi-permanent, fully permanent, and internationally allied fractions, including the Subterranean Service Workers Association, the East Lansing Homemakers Club, the Lower Mills Jazz and Funk Fusion Coffee Klatch, and all other associated tendencies, militias, para-militias, low-wage and high-wage communes, study groups, smoking clubs, autonomous drink-ups, spontaneous combustions, friends with and without benefits, hangers-on and non-human companions of the toiling revolutionary masses.

The definitive medical analysis of the recent bout of election fever will be available in the next footnote-packed edition of this awful rag the Socialist News and Entertainment Network, but until then we ask that the universalist e-working class remain patient and make do with this short statement:


Once again, the SFP has demonstrated that its claim to be the sole pole of attraction for the most advanced elements of the class is no idle boast. By completely boycotting the election sham, not only has the SFP once again brought together in a determined virtual fist the best fighters for the e-working class, it also continues to hone the latest and sharpest instruments for the e-class war.

And we know how to party. Fer shure.

And hey, don’t get us started on the eUSA's bourgeois-pundit commentariat and their sanctimonious simpering dickwittery about respecting “Unity” and why it’s wrong to celebrate doing nothing. The politically anemic gutless f*cks. The whole f*cking squillion dollarsworth of “Unity” propaganda is going to go on and on and on until we all f*cking croak from boredom, isn’t it?

Hmppph.

Anyways, la lucha continua and so on.



As always:
Thunderous applause!!











Live Sharp Look Smart


The following is Episode #3 of The Hatch, an experimental collective eRep movie project. Hit that little back button down there to find previous episodes.


And remember! Continue the storyline in your own papers or in your own mind. This is your movie! I am merely the medium. You carry the message.


My Favorite Game, part three
by Phoenix Quinn




Sandormaria won a scholarship to do graduate work in semiotic mimesis as expressed in modern Shi'i cinema. It was part of the English-language program at the eRepublik University in e-New York City. But she decided not to take it.

"Oh no, Petofi, nothing smells more slaughterhouse than a graduate seminar. People sitting around virtual tables in small chatrooms, their hands bloody with commas. They get older but the ages of the poets always remains the same: twenty-three, twenty-five and nineteen."

"That gives you four years at the outside, Sandormaria."

Her book of e-Boston sketches appeared and was well received. She started seeing it on the bookshelves of her friends and relatives and she resented their having it. It was none of their business how Thomas' pecs looked in the artificial moonlight of the Fens.




e-New Englanders are despearate for a Keats. Literary meetings are the manner in which New-Anglophiles express passion.

Sandormaria read her sketches for small societies, large college groups, englightened church meetings. She slept with as many handsome chairmen as she could. She gave up on conversation. She merely quoted herself. She could maintain an oppressive silence at a dinner-table that could make the handsomest son of the house believe she was brooding over his immortal soul.

The only person she could joke with was Petofi.

The e-world was being hoaxed by a disciplined melancholy. All the sketches made a virtue of longing. All that was necessary to be loved widely was to publish one's anxieties. The whole enterprise of art was a calculated display of suffering.

She walked with pale blonde boys along Newbury Street. She told them she saw the brick town houses as stone ruins.

She hinted that they could fufill themselves through her. She could lean against a fireplace with all the ambiguous tragedy of an Atalanta leaving her bear-foster-father and swearing never to marry.




Among certain mechanically-oriented players she was considered a mild traitor who could not be condemned outright.

These players were dismayed by the possibility that she might make a success out of what she was doing. This their e-ulcers resented. Her name was in the newspapers despite the fact that she never actually did anything.

She might not be an ideal member of the community but neither was, to pick a random example, Disco Mussolini, whose apostasies the mechanists' regard for high-attainment had always overlooked. Also, writing is an essential part of the mechanist tradition and even the degraded contemporary situation cannot suppress it. A respect for interesting and unusual articles will persist for another e-generation or two. But it can't go on forever without being reconsecrated.

Among certain anarcho-socialists and revolutionary-populists she was suspect for other reasons.

Her mechanistic barbarity hidden under the cloak of Art, she intruded on their leftwing-cocktail rituals by paying high wages to anyone who applied rather than cultivating low wage communers. Like all good Socialists, they were pledged to Culture, but she presented something vaguely threatening to the virginal purity of their righteous working-class sons. In this way, soaking up their looks of concern aimed at her tendencies towards petty-bourgeois depravity, they made her feel vital.

She engaged Stalinists in long conversations about over-pontificating and the loss of creative vitality. She punctuated her speech with Situationist expressions which she never thought of using anywhere else. In their underground smoking dens, for no reason at all, she sometimes broke into little Hasidic dances around the tea table.

She had no plans for the future. As penance, she engaged in manual labor.














(to be continued...)



















De omnibus dubitandum.