Recently discovered . . .

A recently discovered preface to the Communist Manifesto (as there are currently five) helped shed some light on the relationship between Karl Marx and Frederich Engels. I found it interesting and decided to post it here. Check it out:

PREFACE TO THE LONDON EDITION OF 1896

Remembering back to the preface that I, alone, scribed for the German Edition of 1883 sans Marx makes the preface to this edition's introduction all the more ironic considering that my death, as of this writing, happened one year and five months ago. It is testament to the power of the Manifesto. On the other hand it has effectively stopped me from all lifely functions such as breathing, eating, and outrageous facial hair growth. Oh, how Karl and I used to enjoy comparing our somewhat facetious proliferation of whiskers. But I'm dead now, so what's the point? His magnificent just-out of-bed bushel and my fastidiously down-groomed full beard. Sometimes, he'd use his Garibaldi styled bristles to hold the pencils he'd passionately scribbled down to their nibs rather than place them in a tin cup I had designated as the pen/pencil/change cup. He wrote notes upon notes outlining this very platform for the working man and during rare moments of repose, he would chew on his stale bread and cheese sandwiches- the motion of which caused the pencil stubs to rain down from his face like large chunks of darkened dandruff. Come to think of it, cleanliness was on the bottom of his list of things-to-do. Do you know how often I'd ask him to open a window in that small Brussels flat we shared. And he'd splash water on his face and neck to try and trick me into thinking he'd washed properly. A man should not reek of hoagies and sweated backsides, yet it did not bother Marx one bit. 1848 was very difficult year indeed.

When the European working class was struggling to achieve strength in numbers for the revolutions we were promoting, Marx was busy . . . oh, y'know. I just remembered this one time he had scarfed down the leftover meal I had made the night previous (a simple Raclette I had adorned with slices of various meats). As he sat in the dark in nothing more than his trousers and undershirt, he took pause of his Manifesto notes to tell me, in all seriousness, of an affliction he had which drove him to become an equalizing force between the classes. He told me he had been borne with a third nipple and then proceeded to show me. At first, I was in shock then immediately afterwards felt a great pity on his poor soul. Perhaps this deformity had, indeed, shaped his strong feelings against the bourgeoisie. I put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him, and his breathing had quickened. A touching moment. He seemed to be holding back his tears as he sniffled in silence with his head down.

"There there, Brother Marx. Cry all you need in here," I said pointing to our narrow room, "because no one can mock you in here." I said this as I placed my hand on his chest in the darkness of our quarters. What I had mistaken for a man holding back a deluge of tears was that of a one actually chortling.

"Just fuckin' with ya, Freddie!" At that he pulled the piece of pepperoni off his chest and ate it. Such slobbery! It was as if I were forced to live in a house of animals. Karl "Blutarsky" Marx, good riddance. And don't even get me started on his penmanship.

Oh yeah, working men of the world, blah blah blah, unite!

FREDERICH ENGELS
London, 3 March, 1896.