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# PU
Propoganda Unlimited (1994-1995)
## FILES
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PU/pu0101.txt [ 34816] Propaganda Unlimited, Volume 1 Issue 1 (January 26, 1994)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PU/pu0102.txt [ 34816] Propaganda Unlimited Volume 1, Issue 2 (February 6, 1994)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PU/pu0103.txt [ 30896] Propaganda Unlimited Volume 1, Issue 3 (March 7, 1994)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PU/pu0104.txt [ 40448] Propaganda Unlimited Volume 1, Issue 4 (March 28, 1994)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PU/pu0105.txt [ 29184] Propaganda Unlimited Volume 1, Issue 5 (April 26, 1994)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PU/pu0106.txt [ 32768] Propaganda Unlimited Volume 1, Issue 6 (August 9, 1994)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PU/pu0107.txt [ 32256] Propaganda Unlimited Volume 1, Issue 7 (August 25, 1994) (Misnamed)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PU/pu0108.txt [ 28672] Propaganda Unlimited Volume 1, Issue 8 (December 28, 1994)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PU/pu0201.txt [ 35328] Propaganda Unlimited Volume 2, Issue 1 (February 4, 1995)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PU/pu0202.txt [ 40960] Propaganda Unlimited Volume 2, Issue 2 (June 21, 1995)
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============================================================
============================================================
P R O P A G A N D A U N L I M I T E D
January 26, 1994 Volume One, Issue One
"More Fun Than You Can Have Being Defenestrated!"
============================================================
============================================================
CONTENTS
----------
1. Introduction to Propaganda Unlimited
by Midget Caesar
2. Letter from the Editor (or, Yet Another Introduction)
by Constantine
3. Writer Spotlight: Let's Meat Midget Caesar!
4. Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part One
by Constantine
5. Moving Between Places, Part One
by Midget Caesar
6. PhReEkInG Wit DDTs!!
(interpreted by Constantine)
7. Dystropia, Part One
by Midget Caesar
============================================================
============================================================
STAFF
-------
Midget Caesar ............ Our Founder, Head Writer, Head
Journalist, Head Head.
Constantine .............. Head Editor, Head Cynic, Enya
Groupie, Generally Not Welcome
on Warez Boards For a Reason.
Nex ...................... Distribution Manager, that Nutty
SysOp We All Know and Love, Head
Cyberpunk.
Oregano .................. Head Critic, Lord and Master of
Most of Evanston, Perpetually
on Assignment.
King Trent ............... Mr. White.
Avocado .................. Head Groupie, Subject of Many a
Def Mangoe Song, Hasn't Written
a Damn Thing For Us but We List
Her 'Cause We Like Her.
Jack Roberts ............. Head Ditto On What We Just Said
About Avocado, but We Have High
Hopes For Both Of Them.
Billy Idol ............... Mascot.
============================================================
============================================================
The Birth, Life, Changing, Cleaning, Schooling, Graduation,
Job Training, Marriage, Childbirth, Struggle, and impromptu
Murder of a Tfile Group
(by Midget Caesar)
Guido did this in BLaH. All the great, lasting tfile
groups have done this. Actually, there's only been one great,
lasting tfile group, as far as we're concerned. They called
it:
BLaH
Much has been spawned from it. Spinoff tfile groups, entire
BBSes, new forms of the lambada, lucrative deals on fuzzy
pink bunny slippers, an entire news network, decent
employment for James Earl Jones, and even certain BBSers
themselves. But BLaH is dead, and we come not to praise it,
not to bury it, and not to feed it chocolate-covered tacos,
either. No, we haven't the faintest idea why BLaH was
mentioned, really.
Hello, we're Elvis. No, we're not. Midget Caesar, a nifty
little collective mind of 420 people, including the entire
Caesarian line of Roman emperors, along with a few other
people, some of whom we'll list later on. Rah, we bet
you care. Anyways, as we write this, the only major tfile
group of note left is MaDCaP, now run solely by a racist twit
named Chuck. So it's our duty to put something brilliant,
something inspired out there. A tfile that goes beyond all
legends of BLaH and dreams of what it might have been.
But we decided to put this out instead.
It all, for us, started on a BBS named The Obloid Sphere.
It was greatly influenced by BLaH theology <see The Bible Of
BLaH volume 42: BBS inflation>, and we began there. It was a
wonderful BBS, and the warmth and love of the holy Mango
washed over all of the users. Lots of posts, and it was
beautiful. The users gathered together with bags on their
heads, and spread peace and more bags. Then, we were asked to
CoSysop a BBS that was to be called "The Holodeck", for the
42nd time. So we suggested a new name: "Virtual UnReality"
<the sysop had an obsession with billy idol's cybergunk album
and things connected to it>. The BBS went up, and was quite
successful.
Around the same time, the Obloid Sphere slowly began to
deflate, as its guru Nyarlathotep left for college. It sunk
into an abyss from which it is only now beginning to recover.
But VU continued to thrive, and all was good, until Obloid
was crashed by Chuck, and MaDCaP split up. It was time to
fill the void with brilliance, inspired lunacy. The BBS world
needed it.
But we were lazy, and never got around to finding any of
those things.
But Now, with the help of Constantine, former BLaH-member,
and some of VU's users, we forge forth with this drek in hand
to bring a little happiness to the world. To spread some
lunacy, to shed a little light on corruption, to hassle a few
public transit employees, to ponder a few 7-11's, battle
Big Brother and the Combine wherever they may lay, and to
spread some happy thoughts.
Peace, Love, and Mangoes, people, Propaganda Unlimited is
here.
============================================================
============================================================
Letter From the Editor
by Constantine
Propaganda Unlimited is like bran. Not quite in the
same way as conformity is like cheese (ask Chessman), but
close. Like bran, PU is filling and nutritious; every
issue, we'll be bringing you humor, fiction, and news you
can use, all written by fellow BBS enthusiasts and codified
into the Tfile 'O' Mirth you see before you. Like bran, PU
is the perfect supplement to your cyberspace diet, preferably
digested with eggos and a heaping spoonful of raw tang.
It has been rumored that PU cures irregularity-- try it
for yourself.
We would like Propaganda Unlimited to break from the
mold and become a rolling juggernaut of annihilation, but we
can't do it without your help. Namely, we need material. If
you're a good writer who can produce solid articles on a
regular basis, or if you've just got a piece you'd like to
share with the cold, cruel world, or if you did have a piece
once, lost it, and think you could retype it reasonably well,
or if all the kids in your science class are afraid of you
FOR A GOOD REASON, drop us a line! We can't pay you, as we
are currently pouring all our assets into the "Free Jimmy
Bakker-- We Need the Laughs" fund, but if we use your work,
we'll put you on the masthead with a catchy title for all
your friends to envy forever.
(Note: It is not true that the editors can be bribed
to put people on the masthead with bogus titles. It is
especially not true that they will do it in exchange for
sleazy home videos. It is certainly, definitely not true
that they prefer VHS format.)
And let us know what you think! Send email to Midget
Caesar, Nex or Constantine on any of our distribution
centers, and tell us what you like and dislike. Remember,
this is YOUR magazine. The best letters we receive will
be reprinted in the letters column, with appropriately
pithy comments, so write today and write often.
Welcome to the first issue of Propaganda Unlimited--
we hope you enjoy it. Relax, jack in, and take a look at
the world through our eyes.
And don't forget to eat your bran.
============================================================
============================================================
Yes, it's what you've all been waiting for and after us to
do....
LeT'S MeeT THe MiDGeT CaeSaRS! (MeaT?)
Part 1
The Human: Boring (does not count as one of us, since he has
no personality, he can't be one.)
Idiot: Our voice of insane sanity, the calm voice that
usually mediates our fights and steers the body, an open mind
to anything.
Bhuufu: A baby pygmy, Tai Chi master, and Dragonfly Lord who
just *loves* to make messy in the sandbox! He refuses to be
potty trained.
Julius Caesar: Despises Augustus Caesar after 2 millennia of
hanging out together. Affectionately called "Uncle Julius" by
Bhuufu, he is usually stuck with the task of cleaning up
after Bhuufu.
Augustus Caesar: Despises Julius Caesar as well, and tends to
monopolize the bathrooms whenever he is having a hissy fit.
Al: In charge of body odor and standing around looking
muscular. Convinced that he's really Al Capone, but no one
believes him. Of course, we're sure as hell not going to say
it to his face.....he fears only Bhuufu, for some strange
reason.
Myron: Ignore him, he's an asshole. Unfortunately, he's quite
good at running the body. He's the &%@^#*& who let the
Ayatollah Khomeni into our mind......basically, if the
biggest asshole you know had an illegitimate child with
Marvin The Paranoid Android from the Hitchhikers' books, this
is him.
QWeRTYuioP: WaReZ FReaK, aND CoMPuTeR HaCKeR! SiNCe THe ReST
oF uS AReN'T 3LiT3, He DoeSN'T TaLK To uS.
Erf The Anarchistic Happy Slayer: Loves grandiose titles and
making bombs at home from boxes of Trix.
Papaya: Has one of those funky hats with the fruit on top.
Likes to play with Bhuufu. Besides having a funky hat, we
can't figure out why the hell he's here.
Davus The Cross-Dressing Bandit: Who says transvestites don't
make good philosophers?
Eucliedes The Victim: Gets beat up all the time, and learned
to enjoy it.
Cornelius Of The Studly Pose: Wears a spandex toga, and
therefore believes himself to be quite important.
Syrus The Thrasher Of Buttocks And Anything Else He Can Get
At: Thoroughly enjoys his work.
Ralph The Wanna-Be Ninja: Ordered one of those "Secrets Of
The Ninja" catalogs from a Boy's Life, and it went to his
head.
Aurelius The Apelike: <grunt> <hworf> <grunt>
Bernie: He's been lost ever since that Hamster incident. Has
been spotted as many times as Elvis, but we've never met up
with him again.
Nero: Obnoxious, refuses to get dressed, and must be kept
sedated.
Tiberius: Driven insane by implications of a lack of
endowment.
Sextus The Demon Child: Hit his head one too many times <or,
perhaps one too few>. He does anything Lil' Anti-Christ says.
Lil' Anti-Christ: He was sent to bring about the Apocalypse,
but before he could grow up and do it, he got run over by a
reindeer.
Karl The Kinky: In charge of polishing the leather supplies,
and is busier than you might think.
Catullus The Flatulent: Uses big words to disguise that he
tooted.
Woofie: Our dyslexic pet god.
Tyrone: Thinks we're all stupid, and is worried his rep will
be ruined from being stuck in here.
Gary Coleman's and Emmanuel Lewis's Careers: Hiding out here,
petrified of being reclaimed.
Meep: Just says that. Meep. A lot. He's getting annoying.
SHUT UP, MEEP!!!!
The Guava Melon: Just wants to be loved.
ThrashBoy: whamWHAM! BaDUM!
Biff The Taxi Driver: Tries to collect fares for piggyback
rides.
Abdul The 7-11 Stud!: Would you like some beef jerky with
your purchase of Hustler magazine?
Strawberry Ice: Vanilla Ice's Twin Brother who didn't quite
make it big.
That Thing That Was Hiding In Your Closet At Night When You
Were A Kid: Yes, he exists......
Snuffleupagus: Only here when he's not hanging out with Big
Bird, and is secretly furious that his existence was revealed
on Sesame Street to everyone, and not just Big Bird <yes, it
really happened...in 1985>
TenorBoy: O SOOOOLOOOOO MEEEEOOOOOO! Idolizes OperaMan from
SNL, but is embarrassed of his high-pitched, shrill voice.
But
he keeps trying, and thus we're constantly buying new
glassware.
Master and Servant: Two really fun guys.
Blarney: Ireland's answer to obnoxious purple dinosaurs: An
Obnoxious GREEN purple dinosaur!
The Fungus King: Yes, fungus can be dangerous. Very
dangerous.
Flip Swivel: Slimy record executive, convinced that LPs WILL
come back. Just watch.
Swimmy Jaggert: Fundamentalist Born-Again-Christian Out-Of-
Work Evangelist.
Vermin: Likes gutters and what's in them. We dunno why, but
he's scary so we don't ask.
Back-Seat Barry: Convinced that Sierra ripped him off, and is
growing insane having been separated from his Volkswagon and
its back seat for so long.
Salty The Sailor: Has had a long life of advising captains of
famous ships like the Titanic and the Exxon-Valdez.
Lord Gavin Thromwell: A stuffy old English poet who is
BRILLIANT no matter if you little teenage whelps think that
a poet should have talent to be good.
Bernardo Riviera: Considers it his personal duty to expose
the sex lives of the ex-wives of transvestite alcoholic
overweight Satan Worshippers who are pro-censorship.
James Donovan The Third: Rich child, football team captain,
debate team leader, and all-around snot.
"Little Booties" Caligula: Dances in a dixie cup and fuzzy
booties.
Eraserleg: Rejected from the movie, he now handles angst for
us.
Marcus Miximus: Mad and sullen because the human doesn't wet
the bed anymore. That was his job.
Warth The Twentieth Polyester King: Has a dangerous life (The
last 19 polyester kings were assassinated), but flaunts his
platform shoes in the face of death.
The Unknown Street Sweeper: Wishes he had a nice tomb too,
but noooo, the soldiers get all the good ones.
Geta The Runaway Rebel: Flasher Extraordinaire.
Bhuufu's Diapers: Yucky Yucky.
============================================================
============================================================
Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace Part One:
Mr. Bobbit Never Had It This Good
By Constantine
(Based on the original "Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace"
serial, also by Constantine, which ran in BLaH till it kicked
the bucket.)
The bar sat on the edge of 708, a run-down dive where the
drinks were as deadly as the customers. Walking past a huge
ANSI sign that flashed "The Shrivelled Zone", I lowered the
brim of my stetson and pulled up the collar of my trenchcoat
against the cold Cyberspace wind.
I pushed open the front door and stepped inside, catching
icy stares from the regulars as I walked up to the bar and
slapped a few file points on the counter. "Jolt," I said,
"Straight up." The bartender filled my glass as I scanned the
room. Here were the dregs of the Net-- warez couriers,
hacker wannabes, even a few K-RaD KiDdIeS... Any one of them
would cut your line for ten cents, and a few were eyeing me
like they meant to do it. Then I spotted my quarry, sitting
alone in a booth in the back.
Downing my Jolt in a single gulp, I walked over and sat
down across from him. He looked like a cute n' fuzzy bunny
rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming DC-747.
"Hiya, Zeppelin. Hack your school computer lately?"
"Wanker! You wanking wankers never wanking quit, do you?"
"Language, Zep. And keep your hands on the table, where I
can see them. Nice and slow, that's it. I'm armed and
unfriendly."
Zeppelin twitched spasmodically as he put his shivering
hands on the scarred tabletop. Too many bad downloads, I
thought, the boy's got a serious warez addiction.
"Pick up a virus somewhere, Zep?"
"Wanker! Wanker!"
"Yeah, that's what she said. Listen--I'm on a case and I
need info. Tell me what I want to know, and maybe I'll
forget I saw you."
"Wank, I'll talk. Don't want any wanking trouble, wanker."
"Good boy. When's the last time you saw--" A dark shadow
fell across the table, and I turned to see a trio of
unfriendly faces. They were K-RaDiK00l, and those bulges
under their coats probably weren't shareware.
"Looking for me, Constantine?"
"Joe Fred Foster. There's enough file points on your head
to net me a nice vacation in 813. Don't suppose you want to
come along quietly?" The 11-year-old goons flanking him
sniggered. I tried to stand up, but one flashed forward and
shoved me back in my seat. With speed like that, he either
had a 14.4 up his sleeve, or he was one hell of a Nintendo
player. When it came to bodyguards, Foster could afford the
best.
"Not so rough," I said, "I just had my coat dry-cleaned."
"You're the one going to the cleaners," Foster leered.
"Hey! That's pretty clever! You're a funny guy."
Foster scowled. "Funny? What do you mean, 'funny'?"
"You know, funny."
"Funny how? Like I'm a wanking clown? Like I'm here to
wanking amuse you?"
"Come on, Joe!" Zeppelin said, "He didn't mean anything by-
-"
"He's a big wanker! He can speak for himself!"
"Stop kidding around, Joe!" Zeppelin cried. Suddenly,
Foster whipped out a virus and fired. Zeppelin's screams
faintly echoed across the bar as his form dissolved into
nothingness. Foster pointed the virus at me.
"Time to drop carrier, Mr. Bounty-Hunter. Say your
prayers."
I reached into my coat and pulled out a tiny black file.
Holding it in the air above my head, I leapt up on the table.
"Stop!" I shouted, "Do you know what this is?"
Foster laughed as the goons looked at us in confusion.
"Lemme guess," he said, "It's a Whore virus, and unless we
let you go, you're gonna crash the whole bar. Right?"
Damn, I thought, that almost ALWAYS works.
"Wrong!" I said, thinking fast, "It's the pre-pre-pre-beta
release of the PC version of Mortal Kombat II!"
Suddenly, every eye in the bar lit with filelust. I hurled
the file into the center of the room, where a dozen punks
chased after it. The rest of the patrons ran into the fray,
static lightning flashing as they fought it out for the
coveted program. I used the distraction to leap over
Foster's head and race across the bar, a blast from the virus
program whizzing past me and splintering a wall. More shots
rang out around me as I burst through the front door and out
onto the street.
I leapt into the driver's seat of my cherry-red 9600 and
gunned the engine, chips squealing as I tore down the phone
line. As the Shrivelled Zone dwindled into the distance, I
could hear Foster screaming, "You just wait, wanker! I'll
get you!"
Not if I get you first, I thought grimly, my hands tight on
the wheel. My name's Constantine, and I'm a bounty hunter
for hire. It takes a special man to hunt renegades across
Cyberspace-- a fast man, a strong man, the kind of man who
could wear Brut cologne, but doesn't because he knows better.
I'm not that kind of man, particularly, but I never had much
talent for show biz and sysoping gives me acne. I pulled
into my private garage at Evermore Keep, in the 312 zone.
It's a nice place, quiet, away from the bustle of the
chatlines. It's also really, really cheap. My office is on
the second line. I tossed my hat on the rack as I walked
through the door, and stopped dead in my tracks. Before me,
resting on the sofa, was a woman who could separate a
Catholic priest from his altarboys.
"Lady," I said, breathless, "You've got more legs than a
Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise."
"Hello there," she said, "Is that a mouse in your pocket,
or are you just happy to see me?" I reached into my pocket.
"Um, no, actually, it's a Microsoft mouse," I mumbled
apologetically as I set it on the desk.
"I hear you have a gift for finding people. I need someone
found. Can we do business?"
"Can Bill inhale? Can Hillary be president? How can I
help you?"
She set a slim attache case on the desk and took out a
photograph. I looked it over. The grainy black and white
shot depicted a young man sneaking out the back door of a
CompUSA with something very large under his overcoat. "My
brother," she said with a sigh of despair, "Vito Hernandez.
I haven't seen him in weeks..."
"Do you suspect foreplay? I mean--um--foul--"
"My brother had a gambling problem. Perhaps his unpaid
debts led to his-" she sighed again, her hand to her
forehead, "untimely demise."
"I know a few people I could talk to. Where was he seen
last?"
"He kept a small apartment at the Melting Point. That's
really all I know. Over the past few months, we've become...
distant."
"Not to worry, I'm on the case. How can I reach you,
Ms...?"
"Call me Beatrice. And I'll reach you." She strutted to
the door, and slowly turned to look back at me. "Please, Mr.
Constantine. Save Vito. I can't pay you much, but I know
that beneath your hard-boiled exterior, you have a heart of
gold."
"How do you know that?"
"It's in the script."
I couldn't argue with that.
"I'll be in contact with you soon. Until then, Chow, Mein
Noodles."
I sat alone in the dark, pondering the clues. Then I
realized I didn't have any clues yet. Then I went to sleep.
Tomorrow was another day, and the Melting Point was right
down the net.
******** To be continued in Part Two: James Earl Jones
Strikes Back! ********
============================================================
============================================================
*TRUE* <mostly> Stories About Modern Transportation
Moving Between Places Part 1: 420 Midgets Go Hitchhiking On
Ice.
We were bored Wednesday. That wasn't unusual, since as
people who know us at school or work may know, we go through
most of life bored <and apathetic>. It was also cold.
Perhaps we should have known better. Perhaps we should have
dressed in something more than a string bikini. But now is no
time for recriminations. We could have waited for the bus,
but if we had, there would be no point to this particular
article on transportation <not that there's a point to
anything we write> <the bus article is coming up next>. So we
tried our thumb at hitchhiking, and we submit our results for
you, Propaganda Unlimited readers. We waited near the bus
stop just in case one came <it didn't>. We were near Marillac
High School on Waukegan Road in Northfield, Illinois, not
much of an area to hitchhike in. The fish there are
particularly paranoid ones. But we thrust our thumb out into
the cold, cruel world anyways. The first car to go by
pretended to ignore us, as did the next hundred or so. We
would have been offended, but we soon rationalized that if
they didn't pick us up, it was THEIR loss anyways. So we
continued trying, an joy of joys, we were acknowledged!
Someone noticed us and imitated us, using their middle finger
instead of their thumb like us, being alternative we guess.
(Justice was served when they summarily spun out of control,
flew over a bridge, and were swallowed up by the Sarlacc Pit
that lay underneath) Reactions continued along those lines.
Some people were amused, some bemused, some apathetic <we
were cheered by them>, some angry, some offended, some
indigested, some swallowed by giant lampreys, some had muscle
spasms in their middle fingers, some took out assault
weapons, some went fishing, and one stopped. It was an old
man. He pulled over the side of the road where we were now
dancing along with offering our thumb unto the road. After
reacquainting himself with the interior of his car, he rolled
down his window. "Kid, who the heck do you think you are?
James Dean?" <MC note: We are NOT Rebels Without Causes, we
are Rebels Without Clues> "Little punk. You tryin' to get
yerself killed? Do you know what some freak who picked you up
might do to you?" <MC note: We don't think he was implying
that only a freak would look at us and pick us up, but we
can't say for sure> We wondered out loud if he was referring
to a possible Defenestration? "Hmm? Didn't think so. Get yer
ass outta here before I call the cops!" We wondered out loud
if the rest of our body might stay. A bus came. We were
saved, as he had to move. To Conclude: Hitchhiking only
works in warm weather in deserts along long roads with tight
clothing on, and it is basically necessary to have a beer in
your hand that will create spontaneous snow.
Coming Soon: Moving Between Places Part II: How Many
Elephants Can You Fit In A Pace Bus?
=============================================================
============================================================
PhReEkInG WiTh DDTs By: ThE HakEr D00D!
[Editor's note: this file was sent to us from "The Filthy
Diner BBS" along with a lengthy imbedded advertisement, which
explained that the Filthy Diner was "ThE SorCe for ALL yEr
WaReZ, D00D!". The BBS in question offers 1-3 minute warez
at 300/1200 baud, 12 hours a day, and is the home board for
the highly elite (and Interpol-wanted) band of European
crackers known only as [PeNiS!]... This last bit puzzled us,
as the area code of the BBS placed it somewhere in Idaho. We
can only assume that a top-secret phone trunk exchange is
involved. As the entire textfile was written in something
resembling a cross between Sumerian and Pig-Latin, we
gathered our specially trained PU literary board (all two of
us), and painstakingly translated it into English for the
edification of our readers. We trust you will find it as
utterly enlightening as we did. --Constantine.]
So ya wanna phreak, huh D00D?! Well, ya got your PBXes and
your IUDs, but first ya gotta know all about DDTs! And I'm
the HakEr D00D!, here to teach ya! Remember, this is really
illegal stuff, so if your mom sees this file you
better not tell her where you got it or where I live or I'll
find you and BLOTTO BOX YER PHONE, D00D!!!!!!!!!!! Or at
least beat you up a lot. Now I got this stuff from a real
real technical guy I met on a chat line, and he works for
Bell Sprint, he said. And this is what I learned, and now
I'm telling you, and remember this is really really--wait,
did that already. Anyway. This guy told me to phreak the
phones (that means you don't gotta pay for calls and stuff)
you gotta find a DDT. A DDT stands for "D-Dial
Transvestite". I don't know what that means cause it's real
technical, but someday I'll look it up and when I do I'll
write another tfile to cover that too. So ya gotta find one,
or someone who HAS a DDT, I guess he meant. Funny thing is,
the only people who have DDTs hooked up to their phones are
chicks! And this is the really cool part-- chicks on BBSes
who have DDTs are ALWAYS horny! Anyway ya gotta look hard to
find them but they usually have handles like "Cindi" or
"Veronica" or "Com" or "Sex Kitten" or something EVEN HORNIER
THAN THAT, D00D! Isn't this K-RaD!? When you find one, you
gotta make friends with them or they won't help you use their
DDT. But that's easy cause these chicks are really friendly!
Just tell them how K-RaDiK00l you are, and they'll be all
over ya! Now here's the tricky part: NEVER mention DDTs, or
ask if they have one, cause a lot of sysops scan their boards
and they'll report stuff like that to the FEDS. What you
gotta do is use a secret code--tell them that you wanna go
out with them, or go over to their house and have sex. Most
of them will even suggest it before you do! Then, they'll
ask for your phone number. THAT'S THE CODE! You gotta give
them your phone number, and then they (this is what the phone
d00d told me) will call you back and give you access to their
DDT! And once you do that, you're made, D00D! Free calls
everywhere! AnArKy!!! So anyway, give them yer number, log
off, and wait. Keep the line open, don't call anywhere.
Soon, the right people will have your number, and you'll get
all the calls you can handle, d00d! I haven't tried this yet
but as soon as I finish typing this and uploading it (so I
can get enuff file points to d/l Little People Farm III), I'm
gonna go and pick up a DDT tonite! DDTs! They're K-
RaDiK00L!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
[Editor's Note: As always, information offered in the pages
of Propaganda Unlimited is employed at the reader's own risk.
--Constantine.]
============================================================
============================================================
Lunchtime in Dystropia Part 1: Fish Out Of Water, Human Gets
Wet. <chapter 1 of the Dystropian Chronicles, by Midget
Caesar> A man walked slowly through the darkness, the
elements working fiercely against him, but he paid no heed to
the crystalline daggers, nor to the angry cavemen attacking
him with spears, nor to the warring taxi drivers, nor to the
spectre of the Temple to Elvis that kept disappearing and
reappearing, each time doing its best to crush the man's blue
suede shoes. No, this was a man who was hungry, and he would
not be denied. Percy didn't want a taco. This was rather
unfortunate, since tacos kept flinging themselves at him. So
Percy went to his local Fast Food/Religion place and
converted to the Arbyan religion. Once converted, he had its
deity banish the tacos with a fierce, rousing round of the
old top 40 favorite song, "Get Thee Away, Foul Burrito-
Wannabe". Percy had chosen initiation-combo #2, which came
with a large fries, a large drink, and a demon banishment.
Percy handed his receipt <which denoted his conversion> to
the tallyfish by the door, who was supposed to denote his
conversion in the official log of Interesting Things about
Normal People, which had sadly become irrelevant with the
dawn of the fast food/religion chains. This should have been
foreseen, but due to a recent law it was not. The law rooted
from dissatisfaction in the fact that public restrooms were
lacking doors. It was decided that morons in government were
responsible for this. Since the government was to be held
responsible for this, then it was decreed that everyone in
government was most likely a blithering idiot. Since this
had never been realized before, it became evident that the
intelligence-rating system needed a revamping also. So the
new system was based on the individual's prior involvement in
government. Suddenly, the universe was filled with geniuses,
and several hundred members of Mensa retreated into quiet
desperation, trying to find another excuse for why they were
rather socially inept. No one could figure out where to put
the new supply of unemployed morons. who were supposed to be
drooling, but were apparently being obstinate. Having them
become postal workers was considered, but it was soon decided
that they were all far too peaceful and stable for such a
position. Plus, some sort of government was needed. So fast
food employees went to work in government, and no one really
noticed a difference. In protest, most fast food of the world
decided collectively to become sentient, and stage guerrilla
attacks on anyone they saw supporting restaurants as an act
of vengeance. Not being especially bright, their first
strategy was to hurl themselves at their target, who usually
promptly ate them. Since there is known to be an infinite
supply of french fries in the universe, they had fresh
recruits, but they just weren't having success. They decided
to use the already-devoured chocolate milkshakes as martyrs,
but would be ultimately defeated by the well-known and
documented fact that, as everyone knows, french fries just
can't come up with cool-sounding acronyms, a necessary part
of any military conquest. There wasn't enough fast food left
to maintain the restaurants, and thus a new dimension was
added, the fast religions. Divine assistance in a Drive-Thru!
Each chain had its own set of deities. The concept of the
Happy Meal became something else entirely when certain stores
began offering unevolved humanoids as chia pets. So the
former government employees, now labeled hopelessly braindead
<and also quite rude, because they refused to accept the
obvious fact that they were braindead> were sent to work in
the various fast food/religion chains, where they delighted
in enforcing the <no shirt, no soul, no service> rules. And
Percy returned to the Church of Apathy, but he didn't care
enough to disavow his prior connection to the McDeities. This
caused great confusion <or would have, had they not been so
apathetic> among his own set of deities, when Ronald McDonald
turned up as the immaculate conception. Oblivious to this
distraction, Percy continued on his quest for a nice, sit-
down restaurant.
<WILL Percy ever find a restaurant? Well, yeah, probably.
But what horrors await him there? Depends, what restaurant
is he going to? Um, I don't know.....what if he was going
to Shoney's? Why would anyone do that? Don't ask
me....you're the one writing it.>
<WILL anyone ever be able to make sense of what's going on
in this story? Well, no, probably not. Does it matter?
Nah.> Tune in next time for...... "Waiter, I've Been
Waiting Several Light Years For My Food!"
============================================================
============================================================
COMING SOON...
-- Nex is the guy who spent more time hacking Bloodnet than
actually playing it. Learn his hex-editing secrets; not only
is it easy, it's a hell of a lot cheaper than a hint-book!
-- Evanstonites and visitors won't want to miss Oregano's
guide to the drinking fountains of the northern suburbs!
Where is it safe to drink? Where is the water good? Where
do the homeless folks bathe? It's all here, folks.
-- More fiction, and the continuing sagas of Dystopia and
Fear and Loathing!
-- General Wackiness.
============================================================
============================================================
D I S T R I B U T I O N
At present, these are the fine boards where you can pick up
your new issues of Propaganda Unlimited before all the other
poor schmucks on your block. Give 'em a call today!
If you'd like to be an official PU distribution hub (whether
you really like the mag, or you just need some really cheap
publicity and all the cracking groups have turned you down),
drop us a line.
Board Phone
--------------------------- --------------
Intelligent Shade of Blue (312) 588-4231 (Headquarters)
Entropy (708) 205-0935
Lunatic Phringe CNet (708) 991-4277
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magazines/PU/pu0102.txt
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P R O P A G A N D A U N L I M I T E D
February 6, 1994 Volume One, Issue Two
"More Fun Than You Can Have With James Earl Jones!"
============================================================
============================================================
CONTENTS
----------
1. Introduction to Issue #2
by Midget Caesar
2. Romance and Red Lights
by Newt
3. Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Two
by Constantine
4. Your Pineal Gland and You
by Jack Roberts
5. Water Fountains of Evanston
by Oregano
6. Dystropia, Part Four
by Midget Caesar
============================================================
============================================================
STAFF
-------
Midget Caesar ............. Head Writer, Head Head, Head de
tutti Head.
Constantine ............... Head Editor, Head Person Who Had
His Birthday On The 5th.
Newt ...................... Head Female, Head New Member,
(And Welcome Aboard!)
Oregano ................... Head Evanston Writer, He's Smart
Enough, He's Good Enough, and
Damnit, We Like Him.
Nex ....................... He's On Assignment, Okay? Head
Distribution Manager.
Jack Roberts .............. Head Schizophrenic, Head Brain
Surgeon.
Avocado ................... Head Great Expectation.
The Lone Ranger ........... Head 'em Off At The Pass.
============================================================
============================================================
Exactly Why Does The American Gladiator Have A Dolphin
Swallowing His Head?
or
What Propaganda Unlimited Has Spooged, Is Spooging, and Will
Spooge Again.
(a Midget Caesar introduction to Propaganda Unlimited #2)
In case you hadn't noticed, the first issue of Propaganda
Unlimited has ended. Yes, the revellers went home. Yes,
President Clinton has given up trying to get into the
Premiere Party after being kicked out for not being important
enough. Elvis has gone back to his existence as an Elderly
Woman Behind The Counter In A Small Town (selling pearl jam).
Somebody seems to have stolen the hole-puncher AGAIN, and we
frankly can't tell whether Constantine is drunk or not. We
<*hic*> know we're not, that's fer shure. (What? You weren't
invited? We included invitations in 4 out of every 5 uploads
of PU #1, you must have received that one. Sorry)
So we're here, and it's time to spooge out issue number 2.
We here at Propaganda Unlimited are here to write pretty much
anything, be it humor, veiled social commentaries, computer
tips, reviews, or the fine print towards the bottom of a box
of Fruity Pebbles. A Text file group's <or magazine, in PU's
case> primary feature should be entertaining *text*, not an
ANSi figurehead. And PU has no fancy ANSi masthead. Why? We
here at PU would like to be judged for our writing merit, not
a flashy ANSi. Propaganda Unlimited is not meant to be
limited in scope, like a magazine that does nothing but steal
the work of others and/or rip on others. Do you really care
enough about what PU thinks of other TFile groups to read a
whole issue about it? We don't. So should an entire issue of
PU appear in which all that is done is crudely rip on another
TFile group or any other form of competition, please come
depose whoever is in charge, because it will NOT be Midget
Caesar who ordered the article published. And do so
violently. Defenestrate the scum, while you're at it. Stuff
them in vats of cheese. Force them to download d00m beta
versions at 300 baud. Why should Propaganda Unlimited do
what's been done before? How much good has the number system
done anyone, really? Why can't we change it? Why must PU
include certain utilities, and stay away from controversial
subjects? PU doesn't have to, and nor do we or you. This is
your society, your culture, and it doesn't change by itself,
and it certainly doesn't change by ignoring the problems all
over the place. Don't let ANYONE define your existence for
you. You're not obligated to do what has been done before,
and neither is Propaganda Unlimited. So PU will be different.
Not different for the sake of being different. Different
because PU will hopefully have some class, taste, humor,
creativity, originality, Jello, and some luck. Our guarantee
to you: If we ever become SO desperate for inspiration that
we have to resort to writing crude, inaccurate rips on other
people's work to fill ANY space in Propaganda Unlimited, we
will quit. Until then, we have a fair amount of ideas to put
out there, and if you liked the first issue, stick around.
It's only going to get better from here.
a sincere Peace, Love, and MangoBerries salute to you all!
SaFe-T-NuTz SeZ: PReTTy MuCH NoTHiNG. (and you're not
missing much, either)
============================================================
============================================================
Romance and Red Lights
or, How Not to Spend a Friday Evening
by Newt
Sometimes I truly do believe that there is a god of love
who, on occasion, to amuse himself, decides to toy with a
young couple and make a potentially romantic situation
utterly disastrous. I can come up with no other explanation
for my recent encounter with the world of love which makes me
cringe whenever it so much as crosses my thoughts. I would
have been thankful if all had gone well, understanding if the
evening had been less than perfect, but after such a complete
and utter disaster, I cannot begin to imagine what I might
have done in a previous life to deserve such an experience.
Even from the beginning, it had the strange mark that
only the logic of an high school student can produce. I had
convinced myself that even though I was going to a movie with
a single, young male whom I had never met, it was not a blind
date; it was, of course, simply an opportunity to meet a
friendly young lad, nothing more. It was easy to ignore the
strange looks my parents gave me when I explained my plans
for that Friday evening, as I blamed their confusion on their
ignorance of my generation rather than my own logic. Mark
and I had decided upon an unassuming, unoffending rather
bland picture to see. I had been told that there would be no
love scenes where I would embarrassedly have to clear my
throat and try to see out of the corner of my eye if Mark was
looking at me. The evening sounded wonderful to me, and I
could not imagine how anything could go wrong. I suppose I
should have suspected something when my friends who had met
Mark threw me surprised glances upon hearing about our plans
for the evening. And, of course, when Mark had to find my
house on a map before understanding my clear directions, I
received another blatant clue. But, alas, the optimism of my
youth prevailed and I remained blissfully ignorant of the
upcoming disaster which would send most lusty young girls
screaming towards a nunnery.
At first, all was well. I awaited the doorbell's call,
and when it finally did come, I was in no way discouraged by
Mark's appearance. I admit I had conjured up worst case
scenarios in my head, but Mark was not a greasy, smoking
biker clad in tight black leather who would make my parents
send me to that nunnery on their own. In fact, he was a
clean- cut, rather kind looking person who did not in any way
offend my parents. I was pleased by this turn of events, and
the only fear still present in my thoughts was that he would
turn out to be a little too friendly in the movie theater.
For some reason I have never been able to explain, those
humans with a Y chromosome tend to find romance in groping a
young lady while watching a steroid-pumped actor kill a
hundred men single-handedly. However, I soon dismissed these
fears, and we went to his car where he politely opened my
door. I must admit, I was impressed.
We set off for the movie theater, making pleasant small
talk that idly passed the time. In fact, I became so
involved in a discussion about the evils of technology that I
did not even notice myself the light was red until another
car blocked our path and my knees were forced against the
dash as the sound of scraping metal filled the air. Unable
to believe it, Mark made the intelligent observation, "I hit
him..."
I grimly smiled and suggested he look at the damage to
his car. He looked shocked to hear my statement, but his
head soon left thoughts of license revocation and entered the
present. He asked if I was hurt, and I replied that though
my hands were shaking and I had a mild case of whiplash, I
would not be permanently disfigured. We slowly exited the
car and grudgingly looked at the front of it. He was lucky,
for though not insignificant, not much damage had been done.
We entered the car again, and he stared at the steering
wheel, saying "What do I do?" I politely suggested that he
talk to the other driver. His quick reply was, "I don't want
to do that," and he immediately started the car and quickly
drove off.
My head was filled with headlines like "Local Girl Found
To Be Accomplice For Hit And Run" and guest appearances on
Geraldo for the "Men Who Were Sent to Jail on a First Date
and the Women That Love Them" show. Shocked, I stared at him
and suggested that he return. He refused and asked me to
direct him to the nearest pay-phone. I did so, and as we
were driving there, a police car with its lights flashing
headed towards the scene of the accident. My heart sank, and
I thought of how my parents would look when they had to pick
me up from the station. I had never imagined that I would
commit a crime worse than jaywalking or curfew violation, and
now, here I was, aiding and abetting a criminal. I pleaded
with him to return, and a look of fear crossed his face as
again he refused. We pulled into the parking lot with the
pay-phone.
I must admit, I found the conversation he had with his
mother amusing as I heard her voice screeching "You did
what?" over the phone. She demanded that he go home after
immediately taking me to mine. I was thankful for his
mother's order, and on the way home, after I had provided him
with an alternate route to my house, my hands tightly
clenched each as my confidence in his driving ability had
been somewhat diminished. I apologized for what had
happened, for even though I knew it was not my fault, I could
not even begin to think of what to say. I also began to joke
about the situation, and then apologized for that. Mark
then, smiling, said, "Oh, don't be sorry. You have the
prettiest smile I've ever seen." I inwardly groaned, waiting
for him to ask me what my sign was. Police, alerted by an
APB, were probably in hot pursuit of us, and he had chosen
such an opportune moment to hit on me. I smiled and thanked
him. By this time, we had arrived at my house, no more than
twenty minutes after we had left, and he got out of the car
to accompany me to the door. This time, I was not so
impressed by his chivalry. His head lowered as if to kiss
me, but apparently thoughts of police were still fresh in his
mind, for he hugged me instead and quickly drove away. I
embarrassedly answered the queries of my parents about my
early return and was a bit annoyed by their laughter.
Chuckling seemed appropriate, but I found their rolling on
the floor a little too extreme. I then settled down, still
shaking, to comfort myself with mindless Friday night TV.
About an hour later, the phone rang, and I was surprised to
hear Mark's voice. He asked nonchalantly for my full name,
birthdate, address, telephone number, and other such
information. I gave him the answers and asked if it were for
an accident report. He affirmed my suspicion.
"Oh good," I sighed with relief, "you turned yourself
in."
"Not exactly," he hesitated.
"You mean to tell me someone wrote down your license
plate number so quickly?"
He cleared his throat. "Not exactly. You see, the
license plate fell off when I hit the other man." I was
silent for a moment in disbelief and started to laugh
uncontrollably. He joined in after a pause, and all seemed
well. I was about to say good-bye and hang up the phone
when I heard him timidly say, "You had such a pretty
smile...would you like to go try it again tomorrow night?"
I immediately thought of a thousand good reasons to
become the first Protestant nun.
<Editor's note-- any similarity to bad dates living or
dead is strictly coincidental.>
============================================================
============================================================
Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Two:
The Inevitable Right to ::CENSORED::
by Constantine
I hit the floor as the broadsword whistled over my head,
cutting through thin air where my neck had been a second
before. I gave my assailant a quick jab to the ribs that
doubled him over, giving me a precious second to regain my
footing as another two thugs took his place. They were all
the same, a pack of ten-year-olds wearing shining armor and
waving medieval weapons like they were ginsu knives and I was
a tomato. How the hell, I wondered as I sidestepped an
axeblade, did I get into this?
It all started yesterday, with a gorgeous dame who hired me
to find her missing brother. Yeah, it's a cliche, but she
paid me well to ignore it. Now I was standing in the ruins
of the Melting Point BBS, surrounded by a bunch of D&D
rejects who wanted my head on a pike.
"Let me kill him!" one shouted, "I only need 2 billion
experience points for next level!"
"I've got four attacks! I've got four attacks!" another
chanted, waving a mace at me. Somewhere in the distance, a
gong was chiming over and over again.
Looking around for an avenue of escape, I realized what had
happened here; the architecture of the Melting Point, once a
thriving 708 nightclub, had been overgrown, parasite-like, by
some deep corruption that had altered the very reality of the
system! Spotting an empty alley, I made a break for it,
arrows chunking into the silicon walls as I ran for my life.
Bootsteps thudded behind me as I turned the corner and raced
for a temple across the street.
Goddamn Telearena junkies are everywhere, I thought.
Where's the Melter? Did they cut his line, too?
I burst into the temple, slamming the heavy doors behind me
and frantically searching for something to bar them with.
There were a few rows of pews, a small altar, a giant poofy
teddy bear, candles, lots of dust--
"I'm surprised," said the teddy bear, "I expected you to at
least do a doubletake."
"You're real?" I said, "That's a relief. I thought I was
just hallucinating under extreme stress. You wanna help me
block this door before the Happy Fun Club busts in here and
hacks us into teeny-tiny pieces?"
We leaned a pew against the doors just as something heavy
slammed against them from outside, the doorframe buckling.
"Battering ram," the teddy bear remarked, "By the way,
I'm--"
"You're Nex, I know. I'm having the most incredible
feeling of deja vu right now. I think I'd be enjoying it a
lot more if we weren't about to die."
The door shuddered again, splinters spraying. Outside, I
could hear a twit screaming, "Heave-ho! Heave-ho! I get
five attacks with the ram!"
Suddenly, all was silent. The door held. Not a sound from
the street outside, as if all the twits had vanished into
thin air.
"It's a trick," Nex said.
"No," I said, my ear to the door, "They're building
something."
I could hear faint scraping sounds like something heavy and
metallic dragging across the dust, the soft clicks of a
tripod being erected...
"What is it?" Nex asked.
"Hmmm... There's an Infinity Complex game nearby, isn't
there?"
"Yeah. Why? What are they building?"
A faint smell of gasoline wafted under the door. I stood
back, looked at him, and shrugged.
"Rocket launcher."
The door exploded in a blossom of flame and debris, and the
world went black.
******** To be continued in Part Three: The Second Coming of
James Earl Jones! ********
============================================================
============================================================
Definition of pineal gland, reprinted without permission from
World Book Encyclopedia 1989, with additional commentary from
Jack Roberts, M.D.
Pineal Gland. PIHN ee uhl. also called pineal body, is
the tiny organ in the brain of human beings and most other
vertebrates (animals with a backbone). Scientists are
uncertain of the function of the pineal gland in human
beings. They believe it plays a role in certain reproductive
processes. The pineal gland secretes a hormone called
melatonin. In most amphibians, birds, fishes, and reptiles,
the gland is located in the back of the head just beneath the
skin. It responds directly to light that penetrates the
skin. In mammals, including human beings, the pineal gland
lies near the center of the brain. In general, light slows
and darkness stimulates the pineal gland's production of
melatonin. In most vertebrates, the pineal gland's secretion
of melatonin keeps the animal "timed" to its environment.
Most animals live under conditions where the daylength and
the temperature of the environment change throughout the
year. To survive, they must breed at certain times of the
year, usually spring or early summer. The offspring will
then have a chance to grow strong enough to survive the first
winter. The pineal gland keeps track of the changing
daylengths. By means of its melatonin, it sends this
information to the body and appropriate reproductive
responses are made. <pompous way of saying "making whoopee" -
The Editors>
<picture omitted>
In human beings, melatonin has been linked to the onset of
puberty. Studies have shown that the pineal gland's nightly
secretion of melatonin decreases when a boy or girl reaches
puberty. In addition, researchers have suggested a connection
between melatonin levels and certain mental illnesses. <Good
thing there are no mentally ill people on the propaganda
unlimited staff - The Editors >.
Analysis:
what a load of crap, the pineal gland is the thing that makes
songs that you don't like stick in your head, especially when
you are trying to sleep, so you can't get to sleep no matter
how hard you try because that damn song keeps playing over
and over and over again and just won't leave you alone, it's
like it is trying to make you miserable. i think that they
are probably implants by the government. <We apologize - The
Editors>.
============================================================
============================================================
Feature Review: Water Fountains!
by Oregano
I'll go anywhere at any time for a good drink of water.
This past week I braved the elements to bring to you the
scoop on two of Evanston's finest drinking fountains. I've
always liked the idea of drinking fountains, nothing tastes
so good as a nice cool drink from one. Most people see
drinking fountains as dispensers only to be used during the
hot summer months but for me the fascination is a year round
event and I seldom pass up an opportunity to experience a new
drinking fountain sensation.
Some of the worst drinking fountains are in schools,
take Evanston High School, almost all their drinking
fountains are foul smelling with warm water and the old
fashioned knob that is full of germs and sweat, plus the
basin of the fountains are full of puss, spit, gum, and other
bodily excretions that are far from making the drinking
experience a good time. The beach is another outpost of bad
drinking fountains. Often they are weird stone monuments
with handles well recessed under the basin, making it hard to
both turn it on and drink at the same time.
But today I have laughed in the face of the weather to
bring you two of the finest drinking fountains in all of
Evanston. The first at Love's Yogurt located on Sherman
Street and the second at Barnes and Nobel bookstore on the
corner of Church Street and Sherman Avenue.
Let me set up the picture and give you a behind the
scenes look at how one gathers information on drinking
fountains and the perils faced. It was snowing when I set
out to Love's Yogurt, I had no special snow boots when I
left, only my time worn sneakers which have no traction on
the slippery sidewalks. But these were not just snow covered
sidewalks, freezing rain had fallen in the few days previous
so now what we had was wet snow on top of ice --this just
goes to show that the drinking fountain enthusiast sometimes
risks his life (and possible embarrassment ) for cool water.
I needed a cover, I couldn't just walk into a frozen
yogurt place and rush to the drinking fountain and start
drinking and making notes, the owner might call the police
thinking that someone was using the bathroom without buying
anything. You see, drinking fountains are not thought of too
highly in our society and they are often, if not always, put
next to the bathrooms. They thus are often used by dirty
hands of the people who refuse to wash their hands after
using the rest room. So, had i gone to the back of the
store where the owner could not see I'd be risking arrest; I
had to buy a some frozen yogurt. The wind outside was 17 MPH
and it was 20 degrees F with a windchill of -12, not exactly
ice cream weather.
I decided to get the smallest cone possible, not wanting
to delay the time I had to wait to finally get to the
fountain. I ordered Dutch Chocolate, the owner asked whether
I wanted it in a cup or a cone, I hadn't the heart to tell
him that I wanted neither. $1.40 worth of yogurt is a small
price to pay to get the wonderful water that I can get there.
Imagine what his fury would be had I he knew that this was
just a ruse to sample the drinking fountain, he might have
chased me around with a Shinto Blade which he no doubt had
hidden under the counter.
Another customer entered which surprised me since I had
figured that nobody would be foolish enough to eat frozen
yogurt on a night like this. This poor lost soul was
probably not even aware, as he ordered Dutch Chocolate (no
doubt basing his choice on mine before him,) that just 15
feet away from him was some of the best water in town. I
hurried with my cone and as misfortune would have it I
contract a head freeze, I turned away from the cone which was
no doubt toying with me to slow me down.
I waited, taking more notes giving my head a chance to
ease its pain, but I was in a big hurry, almost being able to
taste the water on my lips. Finally I was done, the cone
eaten in my particular pattern which has not failed me in my
years of age. I wiped off my fingers and wrapped the napkin
up and headed for the far side of the building, on the way I
dropped the napkin in the trash and I kept going, past the
owner into the back, It was like a golden ticket to
dreamland, before me stood the drinking fountain, it had
taken 15 minutes worth of nonsense but here it was, all mine.
This is not a perfect fountain, In fact there are few
fountains that come even close to perfect. This fountain,
for example, was designed with handicapped people in mind and
therefore is too low on the wall. Were I forced to drink
water here all day as some Draconian form of punishment, my
back would start to hurt after just an hour. The button to
get the water flowing was a long bar that reaches almost the
entire length of the front of the drinking fountain, this
makes it easy to press it just by leaning against it. The
water flowed all the way across the basin, actually hitting
the drain, this was good. Sometimes the water just dribbles
out making for horrible drinking, sometimes you cannot suck
any water out of it, plus disgustingly you have to put your
lips where other lips have been. Another horrible problem
some fountains have is having the water go too far, off the
edge of the basin, sometimes spraying on your hand, or shirt.
When you try to drink from these the water ends up going all
over, wetting your shirt, and making you look unprofessional.
The water here at Love's was great, lots of pressure but
not too much, plus nice stream cross-section, not too thin
and not thick as garden-hose water. One other drawback, and
I'm not sure whether its from the lack of customers or the
lack of people getting water, but the water was warm to start
out with. This didn't pose a problem after I let it run for
a few moments, but it was a shock, and the judges had to
deduct points. Onward I went to Barnes and Nobel Bookstore,
also known for good water. I didn't have to make up any
excuse to use the fountain there, I just charged upstairs,
pretended to look at books and made my way back to the
bathroom area where the fountain lies. Classical music sets
the tone of this bookstore and therefore of its drinking
fountain experience. If one is the right mood then the
music enhances the trip to the fountain, but this night I was
tired from a long day and the soaring music just irritated
me. Plus there was a family consisting only of kids, the
mother child could have been no more then 9 and the children
childs were in the 3-6 year age. The entire family of
children decided that it would be a good idea to run around
yelling, no doubt they did this to annoy me in particular,
and it worked, but not enough to distract me from my work,
being the professional that I am. The Bookstore was a new
one and therefore the drinking fountain was a bit more modern
than is usually encountered in Evanston. The way to get the
water flowing was a bizarre bumper on the front of the
fountain which runs the entire length of the front plus
halfway on either side, then entire assembly is pressed down
either on the front or the sides to get the water to flow.
Like most fountains nowadays it was entirely made of
stainless steel, except for a bit of white plastic on the
spout guard.
The pressure was weak compared to Love's Yogurt, the
stream went only half-way across the basin. But the
temperature was good, very cold and with a nice taste, not
metallic like found at the YMCA. If you are ever a visitor
to the fair town of Evanston, I can highly recommend either
of these two fountains to give you lots of enjoyment. Be it
a steamy summer day, after 10 miles of bicycling or a cool
winter's eve, I can guarantee good drinking, but be quick,
once the secret is out people may be queueing up to get a sip
of nature's finest drink.
============================================================
============================================================
Lunchtime In Dystropia, Chapter One, Part Two, Section 42,
Particle 251: Go Ahead, Splatter Me Over The Windshield Of
Life And See If *I* Care. <part 4 of the dystropian
chronicles, by midget caesar>
A man walked through the darkness, his trench coat wrapped
over his battle-weary body like a damp bathrobe. Yes, he had
it all now. There was nothing that could block his forward
progression to the ultimate. He strode forth to use his
powers to answer the important questions of life, like how
many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll
pop. His way would not be blocked. Instead, a large rock
fell from the sky, not stopping his forward progression but
merely squishing him. Another man observed the spectacle
from a distance. Also clothed in a dark trench coat, he was a
man who refused to be obsessed. His only quest in life was to
find out WHY he had been named Percy. Percy was a truly
apathetic person, and Percy knew better than to ask questions
about Tootsie Roll pops, for there are certain things that
are just not meant to be known. <This and other unanswerable
questions had been compiled into a book, after which top
scientists declared that should those questions ever be
answered, the universe would have to end. When the second
edition was released, a man bitter about his job included the
question "Why?", thus setting off mass paranoia and fear that
should any question be answered, the world would end. The
crisis ended when a rogue army of fast food (see chapter 1
part 1) took over the publishing house and, trying to ensure
their own safety, changed the question to "Why would anyone
reasonable actually eat White Castle food?", which of course
could not be answered, and inadvertently restored peace to
the universe>
Percy was only looking for a restaurant, a sit-down one.
One with games that you could play on the placemats. One
without Mortal Kombat 42 in the lobby. One with singing fish
performing as you eat. Percy searched long and hard, and
found a restaurant with singing fish. One out of three
wasn't too bad, he decided. The restaurant was called "Some
Place With Stuff That You Put In Your Tummy", and it was a
filthy diner indeed. The name was a result of yet another
recent ordinance, pushed through by Morons Across America
<they insisted it be pronounced "Moo", considering themselves
clever for doing so>. It all basically started when some
moron entered Denny's expecting to be served real food, which
is quite the dumb expectation indeed. A crusading young
lawyer named Darius took the moron's case, and successfully
sued reality for discriminating against stupid people
everywhere. Thus, "restaurants" had to be more accurately
labeled. A chirping "Hello" should have been issued by the
door as Percy walked though it, but after the "food" itself
and the seat cushions both gained sentience through the Equal
Appliance Act, <see chapters 3 and/or 4, coming soon>, the
assorted inanimate objects began to fiercely hate each other.
It took a brave spork named, not coincidentally, Mr. Spork
to sacrifice itself as a martyr to keep the peace. Each
inanimate object blamed all the other ones for the death <or
de-pronging> of the utensil they had all known and loved, and
therefore none of the objects were on speaking terms with any
of the other ones. Percy, of course, wasn't distracted in
the least, not even by the pamphlet titled "The Bondage And
Pain Of Existence As A SpoonStraw" issued to him when he
tried to stir his coffee. A waitress named Flo <to make
things easier for Morons Across America, all waitresses were
renamed Flo or Diane, since that's inevitably what they were
called> brought out a Rib Special <Cherry Coke, no iCE>, and
placed it in front of Percy. There was, of course, one
problem. Percy hadn't ordered yet, and though his membership
in the Church Of Apathy ensured that he didn't really care,
he didn't want a Rib Special <though ordering a Cherry Coke,
no iCE was one of the great constants of the universe>. Flo
explained that she had traveled forward in time as Percy came
in, taken his order, placed it, moved to the future when it
was cooked, and brought it back to him, and all that without
ruining her hairdo in the least, Percy observed. So Percy
figured that the Rib Special was what he really truly wanted,
deep down, and ate it. People in restaurants everywhere ran
into the same problem <except for patrons of what used to be
Denny's, who couldn't tell the difference between anything on
the Denny's menu anyways>, and all eventually accepted it,
with the exception of one woman who refused to conform her
own ideals, and eventually ended up driving herself sane,
requiring that she be put in an institution for the
Dangerously Sane. Percy had no such problems, however. He ate
his food peacefully, accepting the future as he figured it
was, and not really caring enough to care about it.
Somewhere in Idaho, where he'd never be found anyways, a
man named Milo smiled, and reflected upon how much fun
uploading a WHoRe virus to reality could be. And Percy went
home, requiring nothing more for happiness than a content
belly.
* T h e E n d *
Coming Soon:
Chapter Three Of The Dystropian Chronicles:
"I Couldn't Possibly Have Murdered Him, Sir. My Foot Was
Asleep."
<As for chapters 2 and 4, who knows?>
============================================================
============================================================
COMING SOON...
-- A special spotlight on Def Mangoe, the world's hardest-
self-promoting band! You've never heard of them, so you KNOW
they're hip! We'll hang with the band and expose the sordid
truths about groupies, agents, and what REALLY happens on
tour buses...
-- More fiction, more fun, more paranoid rantings than
ever!
-- Nex submits an article! (We mean it, folks-- you don't
think we'd just keep stringing you along like this, do you?)
-- Specific Wackiness.
=============================================================
=============================================================
D I S T R I B U T I O N
The Propaganda Unlimited Distribution Net is almost up!
Next issue should bring a vastly expanded list of our
supporters-- meanwhile, why not patronize THESE fine boards?
(We know, we know, EVERYBODY patronizes us...)
Board Phone
------------------------- --------------
Intelligent Shade of Blue (312) 588-4231 (Headquarters)
Entropy (708) 991-4277
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P R O P A G A N D A U N L I M I T E D
March 7, 1994 Volume One, Issue Three
"More Fun Than You Can Have Breaking Nancy Kerrigan's Leg!"
===========================================================
===========================================================
CONTENTS
--------
1. Introduction to Issue #3
by Constantine
2. Lucid Death, Part One
by Nex
3. Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Three
by Constantine
4. Lampreys!
by Nyarlathotep
5. Dystropia, Part ?
by Midget Caesar
6. Modem Chicks
by Newt
7. Snapple Mango MADNESS!
by Two Fish
===========================================================
===========================================================
STAFF
-----
Midget Caesar ............ Our Flounder, The Filet o' Soul,
Head Writer.
Constantine .............. Cheeseburger, Coke and a Super-
size Fry (no insecurity here,
damnit), Head Editor.
Newt ..................... Hot Apple Pie, Columnist.
Oregano .................. Happy Meal, Evanston Columnist.
Nex ...................... Extra-Value Meal, Writer, Head
of Distribution.
Nyarlathotep ............. Chicken Nuggets, Indiana
Correspondant.
Two Fish ................. Large Orange Drink, Columnist.
Operatech ................ Quarter Pounder, Distribution
Aide.
Itchi-Koo ................ Fry Guy, Demomeister.
King Trent ............... The Hamburglar.
============================================================
============================================================
Letter from the Editor
by Constantine
Greetings, Buenos Nachos and Blessed Be from Propaganda
Unlimited as we enter into this, our gala Third Issue! As
always, our aim is to bring you quality entertainment, news
you can use, and the occasional bit of (gasp!) thought
provocation. Now that we're settling into a comfortable
groove, I'd like to share our plans for the future and bring
you up to date on what's been going down in Propaganda Land.
PU will now be shipping semi-biweekly, to an always-
expanding list of distribution boards. If you are a sysop
interested in becoming a distribution site, contact any of
the PU staff for details. And now, for faster information
on distribution setup, writing and staff positions, or if
you just want to drop us a line, you can send email to the
Official Propaganda Unlimited Internet Address! Reach us
at: PULETTERS@AOL.COM
If there's enough interest, we'll be starting a regular
letters column, where the most provocative mail will be
reprinted and answered by our ever-harried editorial staff.
Love mail, hate mail, warm fuzzy mail-- go ahead. Let us
have it.
Speaking of warm fuzzies, let's give a hearty PU welcome
to our newest staff members, Nyarlathotep, Two Fish and
Operatech! You'll be seeing those names quite a bit in
times to come. Unless, of course, the "Ancient Prophecies"
special last week was correct and we're all about to be
devoured by mutant space snails.
And speaking of vermin, there's something on a sadder
note to report. The Entropy BBS was our second PU site, and
one we had rather high hopes for. However, the sysop of that
board sent us a submission under a fake name which largely
ripped on one of our OWN staff members. Now, while we're
firm believers in self-parody (hell, we have to be), the
article in question crossed the line into personal attack.
We rejected it as a matter of course. Shortly thereafter,
it came to our attention that the sysop was opening the PU
submission base to all, particularly the head of another
tfile group, to steal from at will.
Thus was our trust betrayed, and Entropy dishonoured.
Because of this, Entropy and its sysop are not, and NEVER
will, have any association with us whatsoever. We felt that
it was important to bring this matter directly to you, the
readers, in order to deflate any possible rumors.
So what can you look forward to in upcoming issues?
More than you can shake a stick at, if you're inclined to
run around shaking sticks at things. PU is growing all the
time, and we've got a drawing-board full of ideas. This
very issue is the first to be packaged in a double format,
and distributed as PU0103.ZIP and PU3ALT.ZIP. The first
is just the magazine, while the second is paired with the
Smoking Dog Demo, by ISOB's own Itchi-Koo! We've provided
the two formats so that the less demo-inclined can save
time by just getting PU, while others can treat their eyes
and ears to... Well... Let's just say, you won't soon
forget it. It's a pure PU experience.
Remember-- to make Propaganda Unlimited the best it can
be, we need YOUR help. Let us know what you like, what you
hate, and what you'd like to see in the future, and we'll
do our best to keep bringing you a quality digest, month
after month.
Peace, Love, and Mangoberries!
===========================================================
===========================================================
ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ Lucid Death by Nex ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
(Part One)
Some say that when you die in your dreams, you die in
life. Well, I died in a dream, and as you can see, I'm still
around to type this text file. However, although I did not
physically die, it feels as though a certain aspect of my
mind is either no longer there or it has been buried away for
the time being. Anyway. What you are about to read, if
you have the interest, is a narrative account of a lucid
dream, or rather, a lucid nightmare, which I have recently
had. For dramatic purposes, I may edit a couple things here
and there...
It was another dark and mysterious night in Chicago.
That is, Chicago in the year 2026. It has been 13 years
since the Vatican had managed to unite the world under its
authority for the "advancement of true spiritual growth."
What utter bullshit. By "spiritual growth," they mean
conformity. Shortly after the world was adapted to this new
leadership, the New Vatican had started to deploy it's army
of high-tech robot police, or as they called them, the
"Population Control." More bullshit. These "population
control" bots are drones sent out to force unwilling members
of the populace to conform. But what they do is alot worse
than slapping people around. They fraggin' strap this helmet
thing to your head and totally wipe your mind. A sort of
operation-less lobotomy. You become a mindless vegetable and
do whatever you're told to do. You're safe from these things
if you put up a good front, but they can usually see through
your disguise. Or, you can be like the majority of the
people and just give in to these sanctimonious assholes. Me,
I don't conform. The name's Tyler. Eric Tyler. I was
a P.I. prior to this "Big Takeover," but now I don't get much
business. So I just go where the wind blows nowadays. Once
and a while, when the need arises, I do some bounty hunting,
but for the Rebellion, and not the Holy Alliance. The
Rebellion is a somewhat organized group of non-conformists.
They have little sub-divisions all over the place, but the
main HQ lies on the outskirts of Chicago, near the old
Nuclear plants. They've got limited resources, but they do a
damn good job of surviving in this harsh environment. The
Holy Alliance is viewing them as a nuisance, and nothing
more. Heh, they don't know what's coming to them. Anyway,
it was a Friday night. I always carry my .357 in the inside
pocket of my black trench.
Any weapon is a valuable commodity these days,
especially in slums like Chicago. The ground was slick from
the drizzle we had earlier, and the air was kind of misty,
but not neccessarily hard to see in. I was heading for Lou's
Marketplace. I had heard that Lou had been giving secrets
away to the Holy Alliance outpost here in Chicago. Well, he
won't be talkin' for much longer. I didn't bother to take my
cycle, since it would be a waste of gas anyway, and gas has
risen to 10 bucks a gallon. All I had was a bubblegum
wrapper and my business cards. As I stepped out of the alley
onto Billary street, a kid bolted out of Lou's Marketplace
with a half eaten apple in his right hand. Food was also
hard to come by these days. As I watched the kid run, there
was a loud boom as the kid was turned into minced meat and
fell, sliding on his own blood. I drew my gun as I turned
towards Lou. The fat slob had a fraggin GRIN on that damn
grizzly face of his! This only fueled my anger as I aimed my
gun for one good shot. It was as if everything was in slow-
mo. Still with that stupid grin on his face and shotgun in
hand, Lou turned towards my direction. His grin turned into
a grimace as I shouted "You fat fuck" and pumped the trigger
on my gun. The bullet struck Lou in the left eye and he fell
backwards into his store. My aim needed a little work. I
strolled over to his store and walked in. I looked down at
Lou, who still had that look of pure terror washed over his
face. I spit in it. Then I grabbed the shotgun and checked
to see how much ammo was left. Shit, there was only one shot
left. I grabbed a Twinkie and stuck it in my mouth as I
started to search the place...
[To Be Continued]
============================================================
============================================================
Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Three:
Gee, Ricky, I'm really sorry your mom blew up.
by Constantine
I awoke on a floor of steaming sand, a crowd roaring in my
ears. As my eyes slowly focused, I realized that I was in
some sort of open arena, the stands packed with cheering
twits. The only exit was blocked by a huge steel grate, the
passage beyond leading down into darkness. I struggled to my
feet, waved my fist and shouted a rousing speech about truth,
liberty, and a man's inalienable right not to be kidnapped
after being blown up with a rocket launcher. It was a few
moments before I realized I had actually TRIED to stand,
fallen down, flopped around in the sand and cried, "Wubba
wubba wubba". Apparently, I was in worse shape than I
thought.
I fought to stay conscious as a shadowy figure stood on the
raised dais over the arena gate, his form silhouetted by the
rising sun. "Ladies and Gentlemen, phreaks of all ages," he
proclaimed, "I welcome you-- to the Telearena!" The crowd
roared as I pulled myself to my feet and looked for another
exit; there wasn't any, short of jumping up into the stands,
and somehow I didn't think any of the spectators would be
willing to lend me a hand.
"You know the rules," the mysterious emcee said. The crowd
began to chant, "Two lines enter, one line leaves!"
"And in this corner, a particularly desperate specimen of
Netlife, the lowest-paid bounty hunter in town and soon to be
the deadest, Constantine!" The audience booed and hissed,
predictably enough.
"And the number-one champion: that's right folks, you know
him as Sergeant Slaughter, the master of SOD, and 'that
annoying jackass who crank-calls McDonalds', it's... Rancid
Goat!" A deafening cheer went up as the tunnel grate slowly
rose.
A gong rang in the distance as something evil emerged into
the sunlight. A leprous half-man with cloven hooves and
snaggled yellow fangs, Rancid Goat turned towards me,
swinging a massive spiked ball on a chain as he advanced.
"You look Jewish," he snarled.
"Hey, now, there's no call for that!"
"You look black, too." I lept aside as the morningstar
whistled past my head, crashing onto the sand. "What the
hell are you talking about? I'm PALE!"
"Hitler says you gotta die," Goat grunted, whirling the
morningstar.
"Can't we talk about this?" I said, narrowly dodging
another swing, "Can't we be friends?"
"Bet you're a fag, too. And Japanese. Little black
Japanese Jewish homo. Hitler says you die now." I ran
backwards, stumbled and fell to the ground. Goat stood over
me, the morningstar raised for a killing blow--
--and the sky went black. Faster than you can say "Deux ex
Machina", the arena was plunged into darkness. Luminous blue
letters across the sky spelled out, "System shutdown in one
minute. Everything still in system upon shutdown will be
annhilated. You may want to leave now. Have a nice day."
Goat brought the morningstar slamming down, smashing the
empty sand-- I was long gone, leaping up into the stands and
running like hell, invisible in the panicked crowd. I
streaked down the street and into town, past the demolished
temple to where my modem was parked. A pair of phonelines
were etched in the dirt where it had been driven away.
Bad neighborhood. Go figure.
Hordes of screaming twits ran past me as the letters in sky
changed to, "Thirty seconds to system shutdown. Get out or
die. Have a nice day."
I started praying to Mary of the Larcenous Interface when a
jet-black 14.4 screeched up beside me. Through tinted
windows a voice said, "Get in! Fast!" Not being particularly
suicidal, I did so. The modem lurched forward as soon as I
was in the door, tearing off down the Net as the Melting
Point collapsed behind us.
My feet rested on a layer of empty bottles of whiskey and
tequila, another half-empty bottle sloshing on the dashboard.
The ashtray was overflowing with butts, the smoky air filled
with a most un-tobaccolike smell. The driver was cloaked in
shadow, only his red, bleary eyes visible in the dark.
"Nobody got out of there alive," he slurred as we raced
across the Net. Up ahead, I could see some of the armored
twits from the arena standing on our line, trying to build a
roadblock out of fiberoptic cable.
"Don't worry," my rescuer said, "We'll break on through to
the other side." As we smashed through the roadblock, I
suddenly realized who he was.
"Dear Gods! You're--You're--"
Grabbing the bottle from the dashboard, Jim Morrison downed
the last of the tequila and tossed it onto the floor. "I am
the modem king," he breathed, "I can do anything."
********* To be continued in Part Four: James Earl Jones
Does Dallas! *********
============================================================
============================================================
The fire raged across the land, burning everything. The
trees, the buildings, even the stones themselves were ablaze.
It was Ragnaroc, Armegeddon, Gotterdamerung, the
Immanentization of the Eschaton, Doomsday, the end of the
world. And floating above this cataclysm was the face of a
Lamprey, grinning... I woke up from this nightmare, and my
hatred for the dread Lampreys was just reaffirmed. I had
always known that I would never complete my task in life,
alone at least. But I didn't think that it would get as bad
as the dream.
LAMPREY QUEST 3D!
*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*
I: Gratitude
The Hunter got out of his bed and got dressed. It was a
busy day today. Time to get outfitted for his coming
adventure. He had a meeting with a possible sponsor, and he
wanted to make a good impression, as lamprey hunting sponsors
are not easy to find. He dressed in his finest clothes,
neatly brushed his hair, shaved. Not in that order mind
you... He was going to look his best, and prove that his
cause was just and deserved funding.
Not one to go out in the world unarmed, however, he
carried with him a 9 inch dagger tucked neatly in a shoulder
under his jacket. Not much, but with his skill it was quite
deadly, especially to small lamprey forces. Heck, he had
beaten scouting parties of several lampreys unarmed. The
meeting was for 12:30 at Magio's, a popular restaurant for
business lunches on 8th street, a good 45 minute drive for
the Hunter. He left at 11:43 precisely. At 12:20 he was
near the restaurant, looking for a parking place.
Due to the popularity he had to park several blocks from
the restaurant. Not one for taking the long way, he decided
to cut through a back alley. For anyone else this would have
been a grave mistake. While walking through the alley, he
was confronted by a youth brandishing an automatic pistol.
"Give me your Money! OR ELSE" Yelled the youth,
pointing his gun at the Hunter. The Hunter stood still.
"Come on man. I'll plug you I swear."
"I'd put the gun down if I were you," answered the
Hunter in a cool voice.
"Man, you're dead!" said the young hoodlum as he
prepared to blow the skull off the Hunter. But before he
could pull the trigger, the gun was on the ground, the
youth's hand pierced by a rather large dagger. Momentarily
after that, the youth was on the ground, with the hunters
foot on his throat.
"You should be thankful to be alive, I'm in a good mood
today. Any other day and you would have found the knife in
your heart. But I like you for some reason, Kid, and I'm
gonna let you live. Remember what happened today son, next
time you might not be so lucky. Here, here's 10 dollars. Go
get yourself a cab to the hospital."
He picked up the pistol, stuck it in his wasteband and
walked off to the restaurant. The youth sat stunned for
awhile, amazed at what happened. That guy had the reflexes
of a cat. He thought about what the dude said, and went to
the hospital. While waiting in the emergency room, he
decided that he had to find that guy, and thank him for his
life. The hunter's meeting went well, despite his arrival 30
seconds late.
============================================================
============================================================
Truth <sort of>, Justice, and The Dystropian Way Part One:
Violent Soap-On-A-Rope
<chapter 3 of the dystropian chroniclings by midget caesar>
The freeze pop was old. There was basically no doubt about
that. It had been frozen ages ago, and the freeze pop
couldn't decide if it was a good thing that it hadn't been
sucked dry, and had instead been left here to rot. It didn't
dwell on that question, for it was a rather stupid freeze
pop. It would promenade up and down the beaches during the
summer, when as everyone knows, the only time people REALLY
want a freeze-pop is winter. Thus, the freeze pop could be
seen as having deserved its fate. Darius sincerely hoped that
the judge didn't see things that way.
The case was reexamined to the tune of not a heated
debate, but instead an old Bee Gees song, intended to get
everyone in the right mood for handing out death sentences. A
grave looking, serious, brilliant man named Zeppo represented
the prosecution. Zeppo was a talented, older lawyer whose
technique of appearing in the courtroom dressed as a kiwi
bird had been so hugely popular that he had spawned legions
of imitators, and finally every lawyer in the legal circuit
appeared dressed as various birds, hoping to duplicate
Zeppo's success. <It should be mentioned that when Zeppo was
asked which symbolic principles of truth he was representing
with the costume, he simply stated that it was proof that
lawyers can't take a joke> Zeppo began to present his opening
arguments, while Darius was noticeably absent from the
courtroom.
Seeing as how this was Darius's first case, most people
figured that he was simply afraid of battling against the
menacing legend of Zeppo, the undefeatable kiwi bird, as most
lawyers would be. Zeppo calmly stated that the freeze pop,
regardless of how distraught it may have been, had no
justification for staging coups and summarily conquering 42
third-world countries in a week, which was obviously far over
the legal limit of 40. The jury nodded in assent, because
everyone present had been confined by that nasty but
necessary limit. The bookies in the back of the courtroom
increased the odds against Darius, believing that even if
Darius did show up, after the empathy that everyone could
share with Zeppo's speech, Darius could not possibly win.
Then, Darius appeared. In a business suit. The courtroom
was shocked. Darius quickly tore Zeppo's argument to pieces,
and by the time he was done, he had the prosecution giving
heart-rendering speeches praising the sheer agony and
endurance that this freeze pop had exhibited. Then Darius
quickly reversed the case, and sued everyone in the courtroom
for neglecting and therefore abusing poor freeze pop. The
judge and jury, still riding high from Darius's initial
speech, agreed wholeheartedly and sentenced the entire
courtroom to life imprisonment watching failed TV pilots from
the 1950's, listening to former teenage music idols try to
make comebacks, and reading bland, failed attempts at text-
file groups. Darius cheerfully left the courtroom, sucking
on a freeze pop.
<MORE chilling thrills!>
<MORE emotional hills!>
<MORE overpriced bills!>
<MORE kosher dills!>
All in Truth (sort of), Justice, and The Dystropian Way Part
2: "Yes, Your Honor, I Murdered Him In The Closet With The
Noodle!"
============================================================
============================================================
Modem Chicks
by Newt
[Editor's Note: The following article arrived in our offices
untitled, so we employed editor's fiat (it's a real word,
look it up) in giving it a title deemed most appropriate.
Yes, we're sexist bastards. Yes, we'll go to hell now, thank
you.]
What I am about to say may shock you, frighten you, or
cause you to have strange dreams involving your mother and a
pineapple. I, Newt, am a female, girl, chick, babe, skirt;
anyway you say it, I have two X chromosomes. Since currently
being a female and being a "modemer" is a rare as the Alaskan
Tropical One-Horned Whooping Crane, I thought that sharing a
few of my experiences, dispelling some common myths, and
perhaps perpetuating a few would entertain all you out there
in Cyberspace at least a little bit, and maybe even enlighten
you a bit. If it doesn't, tough: they can't throw me off
the staff because as of now I'm the only girl, which leads
nicely into my first topic.
[Editor's note: the only grounds for discharge from the
Propaganda Unlimited staff are dandelion-stomping, making
crank calls to Hillary Clinton (come to think of it, that's
also grounds for getting HIRED), and voting for Lyndon
LaRouche.]
Women are treated more specially on the modem than men.
Absolutely true. I will not deny that I receive quite a bit
more butt-kissing than the average male who is not a sysop.
I will not deny that sometimes I feel I only receive certain
privileges because I am a girl: case in point my cosysopships
which will be discussed later on. I will also not deny that
I kind of like all the attention. But then again, girls get
constant requests for modem sex which are not only a pain in
the derriere but also embarrassing, insulting, and make me
feel violated. That aside, the way everyone is soooooo
friendly to me kinda makes me think saccharin isn't very
sweet at all. Most of the time I can't tell whether someone
likes me 'cause they think I'm groovy or because I happen to
have a uterus. And sadly, I think most of the time it's the
latter. However, there are many exceptions to the rule.
Usually, I can't quite tell.
Take for instance, this little anecdote. I began my
adventure into the wonderful world of Modemland this summer,
a few short months ago on an H/P/A board, now defunct, that
my boyfriend Jason introduced me to because he was a cosyop
on it. The sysop, Erekose, liked my sense of humor, and he
and I became good friends; so good, in fact, that when he had
to leave for college in the fall, he needed someone to keep
the board up. The situation gets sticky here: Jason talked
to Erekose and suggested me for the cosyop opening. Erekose
did indeed decide to give it to me, but I still to this day
am not sure why. It might have been because he genuinely
liked me and thought I would best handle his board, or it
might have been that I happened to be the girlfriend of his
friend. I, of course, would prefer to think that my zaniness
won over his little heart, but you never know... The other
time I was appointed cosyop on a board is a little tricker
because recently it was taken away, I feel, because of
something I wrote. I could plead the Fifth, but only Jello-
men do that, so... I will very cautiously state that I do
feel I was a cosyop because I was female and because the
person who ran it found me attractive. Which leads only
semi-nicely into my next point, but hey, I don't feel like
making a brilliant connection. Women are viewed as sexual
objects over the modem.
Well, it's true in real life too, but somehow it seems to
be worse over the modem. Maybe it's because since no one is
face to face and most likely you'll never meet someone, it's
easier to say something like, "Hey chick, are you hot? How
big are you? And if you're hot, you wanna <expletive
deleted...kids might read this kinda stuff!>???" I can't
exactly picture the guy who sits next to me in math asking me
to have phone sex with him. People never fail to ask what I
look like, too: if they're talking to me or someone's who's
met me, this inquiry always comes up. It bugs the Snapple
out of me... I mean, I don't say, "How long are you?" Then
again, I should be more objective. Many of the people who
are very involved in the modem world are there for a reason:
they don't have something in real life that fulfills some
need. This is not true for everyone, so don't start sending
me nasty e-mail saying how you were the Prom King at your
school, but let's face it: it's generally true. Stereotypes
exist for a reason. The typical computer geek, whose hard
drive is his best friend, doesn't have much experience with
girls, which leaves him not knowing how to act and also
panting over anything with ovaries.
Which leads me to another myth. All BBS Chicks are
heinous. Not true. 'Nuff said.
I have been focusing mainly on the negative aspects of
being female so far, but it's not all bad. I do enjoy all
the attention I get, and I like surprising people who
automatically assume I'm a guy. It lets me know that I'm not
using my femininity to gain status. I try not to, but it's
easier to do than not. I also like being a minority, an
underdog: I feel like a pioneer and when my friends stare at
me blankly when I talk about uploading or baud rates, I feel
like I'm the elite part of a secret elite group. It's very
strange: the more deeply I become involved in the BBS
community, the more aware I am of my femininity. Perhaps
it's because the more deeply I go, the less women there are.
I'm not sure right now if that means good or bad things for
me, but the one thing I'm sure of is that I wouldn't change
my sex for the world... as if I could.
============================================================
============================================================
MANGO MADNESS COCKTAIL: A, uh, Review. Thing.
by Two Fish
It is 6:59 PM on Sunday, February 6, 1994. It's been
exactly five minutes and thirty-two seconds since I consumed
that... HEAVENLY beverage. I just-- I just can't stop
thinking about it.
MANGO MADNESS COCKTAIL.
I... Didn't think it would have such an intense affect on
me. Guess I should have known. After all, it's the juice,
the very ESSENCE of that fruit which is so much more than a
mere fruit! The Great and Sacred Mango (as we all know
through the word of Nyarlathotep the Enlightened and Oregano
the Profound) is the paragon of holiness, the object of
worship for millions (well, okay, at least for a smattering
of folk living in a concentrated area just north of Chicago-
but our numbers are growing!).
Although MANGO MADNESS COCKTAIL (you've got to spell it in
all caps-- lower case just doesn't do it justice) is
produced by the malevolent Snapple Beverage Corrupt-- er,
Corporation, whose chief spokesperson at one time was the
vile, fish-hating Rush Limbaugh, the blessed drink is still
irresistable. The mango's essence has splashed into my
mouth, sluiced down my throat, and entered my humble gullet.
I... I have been REBORN. But, I tell you, one bottle was
not enough. No, not nearly enough. I must have more! The
sacred stuff calls to me, beckons me to partake of it again.
I can't stand it! I have to empty my bank account and buy
MORE!
But-- before I go... I WOULD reccommend MANGO MADNESS
COCKTAIL to all of you PU readers, but then you'd all go
out and buy it-- and leave fewer bottles on the shelves for
MY consumption.
[Editor's Note: It's yummy.]
===========================================================
===========================================================
COMING SOON...
-- Learn about the mystical world of Tai Chi, with Nex!
Facts and fiction about this most artistic of martial arts.
-- Def Mangoe: They're so over-promoted, they don't
show up for their own PU interview! We'll manage to
track them down at last, and give you a sneak preview of
their next album (which may or may not be released, all
depending on the royalties!)
-- Introducing several new columns, several new guest
writers, and a small dachsund named Ralph.
-- Wackiness, spelled any damn way we please.
===========================================================
===========================================================
D I S T R I B U T I O N
Call these boards, pat them on the head, and give them a
cookie. And don't forget the Propaganda Mailbox, at address
PULETTERS@AOL.COM!
Board Phone
------------------------- --------------
Intelligent Shade of Blue (312) 588-4231 (Headquarters)
Temple of Pong (708) 268-1696
===========================================================
===========================================================
magazines/PU/pu0104.txt
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======================================================================
======================================================================
Propaganda Unlimited
March 28, 1994 Volume One, Issue Four
"More Fun Than You Can Have Firebombing The Academy Awards!"
======================================================================
======================================================================
STAFF
-------
Midget Caesar .............. Best Actor, Head Writer
Constantine .............. Best Director, Head Editor
Oregano .............. Best Performance in a Film Using the
Word "Rutabaga", Evanston Columnist.
Newt .............. Best Reason to Have Madly Romantic Dreams,
Staff Writer.
Nyarlathotep .............. Best Person in Indiana, Period. Indiana
Correspondent.
Aquarius .............. Best Aeon, Staff Writer.
Nex .............. Technical Award, Distribution Manager and
Staff Writer
Operatech .............. Special Effects, Distribution Staff
and...
Two Fish .............. The Arbiter of All That is Cool.
======================================================================
======================================================================
CONTENTS
----------
1. Introduction to Issue #4
by Midget Caesar
2. Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Four
by Constantine
3. Bob
by Aquarius
4. Lucid Death, Part Two
by Nex
5. Meat More Midgets!
by Midget Caesar
6. Jury Duty Can Be FUN!
by Oregano
7. Dystropia, Part Something
by Midget Caesar
==================================================================
==================================================================
Introduction to Propaganda #4
by Midget Caesar
Welcome to wherever you are, and if you ever figure out exactly where
that is, please let us know, for we haven't a clue where *we* are. Yes,
Propaganda Unlimited has returned. Yes, there is also panic in the streets
and mass hysteria, but that's pure coincidence, regardless of WHAT Billy
Graham says. <Our lawyers prevent us from commenting further>
Hey, don't look now, but the Berlin Wall just came down.
The walls are closing in, but we don't really have any idea what
they're made of. We had to undergo that time-honored ritual of taking the
SATs recently. SATs represent the pinnacle of education, yet with all
those ovals to fill in, all the computer scores, somehow the individual is
lost. We become just a number, and somehow the schools look upon this
kindly. We guess that says something.
Hope you enjoyed the Demo included with last issue.....send us some
mail letting us know what other kinds of freebies you'd like to see. The
Alternate version of issue #2 with "D000000M" will NOT be redistributed,
sorry, and the same policy applies to the Small Dachshund Named Ralph
being zipped up with certain versions of this issue <poor guy>. If you
don't get one now, you may never.
More appropriately, welcome to whoever or whatever you are. <Yes, we
here at Propaganda Unlimited HQ are clueless on that subject too> Music is
lots of fun, and predictably once again this year the official awards
shows have proven to be meaningless. Thus, we must toss out our own
awards:
Best Album: "Star", Belly Best Song: "Feed The Tree", Belly
Most Sadly Overplayed Song: "Feed The Tree", Belly
Best New Group: Belly
Best New Solo Artist: Bjork
Best Album Called "Debut": "Debut", Bjork
Most Profound Song Lyrics, No Matter What You Literate People Think:
Nirvana, "In Utero"
Coolest Thing To Yell In The Mosh Pits: "Don't Call Me Daughter!!!", Pearl
Jam
Best Group: Def Mangoe
Best Live Performance: Def Mangoe at Comic Relief Stadium
Grooviest Grin: Tori Amos
Best Jim Morrison Wanna-Be Performance: Kurt Cobain
Morons: Anyone who spells Kurt Cobain's name Kurdt.
Utterly Naked and Incoherent: Us, really.
Best Heavy Metal Performance, Solo Artist: Lawrence Welk
Most Blatantly Cheerful Man In Music: Trent Reznor <he's just kidding,
folks>
Hey, Shut Up And Go Away Already: Whitney Houston
If You Keep Encouraging Them, They Might Actually Reunite: The Village
People
Elvis In Disguise: Glenn Danzig
Whatever Happened To.....: INXS?
Goofiest Damn Video on MTV: Guns 'N Roses, "Estranged"
Thank You For Shutting Up And Going Away, Now Stay There: Madonna
"Why?" : Blind Melon Poses Nude on the cover of Rolling Stone
Worse: The Bee Girl Poses Nude on the cover of Rolling Stone
Best Haircut in Rock: Sinead o'Connor
Most Obnoxious Born-Again Catholic in Rock: Sinead o'Connor
Now We Get It! It Was The NAME That Made Us Failures: NKOTB
Heh. Hehehehe. Hehehehehehe. BWAH-HA-HA-HA!: Vanilla Ice's "Rasta"
Comeback!
Now let's all take a moment to worship Pink Floyd.
<whew> There.
There's our opinions. <Midget Caesars' picks are not necessarily
representative of the opinions of the rest of the Propaganda Unlimited
Staff, But They SHOULD be> They can be used to Wipe Out the Grammys! Yay!
<Note: The Above Opinions are Completely Unbiased, and Any Opinion to the
Contrary is a Blasphemous Rumour spread by Lawrence Welk cuz we
made him pay so much>
======================================================================
======================================================================
Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Four:
Cthulhu Loves the Children of the World
by Constantine
"Last thing I remembered," Jim Morrison was droning as the jet-black
14.4 roared down the phone grid, "Was somebody telling me that if I stuck
my tongue in an electric socket, the buzz was INCREDIBLE... This was
after I faked my death and fled to South America with Elvis, of course."
I nodded, hands gripping the dashboard as we lurched over a pocket of
static and careened around a corner.
"Next thing I know, They brought me in here."
"They?"
He nodded gravely. "They."
"You mean... The Powers of Darkness? Satan? Baalezebub? Rush
Limbaugh?"
"I can't tell you. I can only tell you this: the day destroys the
night, but the night divides the day."
"That's profound."
"Thank you."
He dropped me off at the walkway to Evermore Keep. As I was getting out
of the modem, he grabbed my shoulder.
"Wait. I have one more thing to tell you. You must seek the Ascended
Masters."
"I'll do that."
"Good. That reminds me-- any idea where I could score some really good
acid?"
"Get high on life, Jim."
Swearing under his breath, he slammed the door and screeched off with a
shower of sparks. Shrugging, I hummed a happy tune as I walked up the
drive to...
...Nothing. Evermore Keep was gone, a huge void hovering in cyberspace
where the entire castle had been utterly eradicated. I sniffed the air,
catching the smell of ozone and faint magnetic traces whirling around me.
In the shallow, smoking crater where my garage once stood, a textfile laid
on the ground. I jumped down and picked it up, my eyes narrowing as I
read the scrawled, child-like handwriting.
"D00D!! This was a WaRnInG! Next time, youll be in the Keep when we
blow it up! No, wait, we blew it up already. We meen, next time youll be
in the Keep when we blow something ELSE up! YeAh! Ha Ha Ha! Stay oFf da
CaSe or DIE!! Yors truley, the Mastrs of Desaster, [PeNiS!]"
I gasped as I read the signature, extended ANSI text flashing like a
fire alarm. I thought that the Professional Elite Neuromancers in
Syberspace had been destroyed years ago, when the first BLaH Expeditionary
Task Force engaged them in battle and slew the Dark Nun... (Editor's
Note: see the Hefty Herb Saga, in classic BLaH). But now, this force
of utter evil, this diabolical organization, worse than SPECTRE, Fu
Manchu, and AT&T combined, had once again reared its ugly head. I could
sense the approach of a great battle, a globe-spanning epic of proportions
so great that the bards would sing of it for centuries to come, so utterly
earth-shaking that the world as we knew it would never, ever forget it. A
battle that would change lives, that would tear souls apart and reforge
them anew, a battle that could lead to the destruction of all life in the
universe!
"Well," I said, "Shit. Guess that blows my vacation."
At the bottom of the note, a postscript had been attached. I read on.
"Ps, D00D! We StOlE YeR CaR!! Ha hA Ha!"
Now they were going to die.
It was a long walk to 312, but I made it to my old hangout, the
Intelligent Shade of Blue. The place had been remodeled a few (hundred)
times over the years, but it was still the same old haunt I had come to
know and love-- any bar that serves adrenochrome cocktails is my kind of
place. As I approached the front door, my eyes flitted over to a sign in
a nearby window, an advertisement from the Mystic Wonderful New-Age
Healing Crystal Herbal Resource Bunnies n' Light Emporium (TM).
"Live at the Emporium, for a limited time-- meet MARVIN THE STUPEFYING!
This world-famous author, lecturer and psychic has been gifted with the
amazing power of CHANNELING... For just $20 for a five-minute session,
you can meet...
-- NOROM, the 25,000 year-old Atlantean War God who gives helpful
household advice!
-- Jimmy Hoffa!
-- Abraham Lincoln!
-- The New Kids on the Block! (Currently doing an extended tour in
Hell)
-- and... The Ascended Masters of 42 Galaxies!
Don't delay, as Marvin will only be with us for a limited time!"
With a sigh of resignation, I checked my wallet and started walking
towards the Emporium. Whatever the Ascended Masters wanted from me, they
had better be able to say it in five minutes or less.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Watch for Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace Part Five:
"James Earl Jones Has Sex with His Bathers!"
======================================================================
======================================================================
"What Bob Did On A Miscellaneous Friday"
by Aquarius
As soon as Bob woke up, he knew someone was watching him.
It was strange. After he wiped the yucky sleep-crust from his eyes,
he glanced around his bedroom. Oh, it was only his dog, Chubbins.
"It's about time you woke up." said Chubbins.
"Aw, go eat your Alpo." Bob replied grumpily.
Yes. It was true. Bob's dog could talk. But Bob didn't
really care. In fact, it was quite a nuisance, especially when
the dog learned how to use the phone. But that's another story.
Bob walked into the bathroom and took a leak. He then
walked back into his bedroom to change his clothes. However,
when he opened his shirt drawer, he found a small note on top
of his shot-to-death-smiley-face shirt.
"Hmm. How odd." said Bob.
The note read: "Stop talking to yourself."
"Boy, now that is TOTALLY weird!" thought Bob as he realized
there was more writing on the back of the note.
The back of the note read: "That's much better."
Whoa! Twilight Zone city! Bob heard a noise and turned around.
It was Rod Serling! No, wait, it was only his dad.
"Hurry it up, Bob, we have to leave for the waffle convention
in 15 minutes!" Bob's dad reminded him.
"Sorry dad. I'm going to have to miss this one. My friends
and I are going to get together for some hopscotch."
"Oh, OK. Well, your mother's at the paint store, and she
won't be back until dinnertime. I should be back around then, too,
so try to be back before dinner."
"Will do, Dad. See ya."
"Bye."
Bob's dad walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Nailed to the back of the door was a scarecrow that looked eerily like
Bob with a nametag with Bob's name on it: Bob.
"Now how did that get there?", thought Bob.
"Great, I'll have to get all the nails out with a hammer.
I'll do it later."
Bob went downstairs and poured himself some tangerine juice.
As he was drinking it, he perused the Thursday paper. There was a
sale at his favorite store, Salt Central! He'd have to stop by
there sometime today. Bob tore the paper into tiny pieces and
put it in the garbage. He then picked up the phone and called
his best friend, Nimroy.
"Hello?", said the part of the phone by Bob's ear in a woman-type
voice.
"Hi, could I speak to Nimroy?", asked Bob.
"Sure, Nimroy's right here... Nimroy? Oh my god! Don't open
that! No, no, not th- AAAAHHHH! Get some bandages! My face! My face!"
"Hey Bob, what's up?", said Nimroy as he came on the line.
"Are we going to get a game of hopscotch going?"
"Probably not, I have to take my mom to the hospital."
"Oh. Well, I'll see you later then. Bye."
"Bye."
Bob hung up the phone and decided to head over to Salt Central.
He got into his mauve 1977 Plymouth Duster and cruised away at 73 mph.
On the way there he flipped through the radio stations, but turned it
off in disgust when he realized all the stations had the emergency
tone on. Bob didn't feel like waiting to see if instructions really
_did_ follow the tone. As he came into view of Salt Central, he
realized the place looked pretty packed. But of course, what did he
expect with a 3% off sale going on? He pulled into a handicapped space
and walked into the store. A sale on salt licks! Bob decided he
better pick up a couple. In fact, Bob also ended up buying a salt
shaker and a cool blown-up picture of salt under a microscope.
After Bob strangled the police officer giving him a ticket, he
got into his car and pulled away. Bob realized that a ninja was sitting
in his back seat.
"Hwaa suige sukarama soy sauce gstorana kawasaki!", said
the Ninja.
"Could you please speak English?", Bob asked politely.
"What is the 7th letter of the alphabet?"
"G."
"Oh."
"No, it's G, not O!"
"I see."
"How can it be TWO letters? It can't be I _and_ C!"
"What is this, Abbot and Costello? Just keep driving,
fat boy."
Bob was not fat. In fact, he was quite thin.
"We're going to take you to see Hwung Chou.", said the Ninja.
"Fine. I don't have anything else to do."
Bob drove to Hwung Chou's house.
A golf cart drove out to meet the car. An Atari 2600 seemed
to be driving. Bob and the Ninja got into the cart, and it skyrocketed
into outer space, all the way out to a bubble-dome on Neptune. Hwung
Chou was inside the bubble.
"We need you to solve a huge dilemma here, Bob." said Hwung
Chou.
"Fine, fine, whatever, just hurry up. My toenails need clipping."
Bob told Chou.
"We need you to tell us what the square root of three is."
"1.73, but that is not exact, of course.", said Bob.
"Hey! Yeah! Thanks Bob! I'll make sure we send you some
gift certificates to your house. Maybe some nice Macaroni samples?"
Bob got into the golf cart and drove home. The traffic
wasn't too bad.
He got back just in time for "The Young And The Restless".
He left his car at Hwung Chou's house. Oh well. It was a piece
of crap anyway.
THE END
(C) Aquarius, 1993
======================================================================
======================================================================
ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
Lucid Death, Part Two
by Nex
ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
Some say that when you die in your dreams, you die in life.
Well, I died in a dream, and as you can see, I'm still around to type this
text file. However, although I did not physically die, it feels as
though a certain aspect of my mind is either no longer there or it has
been buried away for the time being. Anyway. What you are about to
read, if you have the interest, is a narrative account of a lucid dream,
or rather, a lucid nightmare, which I have recently had. For dramatic
purposes, I may edit a couple things here and there...
[Editor's Note: Narrative continued from last issue.]
The bullet struck Lou in the left eye and he fell backwards into his
store. My aim needed a little work. I strolled over to his store and
walked in. I looked down at Lou, who still had that look of pure terror
washed over his face. I spit in it. Then I grabbed the shotgun and
checked to see how much ammo was left. Shit, there was only one shot
left. I grabbed a Twinkie and stuck it in my mouth as I started to search
the place for money and more ammo for the shotgun. I found a couple of
shells that looked like duds, but I took em anyway. The bastard only had
3 bucks in his damn cash register!
I grabbed a bag and started piling in various things; HoHo's, cans of
Jolt!, Mountain Dew, cigarettes, bread, cheese, and various meats. When
the bag was full, I made my way out of the store, careful as to not trip
over Lou.
As I walked out, I noticed that bums and beggars were already start-
ing to gather around the store. Not because they wanted to see what the
gunshots were about, but because they were starving. The fuck had been
hording the damn food for himself. I casually walked back over to my
sleek black Yamaha Shredder. I punched in my security code on the keypad,
and the turbines came to life. I mounted it, and took off down the street
at about 60. I sped over to the abandoned church near California and
Fairfield. I got off and entered the church. The smell of urine and
human (non-human?) waste would normally sicken me, but I had gotten used
to it by now. I walked over to the altar.
"Hey Charlie," I said, "I got you some more grub."
"Tyler, you scum, where've you been?" Charlie asked.
"Nowhere. I've been nowhere. Now take the food, I've gotta run." I
left the church, primarily because I couldn't stand to see people living
like that, especially old people like Charlie. I had just started the
turbines on my bike again when I heard screams coming from the alley. I
quickly checked for my gun and darted for the alley behind the church. I
knew I was headed for trouble when I heard the metallic sounds. As I
turned the corner, I saw about five PCs and two kids. One kid was already
being mindwiped by one, and the other was held in the air by the arm by
another. I took my gun out and took a step forward.
"Hey, dumbfucks, come get me, not those kids!"
Boy, that was a really stupid mistake. There were FIVE damnit! The
other three not preoccupied turned around and I saw their red glowing eyes
adjust to my figure. They were probably looking me up in their library of
fugitives. I knew this for a fact when one said in a metallic voice,
"Tyler, Eric P. Rebel. Wanted Dead or Alive, preferably Dead."
The three started walking towards me, their metal limbs glinting in the
light from the streetlamp. I charged them at full speed. This was
obviously unexpected, as they stopped for a split second, adjusting to a
new combat routine. But in that split second, I did a flip over the
middle one and landed in front of the one holding the kid not being
mindwiped. The thing looked like it was smiling as it nailed me in the
sternum with its metal fist.
Damn, that hurt.
I flew back about 10 feet and hit the wall of the building behind me, my
breath leaving me and the blood trickling from the back of my head. My
sight grew hazy, but I had to fight it. I got up groggily, my gun
miraculously still in my hand. Simultaneously applying pressure to the
wound on the back of my head, I pulled the trigger of my gun which was now
aimed at the head of the PC holding the kid. It didn't do anything except
make a nice little spark, but it did make the PC focus its attention to me
instead of the kid. It dropped the kid and headed towards me.
I scaled the wall of the building I had slammed against, using various
protrusions as footholds. I got up onto the roof just as I lost my
balance from that damn wound on the back of my head.
The things were coming up after me. I looked around frantically, and
saw no escape...
(To Be Continued)
======================================================================
======================================================================
Yes, It's Just What You Were Hoping Not To See Staring You In The
Face During Your Third Period Algebra Class:
Even MORE Midget Caesars! Whee!
<Let's Meet A Few Hundred Lunatics, Part Two>
Slurp Fishie Fish:
Wuz ripped off, bro, and he gonna jack the Dog whut dissed him!
Slurp is hip to the sounds of the Pacific ghetto, and is currently facing
a murder rap for trying to coerce we Caesars into eating some fish sticks.
"You Don' Luv Me, You Jus' Luz Mah Fishie Style."
Bob of Arc:
Joan's little-known older brother who served as a model for Joan, right
down to the pantyhose and bra he wore into battle.
Mack the Spoon:
The Knife's business partner, he was murdered by a roving gang of sporks.
Romeo:
Didn't realize what a wacky sense of humor Juliet had.
THEY:
The source of all rumors that originate with "Well, THEY say he was in he
closet with her....."
Ronald Reagan's Coherency:
Has been in here for several decades, but ol' Ronnie is doing fine without
it.
Mr. Jones, Mr. Smith, Mr. Brown, Mr. Garcia, Mr. Johnson, and Mr. Wang:
Collectively fathered over half of the world's population.
<boy, are they pooped>
Trent Reznor's Happy and Cheery Twin Brother:
Is still attempting a music career with songs like "Happiness In Everyday
Life", "March of the Happy People", and albums like "Fixed", and "Just
Plain Pretty Machine".
The Entire Population of Idaho:
<okay, so maybe not, but would you really notice if they were gone?>
All Of Your Mismatched, Lost Socks:
Would like us to tell you that they don't really miss you.
Abraham Lincoln:
Faked his death! It was a conspiracy, and he avoided it!
Vinnie Washington:
Second Cousin, Twice Removed of Our Country. <George never liked him much>
Milli Vanilli:
Okay, so they have nothing to do with us, we just like to type that name
and laugh about it for a while.
Shakespeare's Pet Gecko:
The TRUE author of Shakespeare's works.
The New Kids On The Block's Popularity:
Weren't we mean to steal it? They're still clueless where it went....
The Cheerful Reaper:
Hey, death isn't all that bad! Brighten up, it'll be FUN!
<Look for MORE Profiles of the Not-Especially Wealthy or Sane soon!>
======================================================================
======================================================================
Jury Duty Can Be FUN!
by Oregano
Jury duty began a few weeks earlier with a letter. I was told
that I was one of the lucky ones who gets the honor of serving my
community, fulfilling the constitution of this great land. I had
to send in a form and then a few weeks later I was sent a summons
signed by an actual judge to appear at a certain courthouse at a
certain date and time. And to make things easier they sent me
instructions as to which buses to take to arrive at the appointed
courthouse.
For me this led to a phone call to a friend who is a big fan
of jury duty, in fact she gets into it so much that she often
becomes foreman (forewoman?) of her jury group and wears her
responsibility on her sleeve. First question she asked me was
where i would be serving. I told her 1340 S Michigan and she
told me that that was the courthouse that everyone dreads, its
in a bad neighborhood and there are more criminals outside the
courthouse than inside. But she gave me a few tips and a few
days later it was time to go.
Being a master of Chicago's public transportation I decided
to take the Chicago and Northwestern train to downtown Chicago.
The train is always a nice way to travel with its big
comfortable seats. In fact the only time the train is bad to
take is when its snowing or raining outside where you get
people's dripping feet from the second level. In Chicago the
entire train station was in the process of being torn up so it
was a challenge to snake my way through all the construction
(destruction?) to get out of the Atrium building.
It was then a nice mile walk to Michigan avenue, through the
heart of Chicago's financial district. The streets teemed with
people wearing gaudy colored jackets, bright green with yellow
collars. These people, i later found out, worked for the Chicago
Board of Trade and these odd jackets somehow signify where in the
trading pit they belong.
The cold was biting but I made it from Canal street to
Michigan Avenue without losing any appendages to frostbite.
First thing I did at Michigan Ave was to take out my guide to
buses and find what would take me south. A few of the buses
stopped at the corner where I was standing but others went by, I
had no idea of whether the bus I needed would stop at my corner,
until I noticed it drive by without stopping. I ran down the
street chasing it yet it would not stop. I then discovered that
buses only stop at places marked with a bus stop sign.
The bus made good progress, and I kept track of the
addresses as they drifted by, and since I couldn't see every
building I kept a mental note in my head of where I was, finally
it was up to the 1100 block (I was looking for the 1300 block)
and the bus suddenly turned off of Michigan Ave. Panic filled
my heart, I saw myself having to get off way by Soldier Field
and walk 2 1/2 miles to the court house in a not very favorable
part of the city. But as luck had it the bus turned south again
after a block; I yanked several times on the weird bell that
informs the driver that someone wishes to get off and after
going the length of the block the driver left me off. I walked
two blocks, easily found the courthouse and went inside.
As one might expect the entrance to the courthouse had metal
detectors and was swarming with police. Before I went through I
was asked to check my radio in a front room. It appears that
some people are fond of bringing in bombs concealed in portable
radios. This was rather reassuring. After checking my radio I
was asked to remove all metal from my pockets. So off went my
watch, my headphones, my keys, and then I took out about $12 in
change and put it all in a basket by the metal detector. The
officer looked at all my change and asked, "Did you rob a pay
phone?" I smiled weakly and walked through the metal detector
then collected all my metal.
Finding the meeting room for jurors was easy, I just followed
the signs. Just outside the door I was handed a sheet explaining
the rules for jurors and I was given a sticker that in big white
letters on a bright red background said I was a juror. Inside
the juror's room I gave my summons sheet and was asked to pick a
number from a little wastebasket on the counter. I was in group
17.
The loud noise in the room was a television in the far
corner that was tuned to the Home Show, seats were facing both
directions with each row containing seats with their backs to
each other. All the seats facing the television were taken, but
I had brought reading material, daytime TV turned me off. I
should probably mention at this time that I was about a half hour
late. Having some disregard for the law I decided to sleep in a
half hour rather than come in on time. It turns out that it
didn't matter that I was late except for not getting a seat
facing the TV.
The TV was loud, so loud that it could not be ignored, it
was hard to read, as the hosts discussed that the "in" color for
the spring was silver, or that El Paso, Texas has instituted a
new curfew policy. I finished one article in the magazine I
brought and found that I could not bring myself to start another,
my concentration had been destroyed. After about an hour the
TV went silent and a lady at the head of the room, holding a
remote control, told us that she had a little tape that she
wanted to show us. The lights in the room went dark and a second
TV facing towards me showed a tape explaining how the jury would
be selected. It went through how the lawyers might reject us for
whatever reason, and that we should not take this personally.
The tape told us that we should not talk about out case with
anyone, that bad people might try to influence us and that if we
talk we might be the ones going to jail. The tape lasted 7 or so
minutes and then on came the Home Show again and we were left
once again to sit.
To make our lives just a little more miserable, in some
nearby corridor some men did maintanance, drilling and pounding
with hammers. Meanwhile the Home Show ended and some soap opera
came on (I didn't catch the name) and for a half hour I had to
hear about how Egypt was running away after she commited a crime,
and she had to blackmail a pilot to take her to where she was
going. After this there was the news at 11:30, we were told that
a terrible blizzard was coming to snuff out all life in Chicago.
The lead story was this weather, everyone in the room, no matter
how much they had previously ignored the TV, now turned to
hear the awful news.
About halfway through the newscast we were set free to have
lunch. First, we had to remove the stickers that labeled us as
jurors.
As I have mentioned, the neighborhood around the courthouse
is not very good. We did have the option of eating in the
courthouse "cafeteria" but that consisted of a vending machine
dispensing candybars and potato chips. Instead I followed
everyone else outside and north, down the street. A few people
turned off to a corner diner, so rather than risking my life by
going a few blocks to the east to Burger King, I too went for
the diner. The diner was loaded to the rafters with people that
I had seen waiting for jury duty, I got a nice spot at the
counter right in front of a TV that hung high up on the wall.
The TV was tuned to the same station as in the courthouse, I
wondered whether that was done as a service to the jurors.
Anyway the show "All My Children" was on and half the show took
place in a courtroom.
I got a greasy hamburger with some bland imitation velveeta
cheese. It took about 15 minutes before anyone would give me a
7-up. The lettuce was rancid and the tines on my fork were bent
in various directions. Lunch produced a strange twist of
behavior in the jurors, as if suddenly being thrown together in a
different, less threatening situation made people start talking to
each other. I paid my bill and walked back to the courthouse,
admiring the burned out buildings that I passed, wondering
if this neighborhood was ever a thriving, lively part of the city.
The warmness to strangers continued inside, the air of
tension was broken and I found myself talking to a retired fellow
about his past experiences in jury duty. He had been on various
juries and said about how they can last for a few weeks
sometimes. One good thing is that the judges often don't start
things till noon, so you can get a chance to sleep in if you are
on one of those juries. His hope was to not get selected this
day, he wanted to serve out his time waiting in the jurors room
and then go home at 4:00 when the juror's day is done, he didn't
want to have to come back here, it was a long drive from Oak
Lawn. Plus he wanted to get out before the killer snow storm
came in and cut off all exits from Chicago.
The conversation turned to the street cars that used to run
up and down the street of Chicago, and how there was bitching
when the fares went up from 7 cents to 8 cents. Others joined in
the conversation and the subject turned to how small construction
firms cannot compete with the larger ones in this city and then
turned to health care. An hour and a half passed, and the TV --
which by now was being ignored by everyone who had broken up into
little discussion groups -- suddenly went silent. We were then
told that since no one was needed today and since we were going
to be hit by big snow, that we'd be allowed to leave.
No one at all was chosen this day, which seemed odd to me, My
friend the jury expert told me that she had often been to
courthouses where all the jurors were selected. I collected my
radio and took the bus and the train back home, but not before I
got gypped by a hot dog stand that gave me a jumbo hot dog when I
ordered a polish sausage, but that's another story.
======================================================================
======================================================================
Truth, Justice <mostly>, and the Dystropian Way Part 2:
My Spam is Your Spam, But It Sure Isn't Elvis's.
<part two of chapter three of the dystropian chronicles by midget
caesar>
Tension was building like an ancient Egyptian pyramid, like graffiti
on the Great Wall of China. The prime movers were now in place. Each side
waited for some sign of weakness from the enemy. Everything was at stake
here. The fate of an entire ocean depended on this single decision, which
would in turn decide the winner of this epic conflict. They were each down
to their last defenses, and both knew that the brutal, intense war that
had consumed their lives had to be coming to an end soon, much to the
relief of the victorious side, and much to the anguish of the losing side.
Finally, neither could stand the anticipation. A brilliant but tired man
looked up, sipped his last drink, and spoke the words. The other man
looked up, shocked, in disbelief.
"DAMN YOU!", said the enraged loser.
The victor smirked, ad wiped away the last remnants of the force that had
opposed him so viciously, but had fought its last.
"YOU SUNK MY BATTLESHIP!"
Meanwhile, a congo dancer was born, and a bongo player died.
Darius seemed to have run into a brick wall with this case, so he
shrugged and turned to face the plaster wall on the other side of the
courtroom. Perhaps he'd have better luck with that wall. It wasn't easy
for poor Darius. The odds were overwhelmingly against him, and the
litigants in the case next door were making quite a bit of noise. Next
door, a group of farm machines had banded together to sue society for
being the Combine, and giving farm machines everywhere a bad name. One of
Darius's associates from Cuckoo's Nest Law Firm was handling the case, a
quiet young horse named America. The farm machines were unhappy, claiming
that their lawyer was exactly who they were suing.
Darius sighed, and looked again at the judge. How was he going to
prove that his client had been forced to pay a lot for that muffler? None
of his impassioned pleas seemed to be working. The judge, a former auto-
mechanic with a short fuse, yelled at Darius that he was throwing the case
out if Darius didn't speak up soon? All seemed lost, when.....
The noise from next door stopped. The horse had mollified the machines
with some wheat.
Darius glanced at the judges short fuse, grabbed the muffler, strapped
the fuse to the judge's head in one fluid motion, and lit the short fuse.
The judge blew up, and the muffler didn't help in the least.
Darius asked the jury if his point needed to be proven any further, and
they unanimously said no, partially because the muffler had failed to
quiet the blast, and partially because none of them wanted it tested on
them. Darius's client was awarded the third-world countries that she had
requested, and the courtroom cheered at yet another victory for Darius.
Meanwhile, the ruthless men stared at each other. The wrong move could
mean the end of everything that each had worked for. Big money was at
stake, as the car raced forward. The right turn could mean control of most
of the world, the wrong turn could mean disaster. The car moved.....
"Go Directly to Jail. Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect $200."
Milo grinned. He had won again.
While all this was happening, a lamp was lighted, and a sad melon
finally regained its sight.
The intense faces looked at each other, fury in the eyes of one, cool
calmness in the eyes of the other. The equipment was in place. Now, the
only question that remained was whether he would use it or not. He knew it
would really ruin his opponent's Saturday night if he used the equipment.
But something in his opponent's eyes urged him forward, and he pressed the
button.
Half of South America blew up. Milo had won again, just on a real game
board this time.
And Darius strolled out of the courtroom, trying to look casual even
though an angry scythe had tied his shoelaces together.
Don't Miss Part Three of Chapter Three of the Dystropian Chronicles:
"She Not Only Blinded Me With Science, She Shattered My Pancreas With It
Too!"
<well, actually, you could probably live without it, but go for it
anyways!>
<please?>
<pretty please?>
======================================================================
======================================================================
COMING SOON...
--- Following their scandalous shut-out at the Grammy awards (which they
invented anyway), Def Mangoe has gone into seclusion. In other words,
they didn't show up for the interview again. Next issue, we send our
elite commando reporter unit out with a mission: track the band to
their Chicago hideaway and get the interview, or don't come back at
all.
--- Find out how you, too, can become a Propaganda Unlimited columnist!
(We need to replace all the ones that didn't come back.)
--- More mondo mirth and maximum mayhem!
--- Less alliteration!
======================================================================
======================================================================
D I S T R I B U T I O N
If you don't call these boards, your friends will abandon you, your
pets will laugh at you, and you will be publicly reviled as an Eater
of Pancakes. You don't know what that euphemism means, do you? Well,
let's just say you don't want people calling you that. Especially not
that chick in third period math you've got your eye on.
Yes, you. We're watching, you know.
For letters, comments and rants, don't forget the Propaganda Mailbox
at Internet address PULETTERS@AOL.COM!
Board Phone
-------------------------- --------------
Intelligent Shade of Blue (312) 588-4231 (Headquarters)
Temple of Pong (708) 268-1696
Big Bob's Leechburger Farm (708) 838-1015
Bob Saget Hate Club (815) 363-1351
A Glitch in the System (312) 761-1270 (After 10:30 PM)
Micro Information Systems (805) 251-0564 (California Hub)
======================================================================
======================================================================

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============================================================
============================================================
P R O P A G A N D A U N L I M I T E D
April 26, 1994 Volume One, Issue Five
"More Fun Than You Can Have Being Flogged In Singapore!"
============================================================
============================================================
CONTENTS
----------
1. Introduction to Issue #5
by Constantine
2. Propaganda By Mail
(our new letters column)
3. Poetic Injustice
by Psychotic Ambition and Aquarius
4. ATT0541.TXT
by Comrade Slash
5. Dystropia, Part Banana
by Midget Caesar
6. Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Five
by Constantine
7. Mango Madness Abroad!
by Newt
============================================================
============================================================
STAFF
-------
Midget Caesar .......... Six Canings for Mental Vandalism,
Head Writer
Constantine ............ Five Canings for Verbosity (and
Seven More for Enjoying the First
Five Too Much), Head Editor
Oregano ................ Five Canings for Possession of
Explosive Substances, Evanston
Columnist.
Newt ................... Ten Canings for Going to Europe
and Leaving Us All Here, Staff
Writer.
Nyarlathotep ........... Five Canings for Living in Indiana,
Staff Writer.
Aquarius ............... Keel-Hauling, Staff Writer.
Psychotic Ambition ..... Six Canings for Impersonating Trent
Reznor, Staff Writer.
Comrade Slash .......... One Caning for Conspiring to
Overthrow the U.S. Government
(okay, maybe that's a little
harsh), Staff Writer.
Nex .................... Twenty Canings for Not Finishing
His Tai Chi Article, Staff Writer
and Distribution Manager.
Operatech .............. Four Canings 'Cause We Said So,
Distribution Staff.
and...
Two Fish ............... The Arbiter of All That is Cool.
============================================================
============================================================
Mangoe Talk
(with Constantine)
Biweekly? Okay, we lied. But in a world where you can
get software to transform the giant minotaur demons in D00M
into huggable, peace-loving (but nonetheless face-eating)
Barney clones, you should learn to expect such things.
[And that particular add-on is a piece of Unlimited
Propaganda if there ever was one. If the author is reading
this, please contact us. We'd like to see about doing a
Bill n' Hillary version.]
Our mission at PU is to inform, educate and entertain.
Inform, educate and entertain. Keep repeating that, just
like a mantra, and you'll soon believe it despite the
puzzling evidence of Propaganda Unlimited's PLAN FOR WORLD
DOMINATION!
It's true! If you take the first letter from the fourth
word of each line in Issue Three and run them backwards
through QabalahSoft's new encryption program, do they not
give step-by-step directions for finding the Lost Ark of
the Covenant? Hasn't Midget Caesar been seen giving advice
to a certain Third World dictator known only as "El Tongue"?
Isn't "Aquarius" just a code-name for a cabal of SPACE
ALIENS?!
Well, maybe not, but it makes for a hell of a story.
And THAT is why we're really here.
Stick around-- we might just get through an issue without
inadvertantly starting a one-sided "war" with WeEnIe, or
[TEaTs!], or some other tfile group with an insecurity
complex. We on the PU staff try to take such things in
stride, remembering two things. The first is, when you're
the fastest gun in the West, every punk with a peashooter
(or in this case, a dick joke) wants to take you down. The
second is, people at the top ain't got nothing to prove.
It's YOU, our readers and friends, who make it worth putting
this magazine out, and it's you who we're aiming to please.
And as our founder has said in the past, the day this mag
becomes a podium to slam some other poor pack of struggling
writers is the day we shut down the presses, wipe all the
hard drives and commit an act of mass autodefenestration
that will be remembered for decades to come.
Hey-- before I sign off for this week and hand my car keys
to the PU Staff, let me ask you this: is it just me, or is
the media's practice of referring to every single piddling
government scandal with a superfluous "-gate" suffix (i.e.
Irangate, Travelgate, Whitewatergate) often more annoying
than the scandal itself? Enough to make a man turn to
Newspeak.
And now, more Propaganda Unlimited-- it's DoublePlusGood!
============================================================
============================================================
Propaganda by Mail!
[Upon opening our mailbox at PULETTERS@AOL.COM, we were
astonished to find it clogged with well over 600 letters.
Unfortunately, after sifting through it all, we were able
to break it down to the following:
1) 419 complaint letters from Midget Caesar's
alternate personalities about Issue Five
being late, including one from Bhufu in
digitized Crayola.
2) 78 letters from people who mistakenly thought
our box was the signup point for the brand-new
A. N. Roquelaure Fan Club Mailing List.
3) One letter from someone named "MILO@ENTROPY.MOC",
the body of which read only, "Muhaha."
4) One letter of formal apology from Constantine,
who had tried to start some sort of mailing
list from the official address.
5) Twenty letters from members of the Internet
Christian Koalition (ICK), wanting to know
if we had been saved yet.
6) Thirty letters from Satan, wanting to know
if we had been damned yet, and why haven't
we been returning his calls lately.
7) Four thousand emails from morons participating
in an Internet chain letter. We promptly
addressed our own chain letter to THEM, then
threw it away. Four days later, they all died.
8) And the following letter, from our Number One
Fan (we think/hope/fear).
That's right, folks, we start a letters column and get
one stinkin' missive. Come on, take a second and drop
us a line-- we print love mail, hate mail, even other
peoples' mail. Send it to PULETTERS@AOL.COM, sign it
off with an alias (just like the professionals use), and
do let us know if you want your email address reprinted--
hey, PU dating service, anyone...?]
---
Memo to: Propaganda Unlimited
From: OverKill, Professional Deviate at Large
Two pots of Turbo-Coffee and one pair of pissed pants later,
I think I've pretty well laffed myself silly over
Constantine's hella-crazed story, "Fear and Loathing in
Cyberspace", the product of an obviously twisted mind....Jim
Morrison showing up ("I am the Modem King. I can do
anything."), and the racist gladiator dude before that
("Hitler says you gotta die!"). Nex' story, "Lucid Death",
was pretty cool too. Can't wait to read the next installment
of Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace.
How's this for the slogan of your next issue: "More fun than
you can have gang-banging Jane Fonda!"
Pretty cool, eh? We think so. Keep up the good work, and
remember:
"When the going gets weird, the Weird turn Pro!"
--
[Editor's Note: Thanks for the kind words, and keep
writing! As far as the slogan goes, we liked it, but
a quick call to Miss Fonda's lawyers confirmed that if
we attempted to use it, Ted Turner would personally
come over and colorize us. And you know what THAT means.
Uh-huh. Big honkin' ANSIs on every page.
We don't want that. However, maybe this could catch on--
if anyone out there has an idea for a great issue slogan,
send it in! If we use it, we'll make sure you are ::ahem::
properly credited.]
[Editor's Note at Presstime: OverKill is our Friend.
We are sorry that space prevents us from printing his
latest letter in its entirety, but suffice it to say
that our legal staff is currently attempting to negotiate
with Newt on the bikini .GIF idea. Needless to say, she
certainly will be holding a chainsaw. This is the sort
of thing that could send our ratings through the basement
ceiling.]
============================================================
============================================================
Poetic Injustice
(A Literary Roundup,
by Psychotic Ambition and Aquarius)
Cold Dark Night (by Psychotic Ambition)
---------------------------------------
Cold death night
I stare to the Heavens
Death looms over me
How far away I cannot see
But it's near
No sympathy
For he is only doing his job
My time is now
My life is sucked away
I lay here
My last moments await
Quickly they are taken away
Stolen away by the Cold Dark Night
Elbow Brain (by Aquarius)
-------------------------
There's a brain in my elbow,
It's crusty and dry.
Sometimes it's not there
And there's only arm hair.
When people make fun of it
I bite them 'till they cry.
The bad men had better not come
And give me those pills.
Drugs (by Psychotic Ambition)
-----------------------------
The rush
The thrill
The feeling
The pill
quicker
faster
more
more
I'm flying
I can feel it
I'm falling
I fear it
I'm dead
And I never saw it
Why (by Aquarius)
-----------------
Why I am I here
In this thing called life?
Do I have a purpose
Or should I be free?
And why do armpits smell?
Untitled (by Psychotic Ambition)
--------------------------------
In this madness
In this misery
Can one find happiness
Is there a fee?
At night I lay, with the moon in view
Pondering these questions as if I knew
I don't know what is driving me
I don't even care
But deep inside I feel pure agony
Why is life so unfair?
The pain is endless
My escape is hopeless
This is all just an endless cycle
No winners
No answers
Just pain
Bummer (by Aquarius)
--------------------
Beautiful swans,
Graceful,
Dancing on the water,
So pure.
Nothing can stop them,
Nothing in their way
Except that loaded shotgun
[If there are any impressionable young people reading this,
now contemplating going out to a park and making shotgun-
suicide pacts after their sixteenth joint and third six-pack,
would you please be kind enough to erase this file before
sucking lead? We'd be much happier if your parents weren't
siccing Tipper Gore on us when they have much more important
things to do, like worrying if they are going to get caught
for cheating on their income tax again this year. Thank you
for your support. -- The Editors]
============================================================
============================================================
ATT0541.TXT
(by Comrade Slash)
[Note: While performing Spring cleaning on the computers
in the PU Offices (largely, the sad but necessary deletion
of our extensive naughty GIF collection from the Filthy
Diner BBS), one of our staffers came across the following
textfile fragment. Having no idea where it came from, we
thought we'd put it up for public inspection; if anyone
knows anything about this, or has located any more fragments
of this narrative, please contact us... --The Editors]
Call me Ishmael.
I've been on this side two days, six hours and nine
minutes. And fourteen seconds--no--fifteen--oh, fuck
it. Seconds don't matter to anyone on that side
anyway, unless you're running the 440.
I'm not entirely sure how it happened. One minute, I
was sitting right there, tapping my little fingers on
my keys and then there was a sharp pain, the world
went sideways, and I ended up here. Never thought
I'd be able to compare death to a dial queue, always
waiting for the pulse tone, the ATDT-instant-out. But here
I am. Online for eternity.
Or not. What if they unplug the computer when they
discover the body? If they switch off the modem, will the
last electronic vestiges of me disappear in a blip? Maybe I
should head away from here....just to be safe. It's not like
I can ge t out or anything--there's a glarescreen just the
other side of the glass and I can't quite reach through it--
every time I try to touch it there's a spark and this angry
buzzing sound that suggests it wouldn't be a good idea.
Besides, that guy out there certainly doesn't need me.
I look better digitized than I thought I would--but
hey, I'm still dead. Slumped back in the chair, staring at
the ceiling. I look stupid. Scared and stupid and alone and
dead in front of my computer. So, what kind of fuck would
kill a gu y at his computer?
Damned if I know. Wonder if I can find out from this
side....if I think hard enough, I can get into the screen and
try and pick up the logs from the session.... Hope nobody
walks in while I'm doing this.
<SCROLL UP>
ATH0
ATDT*70,18005551111
CONNECT 9600
***Welcome to the National Security Administration's main
terminal DC69CX. Please enter your security code at the
prompt given. This call will be monitored using the<<<<<
<<<<<<
<<<<<SECURITY BREACH DETECTED: Authorities have been
alerted. You will not be allowed to sign off until this call
has been traced. Unauthorized passwords are illegal under
Section 6D of the International Geneva Convention, Vo
jfd;roei;nv id/lfosgufivgnv nh;hn io'/k3wr>>>>>
<<<<SECURITY BREACH DETECTED>>>>>
<<<<SECURITY BREACH DETECTED>>>>>
<<<<SECURITY BREACH DETECTED>>>>>
<<<<SECURITY BREACH DETECTED>>>>>
<<<<< OVERRIDEPASSWORD/ICE242/ENTER
***Thank you for using the NSA main terminal, 242. Good to
see you again. Signing off now.***
NO CARRIER
Oh, shit. What was I up to? Could I hanlfdnonioe
[Like we said, inquiring minds want to know. -- The Editors]
============================================================
============================================================
Truth <pretty much>, Justice, and the Dystropian Way
Part Three: Beware, Falling Plots in the Road Ahead
<part 3/3 of the dystropian chronicles by midget caesar>
Darius glanced at the figure sitting in his office. This was
not just any figure; no, it was a figure with action-swivel
Kung-Fu grip. Then he turned his attention back to the
rabbit, a rather furious rabbit. After inhaling several
Prozac-Freez Popsicles, the rabbit was ready to relate its
story. It was a rabbit who had pulled a rough lot in life.
The rabbit explained that, regardless of its best efforts, it
was always going to be stereotyped as a romance writer, when
the poor rabbit was only trying to write about the secret of
life. <Darius had to admit that whenever he thought about the
greater literary accomplishments of bunnies everywhere,
romance novels were all that came to mind> As a result, nude
pictures of Socrates were in high demand, Plato Printed
Panties were everywhere, and Existential Aphrodesiacs had
become the world's biggest turn-on. Pick-up lines like "Hey,
baby, want to do the mind/body split with me?" and "Y'know,
you've got the *largest* set of morals I've ever seen!" were
circulating like crazy, and this bunny was hopping mad about
it. As a result, the bunny had brought Darius his biggest
challenge yet: Sue Reality For Failing To Live Up To Truth In
Advertising.
And, after a quick case, the battle was over. The evidence
against reality was overwhelming, and Darius had another
victory. A man slipped quietly over to Reality, which was
sitting angrily subdued in a corner. The man whispered a few
words to Reality, and then left. As the judge began to pass
judgement upon Reality, he was interrupted by a shout from
the courtroom - Reality had thrown a temper tantrum and
stormed out of the building. Reality was gone. Darius raced
out of the building, but it was too late. Milo smirked at
him. Even Milo had been surprised at how easily he had been
able to manipulate Reality..... Suddenly, things began to
change.
Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes.......
<Be Sure To Get All 42 Multiple Cover Versions (With Chromium
Plating) of:
Fear And Apathy In CyberDystropia: Clash Of The Plaid.....
Me0W!>
============================================================
============================================================
Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Five:
Making Love With His Ego,
Ziggy Sucked Up Into His Mind
(by Constantine)
Marvin the Stupefying was a balding man with bugged-out
eyes and a button that read, "Atlanteans Do It Underwater".
He gave me the eye as I sat down across from him, at a
folding card table in the Mystic Wonderful New-Age Healing
Crystal Herbal Resource Bunnies n' Light Emporium (TM).
I gave it right back to him. As he popped the eye back
into its socket, he asked in a squeeky voice, "Do you come
forth seeking the Mystic Wisdom of NOROM?"
"I'm looking for Ascended Masters," I said, "You got any?"
"I am the supreme channeler! The knowledge and thoughts of
fourty galaxies are open to my command. I can reach any
entity, any consciousness ever created in the cosmos as we
know it!"
"That's nice, Sybil. How about I fork over a twenty and
you let me have a sit-down with some Ascended folks so I
can get out of here before rush hour? The incense is making
my head hurt."
"Do you seek knowledge of love? Power? Money?"
I pressed the crisp bill into his hand. "If I had any
knowledge of money, would I be here?"
"Good point," he said, stuffing the bill into his turban,
"How about I summon up Jim Morrison?"
"He DROVE me here. Don't suppose Elvis is an Ascended
Master?"
"Elvis is still alive," Marvin said, "Would you settle for
G. G. Allin?"
"Not for twenty bucks."
"Karen Carpenter?"
"Just what I need, twenty bucks AND I have to buy you
lunch. Can't you do any better than that?"
"I'll see," he said, drawing up his legs and shutting his
eyes. He broke into a long, winding chant, something that
sounded suspiciously like multiplication tables. He then
made a fury of lightning-fast, mystical hand gestures.
Moments later, a low-rider modem cruised past the front
of the store, and I heard a voice shout "Death to Crips!"
just before the window exploded in a hail of machine-gun
fire. As I crawled out from under the table, I heard
Marvin's murmured apology.
"Hey!" shouted the store owner, busy waving a crystal
over a couple of shoppers with sucking chest wounds,
"Watch the mystical hand gestures in this neighborhood!"
Marvin's eyes rolled back in his head as he chanted,
"Cadillacs, Cadillacs, greenbacks, greenbacks, one
Republican nation under God and MEGADITTOES!"
He slowly opened his eyes and gazed at me with a faraway
look. When he spoke, his voice was that of a much larger
man.
"Caller," he said, "You say what?"
"Ah... Are you an Ascended Master?"
"You know, people ask me that all the time! But what do
you think about these darned feminazis?"
"Well, to be honest, I kinda like 'em--"
From the back room of the store someone called, "Hey! You
guys have got to hear this! Some twit is asking Rush
Limbaugh about Ascended Masters!"
"Tsk, tsk," Marvin clucked, deep in his trance, "Yet
another liberal male, led astray by the pathetic, deluded
excesses of the political-correctness movement."
"I'm more PU than PC, really--"
"And I bet you throw paint at women in fur coats!"
"No, I just bought Mom a nice lemming wrap for Yule--"
"And I bet you--" Marvin suddenly made a gagging noise
and slumped onto the table. He looked up at me wearily.
"That's... Never happened before..."
"Gods, I hope not. And I want my twenty back, damnit."
"Hey!" he said, suddenly refreshed, "No refunds!"
I was reaching for the virus in my trenchcoat pocket as
the Himalayan chimes over the front door tinkled. I turned
to face a pack of slovenly, pale young men and women in
off-white terrycloth robes. They conversed amongst
themselves, and at long last one stepped forward.
"Are you... Julius Caesar?"
"Um, no."
"Are you... Alexander the Great?"
"No."
"Are you General Patton?"
"No."
"MacArthur?"
"No!"
"Colin Powell?"
"Nope."
"James Bond?"
"No."
"Indiana Jones?"
"No..."
"Seymour Krelbourne?"
"No!"
"Joan of Arc?"
"No."
"Are you... Constantine?"
I stood up.
"Yes. Yes, I'm Constantine."
There was a murmur of surprise from the crowd. I heard
one whisper, "Lucky guess."
The leader looked back at the others. "Well, we got
number 47. Wanna break for lunch?"
After a few moments, it became apparent that they were
incapable of agreeing whether "lunch" was a neccessary
thing, or if they felt inclined to actually look for any.
With a sigh, the leader turned back to face me.
"Hi. I'm Lou. With the Church of Apathy."
"Never heard of you. You folks new on the Net?"
"Well, we're not exactly FROM the Net..."
"If you're with the IRS, I can explain everything--"
"No, no, we just want to hire you for a job."
"What kind of job?"
"A little one. Nothing big. Can you come out to the
alley with me?"
"Hey," I said, waving my hands, "I don't DO that kind of
job, especially not with an audience."
"I have to show you something. Come."
He lethargically staggered out the door, the others
following him. Shrugging, I did the same.
Sitting in the alley was a shiny, new, candy-apple red
modem with a simple black designer's label. It read "28.8".
"Shite," I breathed, "Okay, I WILL do that kind of jo--"
"This is no ordinary conveyance, my friend. It is how
we came here, a machine so advanced that it functions as a
gateway between WORLDS."
"Hm. U.S. Robotics made this, right?"
"It was given to us by the Church Patriarch, He Whose Name
Can Be Spoken, But Is Rarely Remembered. He sent us forth,
well, actually, one of his secretaries sent us forth, to
find a hero to come forth across the veil of worlds and save
us all from the certain destruction of the universe."
"You bullshitting me?"
"No, to be honest, I don't have the creativity or the
energy to bullshit you. What I really want right now is
a nap."
At the suggestion, half of his followers collapsed in a
snoring heap on the concrete. I ran a finger across the
modem's contour, electric sparks flashing at my touch.
"Tell me more."
"Reality has Left. It began in our world, the realm of
Dystropia. Things are already falling apart, and it is
only a matter of time before the effect spreads across all
of the parallel worlds. We need a bounty hunter, a warrior,
to find Reality and return it to its rightful place. You
were number 47 on the list. All has happened according to
the prophecy."
"Prophecy?"
"Twenty thousand years ago, one of the Most Apathetic Ones
gave an oracle, forecasting that this would happen if steps
were not taken to keep an eye on Reality."
"Then why the hell DIDN'T you?"
"Well... We just never got around to it..."
Ten seconds later I was sitting behind the wheel, eyes
glazing over as I stared at the twelve-foot-long control
panel lined with buttons, knobs and gauges labeled with
strange, alien letters.
"What the hell," I said to myself, "My case can wait, and
it's not like I had plans tonight or anything..."
With a flick of a switch the turbo boosters roared to
life, catapulting me down the alley (and over five of the
Apathetics, who were too slow to get out of the way), and
up towards the stars. The world of the Net fell away
below me as I blasted through an interdimensional vortex,
the 28.8 carrying me to a destination unknown...
TO BE CONTINUED...
Watch for Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace Part Six:
"James Earl Jones Wets His Pants!"
============================================================
============================================================
Mango Madness Abroad
(by Newt)
All of us are painfully aware of the fact that Americans'
passion for fruit is blindly swayed toward the common, dull,
and ordinary. We show as much creativity in the produce
aisle as George Bush at a costume party -- apples and oranges
as far as the eyes can see. Lovers of exotic fruits in this
country are a minority, and the day when the Cult of the
Mango is prosecuted may not be far off.
However, I was lucky enough to go to Europe over spring
vacation, and I discovered the world is not as ignorant in
the matters of fruit as Americans seem to be. Some of you
may know the wonders of fruits such as the mango have not yet
seduced me, but I found the atmosphere in Europe to be so
refreshing I may be straightened out yet. I first noticed
this strange and wonderful way of life one morning as I
foggily rubbed the sleep out of my eyes at breakfast one
morning. The thought of eating cold cuts in the morning was
about as appealing as John Candy in a Speedo, so I went to
the jam section to make myself a nice piece of toast. The
Austrians at my hotel had thoughtfully labeled each jar in
English and German, and I received a surprise as I skimmed
each title. Sure there was the ordinary grape, strawberry,
and raspberry, but... there was marmalade, pear jelly,
and....mango jelly. At least that's what I think it was --
the translation was not accurate, but it sure looked close to
mango to me. Such a product would be revered by many here in
the United States, but it didn't even receive a second glance
by the natives around me. I cannot lie and say I sampled
this concoction -I tried chocolate on my toast instead, but
the fact remains that it was there.
I still may feel that Kiwi Strawberry Cocktail is the most
disgusting concoction the wonderful folks at the Snapple
Corporation make, but I am tired of being common. I am Newt,
hear me roar, and this is what I have to say. <<insert
patriotic music>> America, I do love you dearly, but we must
face up to the fact that we are outclassed in the matter of
exotic fruit. We must not fall further behind in this oh so
crucial field. I just know I'll see the day when I can order
a Hot Mango Pie at McDonald's, and until then, mango madness
will have to continue thousands of miles away.
============================================================
============================================================
COMING SOON...
--- You saw it coming, it's the beginning of the incredible
three-part Fear and Loathing/Dystropia crossover! Watch
for the start of this spectacular miniseries, with
certain archived issues coming autographed by the inker
and artist! Can't tell that we hold all of our staff
meetings at a comic-book store, can ya?
--- An official statement from Def Mangoe's publicist,
explaining at length why the Hardest Snoring Band in
Show Business is far, far too important to be interviewed
by us!
--- Nex's Tai Chi Article! REALLY!
--- Even more wonderful things requiring lots and lots of
exclamation points and hyperbole!
============================================================
============================================================
D I S T R I B U T I O N
These boards are what BBSing is all about. As a hobby, as
a lifestyle, as a calling, it's all right here. ::sniff::
They're swell. Call one today. Hell, call several.
And for letters, comments and rants, don't forget the
Propaganda Mailbox at Internet address PULETTERS@AOL.COM!
Board Phone
-------------------------- --------------
Intelligent Shade of Blue (312) 588-4231 (Headquarters)
Temple of Pong (708) 268-1696
Big Bob's Leechburger Farm (708) 838-1015
Bob Saget Hate Club (815) 363-1351
Wicked Garden (708) 427-0679
Micro Information Systems (805) 251-0564 (California Hub)

magazines/PU/pu0106.txt
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P R O P A G A N D A U N L I M I T E D
August 9, 1994 Volume One, Issue Six
"More Fun Than You Can Have With Forrest Gump's Entrails!"
============================================================
============================================================
CONTENTS
----------
1. Introduction to Issue #6
by Constantine
2. Propaganda By Mail
featuring Two Fish
3. Standardized, Shmandardized
by Newt
4. Fish and Loathing in Dystropia
by Midget Caesar
5. Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Six
by Constantine
6. Magic: The Addiction
by Malakai
7. Short Stories
by Aquarius
============================================================
============================================================
STAFF
-------
Midget Caesar ........ The Head of Heads, Writer Uno.
Constantine .......... Will Edit Issue 7, Right After One
More Game O' D00M.
Oregano .............. Evanston Correspondant and a Hell
of a Guy.
Newt ................. Spends Too Much Time in Europe.
Nyarlathotep ......... Evanston Correspondant, Black Madness
of the Outer Gods.
Aquarius ............. Space Correspondant.
Psychotic Ambition ... Trent Reznor's Evil Twin.
Comrade Slash ........ Moscow Correspondant, KGB Plant.
Nex .................. Distribution Manager, Tai Chi Guru.
Operatech ............ Distribution Staff, Though He Never
Writes Anymore.
and introducing...
Malakai,
Platinum Ego,
and Dr. Fig .......... NEW MEAT! (Writers, feh.)
and, of course...
Two Fish ............. The Arbiter of All That is Cool.
============================================================
============================================================
Spiffy, and You?
by Constantine
Damn, it's good to be back.
It's been a turbulant month here at the Propaganda
Unlimited offices; Intelligent Shade of Blue, the PU
flagship, went down in a blaze of molten death (some people
say it started doing that a long time ago, but that's
another story). Temporary operations were moved to the
Temple of Pong, an emergency evacuation that ALMOST started
to work before that, too, bit the big one. Meanwhile,
mainstream America became enchated with a film about a
retarded philosopher (go figure) and the editor got a new
486 and promptly became a D00M addict.
[Note at press time: After vanquishing the Spiderdemon,
the editor has gone on to an even worse X-COM addiction.
There seems to be a pattern here.]
Even a thriving D00M addiction, though, must be preferable
to that all-encompassing, nearly Cthulhoid menace of Magic:
The Gathering. And you thought the Reds were gonna
brainwash our country's citizens with hypnotic suggestion?
The real enemy is down at your local comic shop, and the
war is OVER. Me, I'm holding out for Jyhad, in all of its
AlTeRnaG0Th glory.
And speaking of Cthulhu, communists, mind control and
Goths, (how's THAT for the segue from hell?) the whole PU
staff is assembled and ready once again to inflict its
warped version of reality upon an unsuspecting world. And
a special welcome to Platinum Ego, Malakai and Dr. Fig,
the latest members of our zany little troupe. They're
recovering quite nicely from the initiation party (though
I still can't get the whipped cream stains out of the
Zamboni seat, and the Official Sheep has been gone for a
week), and we're glad to have 'em.
ISOB has been fully remodeled and rechristened as the
Strangeways Asylum (all the more fitting for the PU
Flagship), and the distribution net features a number of
new numbers-- check 'em out, you won't be disappointed.
A few people were inquiring about becoming sites just
before the Great Crash-- please, contact us again and
we'll get that underway.
Until next time, Peace, Love and Mangoberries Out.
============================================================
============================================================
Propaganda By Mail
(our letters column)
Alas, due to the crash and a simultaneous major Internet
account problem, our mailbox was pretty much wiped clean
after the Great Crash. You can reach us, as always, at
address PULETTERS@AOL.COM-- send us your input, be it a
pat on the back or flames to the nether regions. This is
your magazine too, and we want to know what you think.
When you write, please specify if you want your Net
address printed along with your letter or if you would
prefer anonymity. Of course, if you DO flame us, while
we'll happily print it, that "anonymous option" might not
apply. Fair warning.
While we don't have any reader mail this issue, we do
have the pleasure of printing a letter from the Paragon
of Comicland, the Arbiter of All that Matters, Two Fish!
Dear Unlimited Propagandizers:
Okay.
I just finished reading issue number five of PU. Of
course it was beautiful and masterful as always (um...
especially that "Bummer" of a poem by Aquarius). The
Dystropia and Fear & Loathing serials continue to wax
brilliant (and I'm NOT just saying that because Midget
Caesar and Constantine are close personal acquaintances.
Really.)
Anyway, the impetus for this particular missive was
Newt's article, "Mango Madness Abroad". I found it to
be interesting and sad. Newt is correct in accusing
Americans of missing out on the joys of the more dramatic
fruits. Unfortunately, this is only one result of their
having grown up in a country built largely upon apathy
(just ask Midget Caesar). As Newt pointed out after
experiencing the world outside of the US, other nations
seem not so uncomfortable with experimenting with the
tastes of the more exotic fruits. She noted that the Swiss
actually offer such delacies as pear and mango jellies.
I ask the PU readers if they have ever seen such spreads in
our corner of the world. We all know the answer.
That in mind, I applaud the Swiss for their sense of
fruity innovation. HOWEVER, I must admit I restrain my
applause. For, though the Swiss produce such a wonder as
mango jelly, "it didn't even recieve a second glance by the
natives," said Newt. So... what's the deal? They make the
stuff but don't eat it? Come ON!
That made me start thinking (as few things actually do
anymore). With all due respect to Newt, maybe she was ever
so slightly off the mark. At least in one case. I think
there is a growing percentage of Americans who have become
adventuresome and expanded their taste toward less mundane
fruit products. Like the Swiss, some Americans (namely the
folk at the otherwise evil Snapple Corrup-- uhm, Corporation)
do produce an exotic fruit product. However-- based on
Newt's observation of the Swiss people neglecting to consume
the apparently readily available mango jelly-- the similarity
between Swiss and American ends right there. I have
undeniable proof that folks around my neck o' the woods have
been consuming (yep!) great quantities of that masterpiece
called Mango Madness Cocktail. For the past few weeks, ever
since I wrote that Mango Madness Cocktail review thing for
PU, I have found it IMPOSSIBLE to find the stuff on store
shelves. ANYWHERE. And it's not that the establishments
don't stock it anymore-- the price tags with product
descriptions are always posted. Simply put, the nectar of
the mango is snatched up quicker than the eye, naked or
otherwise, can see. It was only yesterday I was able to
corner a bottle for m'self (ask Constantine).
My point is, yes Newt, most Ameri-sheep are too timid to
savor the true delicacies of the fruit world-- but more and
more people are discovering the goodness and godliness of
the mango. That just warms the cockles of my-- wait, what
exactly ARE cockles, anyway? Do I have any? Hmmm...
Anyway, wht I want to say is, the word is getting out.
Mango Madness is indeed growing.
That's something we should ALL be proud of.
(But, hey, just save some for me, okay? Sheesh.)
In Humble Servitude and Truth Always,
Two Fish
Arbiter of Truth and All that is Cool.
============================================================
============================================================
Standardized, Schmandardized
or Why I Hate Number Two Pencils
by Newt
There has been something casting a shadow at the back of
my mind lately... you know, the part that's almost always
covered in cobwebs but is only used when some important
question crosses your mind, like what was the name of the boy
who played Peter on the Brady Bunch, and you don't remember
for a few days until you're in math class and you aren't even
thinking about it and suddenly you know it was Chris Knight?
No, I haven't been pondering the youngest one in curls (Susan
Olson - ha!), but rather why on earth I have to take so many
gosh darn standardized tests.
I was thinking about it today, and by my estimate, I
will have taken fourteen standardized tests this year alone.
No really - think about it. PSAT, SAT, ACT, four Achievement
Tests (oh, excuse me, SAT IIs), AP French and US History
exams, a national French contest and one in math too, a
consumer education profieciency exam, and two IGAP tests.
What disturbs me is that, even though I believe I test well,
I, like everyone else, cannot be represented by little ovals
and Number Two pencils, and yet these exams continue to
define my being through my social security number.
Standardized tests have been proven to be biased. Take
this little nugget - the SAT has been repeatedly shown to be
biased by race, gender, and family income and yet nothing
ever happens to change this. Between a boy and a girl who
score 20 on the math portion of the ACT, the boy's SAT math
score is predicted to be a 540, but the girl's is predicted
as only 470. I'm not going to get into a feminist tirade
because that's not what I'm angry about. I'm angry that
everyone knows these tests are poor indicators of performance
and continue to be used to label us as smart, average,
or...uh...intellectually impaired. Fact is, a lot of people
don't test well.
Fact is, my SAT scores don't tell anything about who I
am, where I want to be, what I cherish in this world, what my
favorite fruit is. Fact is...many colleges base their
decisions on this and another number -your GPA.
I'm not telling you anything you don't already know.
All I'm saying is...think about it next time you have ten
minutes to go in one of these tests, have made your marks
dark, and are trying not to become comatose. Know that you
are nothing but a number, a percentile to some people. And
protest.
============================================================
============================================================
fish and loathing in dystropia-
the collectible and combustible prequel
(Part One of the Dystropia/Cyberspace Crossover)
<created by midget caesar - written by dr. fig with the
aforementioned midget>
Through the skies flew a saviour, a strong, brave man.
His 28.8 modem carried him with unbelievable speed, soaring
towards the troubled land of Dystropia, where he was much
needed.
He was summarily stopped for speeding, and when it was found
that he didn't have a Saviours License on him, he was brought
in and thrown in jail.
Meanwhile, Constantine, who may not fit the heroic archetype
but can cook a mean batch of brownies, was also headed in the
same direction. While waiting at a red light, he reached into
the glove department of his newly acquired 28.8 looking for
more lemon-scented wet tissues but found instead a somewhat
massive volume titled:
"The Pretty Okay Bible"
and subtitled
"The Annals of the Second Church of Apathy,
vol. # We're Not Really Sure"
Constantine, having nothing much better to do, switched the
cherry red 28.8 onto auto-pilot, relaxed his seat back, and
began to read.
<from the annals of the second church of apathy,
page number unknown because he scribe lost count>
"The end is near. (okay, so it's just catching up, but
it'll be here soon) The recent, tumultuous <the word
tumultuous is thrown in here for no good reason> events have
resulted in the departure of Reality.
"The frequent temper tantrums of Reality can be traced to
the fact that Reality has led a rather confined life. It
doesn't get out much. Reality has approximately infinity
<give or take a few> planes of existence to monitor,
which it must be admitted is a somewhat boring job. We had
hoped that the entire centuries that Reality periodically
takes off to catch up on the soaps would calm it down <As
advised in the critically acclaimed interdimensional best-
seller, "Raising Reality For Fun and Profit, by
Dr. J. E. Hovah>, but it has not.
"We Apathetics have been entrusted with the task of taking
care of this. Our secretary responded to the assignment of
this monumental task with a semi-awake "Uh huh, sure, OK."
Thus we are committed.
"The Most Important Bureaucratic Person In Dystropia could
not really be bothered with the task of giving us the
details, so he sent his assistant T-Bone Kiwallayummies
instead.
"He interrupted our current Head Person, Lou, while Lou was
engaged in our time-honored apathetic meditation handed down
through the ages known as taking a nap. By doing so, T-Bone
foolishly risked our most feared security device, utter
indifference. "Lou, we NEED you!", cried T-Bone in a nasal
yet passionate tone. Lou looked up from his meditation.
""Couldn't this have waited until AFTER the O.J. Simpson
trial is over?", asked Lou. T-Bone frantically jumped up and
down, screaming "LOU! Reality is on the run! The entire
universe may be destroyed!"
""Your point?", asked Lou with sincere puzzlement <most
understandably>.
""You people are supposed to help!"
""Yeah, yeah, all right." Lou rose from his bed
reluctantly, found his secretary, and asked her to please go
find the Heroic People Directory if she had a chance, please,
after she made his coffee. She hesitated a moment,
then agreed. Thus, did the search begin. After being turned
down by a well-dressed man known only as the Hunter, who said
something I forgot to record about killing some lamprey, and
a dirty looking man named Eric Tyler, who brushed us off with
some words that I cannot repeat here, and proceeded
to shoot three Apathetics in order to fill his quota of
grimness for the day. We are now en route to Cyberspace. We
were flatly turned down by out-of-work Security Director
Angus McBrutal, who couldn't quite grasp the concept we
were putting before him. So we move on....."
Constantine looked up with a start as a green fish fell into
his lap. He knew he had arrived at his destination.....
============================================================
============================================================
Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Six:
We're Sure as F**K Not In Kansas, Anymore.
(Part One of the Cyberspace/Dystropia Crossover)
by Constantine
I knew I was in trouble when the fish hit my lap. That,
and the fleet of Vortaglion Doomships, seeking the head of
Joey Lawrence, who pursued me until I got on the subspace
radio and assured them that I wasn't carrying any
unauthorized poptarts.
The 28.8, a miracle of applied aerodynamics, coasted low
over the surface of Dystropia beneath a purple polka-dotted
sky. I pulled up on the rudder as a chain of third-world
island nations below suddenly erupted in flame, a triumphant
cry of "Yahtzee!" filling the air.
Flying over a vast city, I touched down in the middle of
the street, in front of the City Courthouse steps.
Tickertape and confetti littered the boulevard beneath a
banner that read "Dan Quayle for President".
Reality had truly left.
A tiny man covered in reams of crimson tape ran up to me
and pumped my hand vigorously. "Mr. Constantine!" he said,
"I'm T-Bone, the aide to the most important bureaucrat in
Dystropia. The Apathetics told me that you would be arriving
shortly. This is where it all started, you know."
"The courthouse?"
"Yes! We think reality must still be inside, hiding under
a table. Perhaps if you would have a heart-to-heart with the
lad...?"
He followed right alongside me as I paced up the stairs to
the giant oaken doors, something about his voice grating in
my memory.
"You look familiar," I said as I swung the door wide, "Have
you ever been in Cyberspace?"
"Me? Oh, no! I never hop across the space-time continuum-
-it's bad for my ulcer. Um... After you?"
"I don't think so."
I picked him up by the collar and hurled him across the
threshold, where an invisible pocket of Paradox had been
lurking just behind the door. T-Bone screamed in agony as he
was simultaneously inside the building and outside the
building, a paradox which the universe neatly and promptly
resolved by ripping him in half.
The universe had a funny sense of humor about such things.
"DAMN YOU!" screamed a voice of pure fury, booming from
barely-concealed speakers on the courthouse lawn. I turned
to regard the empty street with a grin.
"I can't see you, Milo, but I know you're watching."
"You foiled my trap!" the speakers hissed, "How did you
KNOW?"
"Easy," I said, "He said that the Apathetics told him that
I'd be here soon. The Apathetics won't even notice I'm HERE
until next week, and even then they won't bother telling
anyone about it until they take a nice long nap. What I want
to know is, what do you have to do with the disappearance of
Vito Hernandez? You sent that goon to kill me in the
Telearena, didn't you? I recognized his voice."
"Very clever, but disposing of my right-hand man will do
you no good."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm left-handed."
Dimensional gateways opened in a ring around the courthouse
steps, black voids of swirling darkness looming as Milo
roared with evil laughter. It was a hideous, fiendish laugh,
one that would have chilled me to my very bones had he not
sounded so much like the kid in the Encyclopedia Brittannica
commercials.
"You're in rare form," he said, "But soon you'll be well-
done."
"What are you gonna do, kill me with bad puns?"
As if in response, a battallion of ninja in night-black
cowls lept through the gateways, flashing an array of katanas
and staves as they circled me.
"Ninjas? That the best you can do?"
"Not just ANY ninjas," Milo's voice chuckled, "These are
men and women from a dozen different schools of combat, at
all degrees of black belt expertise, from ten parallel
worlds. They share only one thing in common."
"What's that?"
"A massive insecurity complex. And there is nothing in the
universe so dangerous as a homicidal maniac with something to
prove. I leave you to your death."
As the speakers clicked off and the ninja squad moved in
for the kill, I realized I was in deep doo-doo. I reached
into my trenchcoat pocket, drew my virus...
...and found a tiny purple fish in my hand. Away from
Cyberspace, my weapons were rendered useless.
Correction: REALLY deep doo-doo.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Watch for Fear and Loathing Part Seven:
James Earl Jones is a One-Man Army!
============================================================
============================================================
Magic: The Addiction
by Malakai
Well, here I am again <not on my knees!> and typing up a
file on my 286 because I don't want to plug up my other
computer. But anyway, I'm typing for a cause, to warn you all
about Magic: The Gathering, a new drug which is becoming
increasingly popular amungst the role playing/bbsing world in
general. I, myself, because addicted the 1st week of Febuary
shortly after I purchased my first 'deck' <these are the
starters kits, suprisingly, they are not free> at Games Plus
in Mt. Prospect. I don't have much money, but a quarter of
what I get goes to Magic. This is an UNCONTROLLABLE urge, I
cannot understand it, I have heard rumors of a narcotic
substance coating the Magic cards which makes them highly
addictive, but at any rate, these are HIGHLY addictive.
What is Magic, you ask? Well, don't be too surprised,
it's not an actual drug, what it is, is a card game, that's
right, an ADDICTIVE card game-- when's the last time you
heard about kids getting hooked on shit like "Go Fish" and
"Crazy 8's"? Well, this isn't just your everyday AVERAGE
card game, this is a card game of combat, strategy <though I
still think more luck than strategy take the game in a lot of
places> and just general fun things. You are a wizard
<PRETEND-LIKE, you aren't really a wizard (if you are, hey, I
could use a flight spell or something) > and you fight
another wizard or wizards. To fight them you have your deck,
which is essentially your spellbook <I find almost all the
time, those with the most money have the best 'SPELL-BOOKS'
but they don't always win!> and in your spellbook are
monsters of all sorts, lands which you can leech mana from,
and enchantments, amungst other things! (but it's not a good
idea to mop the floor with Magic cards, as they hold ONLY
half of what 'Spectra-Mop' holds.. YES, i am watching an
Info-mercial on Channel 32 or whatever the fuck channel I'm
on. MV50 is on also, but they always, ALWAYS have shitty
mus... er.. on to the topic at hand) But if you need more
information on WHAT Magic is, write me/call me/call my board/
call the Obloid/etc...
What's the point of it, you ask? Why, the point is
simple, beat the fuck out of the other wizard(s) and stay
alive yourself! There are all sorts of variations, cards
which defy the rules, cards which make new rules, and just
cards in general, so this game can be EXTREMELY fun if you
are playing with the right person. Some people like to toy
with thier victims and leave them at a low life point total
<both wizards usually start with 20 life and as they are
attacked by spells/creatures they go down gradually> and just
use spells on them that will basically make thier life hell
<but it's FUN, so do it (grin) > Other people <like merciful
ol' me> just slaughter the people as quick as they can <I
have a fast creature deck I use JUST for such a game> and not
spend much time at all playing with the other wizard(s).
There are also variations to the actual game! What
variations?! Well, a-ho-ho-ho, I will tell you! <BTW, that
was SUPPOSED t'be a haughty laugh but it prob'ly looked like
I'm one of the 7 dwarves but ANYWAY> There's normal magic
<one on one> that's, well, ... normal! Then there's free-for-
all magic, where there's 3 or more players and they all have
to fight to be the LAST wizard alive <these games can be
ESPECIALLY fun> and of course, there's always my favorite
<and usually the longest to play> RAINBOW MAGIC! Well, you
see, in Magic, there are 5 colors. White, Black, Red, Blue,
and Green.. each symbolizing different elements of things
<White = good, black = .. I'll let you GUESS, red = war/fire,
blue = mind/water, green = Mo' nacha'> and there are 5
players, each getting one color to play. Well, it's hard to
explain to non-Magic: The Junkies, so I won't. Anyway, if
you can get a hold of a Starter Deck, do it!
I will PERSONALLY help you learn how to play and learn
how to beat everyone <hell, if you're female maybe I'll
actually go to your house and show you> If you can get to any
Fantasy/Sci-Fi/RPG conventions, Magic: The Gathering is a HOT
seller and you can almost SURELY find a deck or 50 at one of
them <and if any of you want to learn more about these, ask
me, I'll give you some ideas> But anyway, this is <was>
Malakai, so I'll <shut up> talk to you <me> later. Sorry,
that was an attempt at Mr.Subliminal... BYE!
[Editor's Note: As a participant at the Atlanta
DragonCon last month, I bore witness to entire GALLARIES
filled with Magic players, people with 6-inch-thick binders
full of cards, some poor schmuck offering $500 dollars for
a single rare card...
...I think we need a House Investigation Committee to
get on this, RIGHT NOW. --Constantine]
============================================================
============================================================
A Selection of Short Stories
by Aquarius
-*-
The Magazine That Wasn't There
One day George went to a supermarket to see if they had a
magazine he liked. They didn't. George started to walk out
of the aisle but he was hit by a cement truck. His
intestines dangled from the magazine rack.
-*-
The Answering Machine
Sue got home and checked her answering machine. A message
from her mother. She was supposed to call her. Screw that.
Sue had sex with her answering machine instead.
-*-
True Love
Paul decided to stop by the florist and pick up a dozen roses
for his girlfriend on his way home from work. When he got to
her place and presented them to her, she seemed very pleased!
Until she cut herself on one of the thorns. It wasn't
serious, except that Paul didn't realize his girlfriend was a
hemophiliac. His girlfriend died from blood loss in the
hospital. Paul gave the roses to the nurse.
-*-
Mystical Orb of Purple
Martha enjoyed going to flea markets. One day she met a
wizened old woman at a dirty, haggard booth. A purple orb
was on the table.
"What is this?" said Martha.
"Ah! The Mystical Orb! This will give you a treasure beyond
your wildest dreams! For it is magical! Only 35 dollars, I
must sell it, for it must be passed on before I die." said
the old lady.
"Well, what does it do?" asked Martha.
"Ah, but I cannot tell you that. Only The Bearer May Know."
the lady said eerily.
"Uh, ok, I'll take it." Martha decided.
"Here you go." said the lady as she wrapped it up. "Use it in
good faith!"
Martha got home and realized it was a bowling ball.
-*-
Timothy's Easter Surprise
Young Timothy awoke happily. It was Easter Morning! Timothy
ran downstairs, for he wanted to find where his Easter Basket
was hidden! Timothy loved all the candy and other goodies he
got in it, especially jellybeans. He searched around for a
while--behind chairs, underneath the piano, in the closets.
He finally found it underneath a desk. But it wasn't what he
expected. Instead of the chocolate bunny and assorted
candies, Timothy saw that a big, wet turd was the only thing
in it.
Timothy cried so loud that his father woke up and gave him a
beating.
-*-
The Boy That Only Played Video Games
Once there was a boy who did nothing but play video games.
He spent all his allowance at the local arcade. Sometimes he
stole cartridge games from the store to play at home. He did
badly in school and had no friends. The only thing he did
right was send in the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes
entry. Three months later, he won 10 million dollars. He
used all the money to buy lots of video games and lived
happily ever after. Everyone hated him.
-*-
Unique Pie
Jill had been saving her toenail clippings for 9 years. When
she at last had enough, she baked a Toenail Pie. After it
had cooled, she ate it. Some of the toenail clippings got
stuck in her throat. She started to choke but punched
herself in the stomach to dislodge the offending toenail
clipping. It worked. She finished the rest of the pie.
Later she had to go to the hospital because her tummy hurt.
The doctors realized that the toenail clippings were
scratching her intestine and also clogging it.
Two days later she died.
"In all my years of working here," said an old doctor, "that
was the stupidest thing I've ever seen."
-*-
Lemonade Stand
Oliver was running a lemonade stand on a hot summer day. Ten
cents a glass. He had been selling pretty well.
Then a blind lady with a cane walked by the lemonade stand.
"Would you like some lemonade?" asked Oliver.
"Yes! That sounds wonderful! How much?" the lady replied.
"Only ten cents."
"Great!"
The lady gave Oliver a dime. Since the lady was blind,
Oliver unzipped his fly and pissed into a cup. He handed the
full cup to the lady. She started to drink it but coughed
and spewed it all out. Then she vomited in the street.
While she was bent over vomiting, Oliver ran away.
-*-
Justice
Detective Jenkins was getting fed up with this homicide case.
He had been searching for suspects and clues for over four
hours. Finally, in a fit of boredom, Jenkins arrested a man
walking down the street. He put the man's fingerprints all
over the murder weapon, a handgun. All this time the man was
blabbing something about rights, but Jenkins wasn't
listening.
At the trial, Jenkins paid off the jury and denied everything
the man said.
Four months later, the man was executed.
"Another case solved." said Detective Jenkins.
-*-
The Long Sword
Molly was walking on the beach when she found a treasure map
on the sand. She realized it led to a fortune beyond her
wildest dreams! But then the sun exploded. Everyone died.
-*-
The Lying Truth
Ralph hated visiting relatives. His mom had dragged him to
this stupid family reunion. He sulked in a corner.
His fat Uncle Riviera came up to him.
"Ralph. What's wrong? Why don't you socialize? We don't
bite, you know!" said Uncle Riviera.
Ralph glared at him, but walked into the center of the room.
Everyone pounced on him and began biting chunks of flesh off
of him.
"Uh, I guess I was wrong." said Uncle Riviera as he chewed on
Ralph's finger.
============================================================
============================================================
COMING SOON...
-- Part Two of the unbelievable, astounding, hyperbole-filled
Fear and Loathing/Dystropia Crossover! The action gets
more intense, the verbage gets thicker, and our publicist
throws himself out a window!
-- Sensationalism galore, designed as a desperate maneuver
to titillate our audience while boosting our ratings back
to Pre-Great-Crash popularity! Hey, at least we're HONEST
about it-- the TV stations call it "news".
-- And while we're at it, NOT ONE WORD about the O.J. Simpson
trial! Because, to be honest, we don't GIVE a damn!
-- Dare we promise the Def Mangoe interview and Nex's Tai
Chi article? Nah...
============================================================
============================================================
D I S T R I B U T I O N
These are boards of distinction and taste-- after all, they
carry us. You are a person of distinction and taste-- after
all, you read us. Seeing as you have so much in common,
why not call 'em up?
And for letters, comments and rants, don't forget the
Propaganda Mailbox at Internet address PULETTERS@AOL.COM!
Board Phone
--------------------------- -----------------------------
Strangeways Asylum (312) 588-4231 (Headquarters)
Legion of the Undead (708) 546-4605
The Ice Palace (708) 635-0953
MicroInformation Systems (805) 251-0564
Big Bob's Leech Burger Farm (708) 838-1015
============================================================
============================================================

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=================================================================
=================================================================
P R O P A G A N D A U N L I M I T E D
August 25, 1994 Volume One, Issue Five
"More Fun Than You Can Have Watching the OJ Trial!"
=================================================================
=================================================================
CONTENTS
--------
1. Introduction to Issue #7
by Midget Caesar
2. Propaganda by Mail
3. Video Games I'd Like to See
by Aquarius
4. Dystropia -- The Prayer of the Congealed Mass
by Midget Caesar
5. Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Seven
by Constantine
6. Dystropia Part ?, The Crossover Continues
by Midget Caesar
7. How I Got in Touch With My Inner Feelings
About My Multiple Cross-Dressing Personalities
by Newt
8. Aquarius' Joke Corner (a new feature!)
================================================================
================================================================
STAFF
-----
Midget Caesar.......... Witness for the Prostitution, Head
Writer.
Constantine............ D-FENS, Head Editor.
Oregano................ Tampered With Suspect's DNA, Evanston
Correspondant.
Nyarlathotep........... Tampered With His Own DNA, Indiana
Correspondant.
Newt................... Was Nowhere Near the Murder Scene,
Writing Staff.
Aquarius............... Probably Did It, Writing Staff.
Psychotic Ambition..... Too Depressed to Kill Anyone, Writing
Staff.
Comrade Slash.......... There Was No Political Value to the
Killings Anyway, Writing Staff.
Malakai................ OJ in Disguise, Writing Staff.
Platinum Ego........... Kato in Disguise, Writing Staff.
Dr. Fig................ Dr. Fig in Disguise, Writing Staff.
and, of course...
Two Fish............... The Arbiter of All That is Cool.
=================================================================
=================================================================
Come Along And Ride On The Fantastic Voyage
(slide slide slippedy slide):
The Rescue of the Strangeways Asylum
(sort of a "moving between places part two")
It was a dark and stormy night somewhere in Asia, but not here
in Chicago. The die had been cast: Propaganda Unlimited was
scheduled to make its grand comeback that very night, the moment
Constantine got around to uploading the file to the labs of the
Strangeways Asylum BBS. The moment huddled masses across the globe
had waited for (Since America won't take your poor and huddled
masses, we at PU will at least entertain them) had nearly arrived.
When I returned to the PU HQ after work, I prepared to pick
up the new issue: to no avail. The Strangeways Asylum was offline.
Nex, the console sysop, was on vacation. No explanation, no sane
rationale for why the BBS was offline. Could it have been one
of our assorted groups of enemies? Could it have simply been
Milo, unhappy about his portrayal in the Dystropia/Fear And Loathing
crossover? Or maybe it was Bill Gates, whose reasons I chose not to
contemplate? I didn't know. But one thing was for sure: PU's return
was delayed, and there would be hell to pay for this. (Or, if they
were broke, we might be able to hit up Heaven for a few bucks)
A call the next morning from Nex, long distance from his
Skydiving Convention, confirmed that foul play must have taken
place, and not his early return as I had hoped. So if PU was to
rise again, I was going to have to make the treacherous hour-long
journey into the belly of the beast, also known as Nex's house,
where the most feared of all demons awaited: His Mother.
After obtaining permission to do so, I began my journey. It
required a train ride, getting on another train, and then a walk.
The first train ride was simple enough. The second train was slow
in arriving, and crowded upon arrival. Only after I sat down did
I realize that the train was populated with demons, one of which
was eating fried chicken. Damn. None of the real people sitting
nearby seemed to realize that hellspawn were riding this train
with them. How typical of humans. I disguised myself as a human,
and hoped the hellspawn wouldn't notice me, and it worked. I got
off the train at the end of the line and began the treacherous
walk to Nex's house. The sounds of the Sisters of Mercy emanating
from my Walkman warded off any evil, and soon I was there.
At this point in the story, an orphaned child enters. This
child is only here to generate sympathy and compassion in the
reader. The child's parents were killed in a tragic origami
accident. After seeing a play in which a central character was
killed by origami (coincidentally, this was a play in which I
played a small role, making me partially responsible for their
deaths), they believed that it couldn't happen to them. And
they suffered because of it.
<exeunt Orphaned Child>
I had been instructed to knock on the back door to alert
Nex's mother to my arrival, and though it may have appeared
to an untrained eye that I was lost because I roamed through
several alleyways trying to find the right house, I was actually
shaking off a car that had been trailing me, so THERE. Nex's
mother opened the door, and greeted me. Since she has attempted
to murder me in the past after I gave her wrong directions to
a high school <coincidentally, the same high school outside
which I waited for the bus told about in Moving Between Places
Part One, and also the same high school where I acted in a play
that got me a role in the play in which the character was killed
my origami, making Nex and his mother also partially responsible
for the deaths of the child's parents, and bringing parts One
and Two of this serial neatly full circle>, I was a bit nervous.
I walked into Nex's room, which had recently been cleaned, which
seemed VERY suspicious. Nex's mother professed not to know what
could have happened as I quizzed her about power outages and the
like. Her story had no holes in it that I could find.....until
she slipped up by changing the topic to how messy "Tommy" was.
She then waved a knife at me, and as I was about to assume
a protective stance, she told me that she had found it in Nex's
room, slightly singed. Ah-Ha! A Murder plot, perhaps? Or computer
sabotage? Then she mentioned how several things had been caught
up in the vacuum cleaner bag - and I had my answer. She had been
hired by one of our enemies to disconnect the computer's power
supply briefly, just briefly enough to knock the BBS offline. I
thanked her, and got her to leave. I slipped over to the power
supply, made sure it was okay, and turned on the computer, loaded
up Renegade, and my task was complete. After calling a friend to
remote-test the BBS, all was ready, and not trusting fate to work
in our favor, I called Constantine and had him upload the new
issue of PU right then and there. And all was done - the BBS was
safe. After messing up Nex's legions of Magic [tm] cards, I quickly
left, Nex's mother's plot foiled. And I was gone.
To add a socially responsible side to this tfile, I strolled
into the library, and got dirty looks when I wandered over towards
the childrens' section, so I went into the more "mature" section
of the library, and was summarily bored out of my mind, and since
most of the people THERE seemed to be glaring at me, I left. The
walk into the library had one positive side-effect, though - I
found a free magazine called the "Illinois Entertainer" that had
Tori Amos on the cover, and stories about the Mekons and the
Church inside. (And it was a good interview, find it if you can)
The forces of evil, having been defeated, didn't interfere with my
train ride home. And I was safe, and Propaganda Unlimited was safe to
publish again another day.
(This TFile has been brought to you by Midget Caesar, with inspiration
and dramatic aid from Oregano. Thank you for your support)
=================================================================
=================================================================
Propaganda By Mail
(Our Letters Column)
[As always, send letters to PU staffers on any of our official
sites, or to our official box at PULETTERS@AOL.COM. We want
to hear from ya. You never write, you know. Your mother is
worried sick about you. And do you care? No, no, you're
too busy off galavanting all over town with that brazen hussy!
Don't "oh, dad" me! We know what's best for--
::BANG::
Sorry. On to the letters.]
Re: Why I hate #2 Pencils
To: Newt
I'm beginning to believe that the college / standardized test
insanity is just that. I'm also beginning to believe that people do NOT
have to go through this process in order to get where they want to in life.
Let's use an example. You are #1 rank in your graduating class. You
get a full ride to Yale. you graduate yale with outstanding grades. You
get your Major. You end up getting hired by a really big corperation, and
have a really high paying job. But... where are the goals here? Is that
your goal in life? Make money? Doesn't sound like a good goal to me. But,
unfortunatly, that is the goal of the people that made all these fucking
standardized tests.
Now, for instance, let's say you've always dreamed of being able to
work with those less fortunate than you. Your GPA or class rank or ACT
scores won't matter. All you need to do is find a college that will accept
you, and take the classes you need/want. There ARE a lot of colleges out
there that don't require 31's on the ACT, you know. Well, you take the
classes you want, and you get a small job doing what you like. If you do
it well, maybe you'll be able to get a bigger, higher paying job doing
what you like.
Or, as in my case, let's say you dream of being an actor. The school
you get into is not a real big deal in this case either (unless, you're one
of those actors that want all the glory in life..). Your ACT scores don't
matter. your GPA doesn't matter. All that matters is if you do what you
like to do well.
Those are just a few examples. There are simply TONS of jobs that
fit in those catagories. See, too many people go through the College scam
to find out they still don't know what they want to do when they're out of
college. All they end up with is a little more knowledge on random stuff
and a big debt to carry around for the next 10 years. These are the people
that usually end up going into business, being very unhappy, buying themselves
digital watches (which don't make them much happier), and dying of heart
disease.
I'm not saying you won't die of heart disease if you do what you like,
I'm just saying... what was I saying?
I was saying if you know what you want to do, you shouldn't spend
your time stressed out about filling in the correct bubbles. Just do your
best, and everything should come out O.K.
---
ralph@life.edu
[Ralph, we agree completely. Of course, we're complete idiotic
jackasses, so take that as you will. --editor]
=================================================================
=================================================================
List of Video Games I'd Like To See
by Aquarius
1. Santa Coal Patrol
In this game, you would be Santa on Christmas Eve. You would have
to make sure that all the bad boys and girls get coal in their
stockings! But don't give coal to the good kids or you lose points!
Higher levels include more bad kids and cheap plastic toys that
break easily.
2. Mortal Barney
This would be similar to Mortal Kombat except the objective would
be to fight Barney to the death. Finishing moves a necessity
to know.
3. Suburban Nightmare
There wouldn't really be a goal for this game. It would simply
be a driving simulator with a choice of different vehicles. You
could drive a semi, a Ferrari, a 4x4 pickup, or a station wagon.
All you would do is drive around a suburban neighborhood for
a certain time limit per credit. The only thing is, you would
receive complete freedom. Drive through houses, lawns, other
cars, pedestrians, etc. with full realism.
4. Drunk Driver
This would also be a driving simulator with a twist! You're drunk!
Try to drive all your pals home without killing everyone. Bonus
points after every level if you aren't arrested. Levels defined
by difficulty (blood-alcohol level).
5. Riot!
The setting is downtown Los Angeles. And there's a riot on. You
must try to loot as many items as you can without being killed
by other looters or caught. 5000 point bonus for each fire
started. Store security systems increase in difficulty as game
progresses.
6. Acid Trip
You've just taken/smoken something very powerful and you must
try to discern reality from hallucination. Each level will have
a different setting, from bedroom on up to Death Metal Concert.
7. Super Ultra Donkey Kong
Remember good ol' Donkey Kong? It's back, but this time Mario's
got an equalizer: an Uzi submachine gun! No ape is going to stop
this Italian stud from rescuing his girlfriend. Pump a few rounds
into the gorilla and you complete the level. Gorilla excrement
and banana peels increase as levels progress, causing you to slip
and your machine gun to occasionally jam.
8. Braincase Bowling
A great bowling game, but no bowling balls... human heads instead!
Try to select the head with the perfect weight and facial
characteristics. But don't bowl that head too hard! Broken
facial features can affect ball path!
9. Torture Chamber
You are a spy, captured behind enemy lines. You hold sensitive
information that your enemy must know. Diodes will be placed
in certain bodily areas (built into game) for this one. The
question is: how much electricity can you take? High score table
determined by highest number of watts taken before player hits
"Give away everything" button.
10. Assassination
You are an assassin, hired to kill prominent political figures.
Using your simulated high-range rifle you must pick off leaders
for cash. Difficulty (security, motion & location of target)
increase for each level. After you fire, the game turns into
arcade/action as you run from the local police on up to the
Secret Service!
=================================================================
=================================================================
(a dystropian jam of a different sort....)
Fear and Apathy in CyberDystropia Part Green:
The Prayer Of The Congealed Mass
--------------------------------
a Midget Caesar production
I was vaguely aware that I was falling, but it didn't seem as important
as an obligatory flashback scene, so I proceeded with the flashback.
Moments earlier, the giant whale looming over the horizon had been a
harbinger of doom for the poor villagers. There was no protection,
no defense, no hope, and no poultry. A collective scream rose up from the
populace as it approached. Spasms of colour and light flew from the wake of
the demonic whale, confident in its approach. It was fearless.....until it
saw me. Only then did it know fear.
"Um, Larry? Lar, look at dis....dere's dis guy swinging toward us wit a
rope or sometin', whadda he think he is? Tarzan or sumtin'? Whoa....whoa,
Larry, what da hell is he doin????"
I swung into the depths of the whale through a bold gash I had made in the
whale's side. The fools tried to keep me out by sending great gusts of wind
against me, but I prevailed anyways, slipping inside of the behemoth and,
ready for confrontation, ventured further into the unknown.
"LARRY! Dat nut's gonna get us kilt! Seal off deck #6 before we get sucked
outta here? How'd he do dat???? Oh geez....he's after the caterers...."
A penguin wandered towards me, the penguin of temptation. It threatened me
at first, but its threats of canings and nuclear food fights scared me not.
I melded with the shadows as I approaced, his fear growing increasingly
palpable with each step. I prepared to strike, and with a tone that would
make the mightiest of men to wet their undies, I told him that not only did I
know what evil lurked within his heart, I also knew what he had had for
breakfast that morning.
"Larry, if he gets in here he'll be able to jettison all the tour
equipment! Send security.....wait, whaddya mean he took out the security?
How....oh, geez, really? With HOW MUCH jello? oh, man, Larry, LARRY!!!!!"
I forced the devil into the gelatinous pits of retribution and proceeded
to send the machines of evil into the lake below. The one called Larry
came rushing into the den of evil, where I informed him that his evil had
been thwarted, and left him to bring the whale down. Satisfied, I made my
heroic exit through the window.
This was one Michael Bolton concert that wasn't going ANYWHERE.
So now that the heroic flashback is over, I find myself spiralling into
oblivion......hello, my name is Floyd. It usually falls to me to save the
world, which I don't mind because of the 20% employees discount my employers
promised me. (A discount for what, I'm not sure, but I can't wait to find
out) I live on the Sunny Side Up, in the Vortex. I seem to be the last of
a long line of adventurers, the brave Knights In Shining Cloth Diapers.
Ah.....the sweet smell of pavement rushing up to meet me.....there's
nothing quite like it. And then, suddenly, I was someplace else....
"Floyd, you're going to get yourself killed someday, and I'd really rather
not have to clean you up and find a replacement."
I smiled at my boss. A devout Apathetic, he was a nice enough guy.
"Boss, you've got to quit interrupting my heroic moments.....I was just
about to whip out my trusty Floydarang and save myself with it."
My boss's name was Jo. (his parents, being devout Apathetics themselves,
hadn't cared enough to add on the 'e' to his name) He was the Second Church
of Apathy's Publicity Director Of All Heroic Things, and since the Church
doesn't care enough to publicize itself, he's rarely very busy. Once in
awhile, some poor desperate soul will come in here looking for a heroic
deed to be performed, and that's when I get called.
"Floyd, the other Apathetics have all disappeared somewhere, and they
forgot to tell me where they were going, so I'm left in the dark. Something
does actually seem to be wrong with the world, but I don't really feel like
finding out what it is. A dark and mysterious figure in a trench coat
came in today and said he wanted a heroic deed done, but he was somewhat
vague.....I didn't bother to write it down. Something about Reality and
Constantine and a large group of ninjas with an insecurity complex."
I headed out cheerfully, ready to save the world (or a cat stuck up in
a tree, as it usually happens). This was more than Jo usually gave me
to go on.....
=================================================================
=================================================================
Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Seven:
"We're Going to Graceland!"
(Part Two of the Dystropia/Fear and Loathing crossover)
by Constantine
The ninjas closed in on the courthouse steps, a silent ring of death
tightening like a noose around my throat. As sharpened steel gleamed
in the sunlight, my entire life flashed before my eyes.
Suddenly, Jesse Helms landed with a "Dystropians 4 Jesus" strike
force in full hover-assault body armor, their Impurity Detectors
triggered by my inopportune flashback. Weilding planetary biodisruptor
cannons, rocket launchers, chainsaws, BFGs and cold-water firehoses,
they engaged the ninjas in combat, screaming "repent!" and "support
the tobbaco lobby, you heathen foreigners!"
The skirmish lasted about thirty seconds, and I watched as the
victorious ninja clan, the street around them littered with corpses
and Bible tracts, slowly vivisected and dismembered Jesse Helms as
his internal organs burst one at a time.
"You know," I said as the black-clad assassins turned their attention
back to me, "Under normal circumstances, I would have enjoyed that a
LOT more."
With only seconds to live, I knew I had to take a chance. Smiling
amiably, I turned to the closest ninja and said, "Wow! That was pretty
cool!"
A deathly hush fell over the street as they stopped in their tracks.
"It was?"
"Heck, yeah! You're the Elbow Clan, right?"
"You've HEARD of us?"
"Everyone has! You guys are the greatest warriors in the universe,
everybody knows that!"
Their leader stepped forward, awestruck. "Well... Well, yes, I
guess we are, aren't we?"
"Sure you are! And there's no doubt at all that any of you could
kill me in a heartbeat, is there?"
"No," the ninja said, sharpening his katana, "I don't suppose so."
"Well then," I said, "There's no problem! YOU know you could kill
me, I know you could kill me-- so why waste your time and energy
actually DOING it?"
"I guess you're right," the leader said, the others nodding proudly
as they parted to let me down the stairs. As I dug in my pocket for
the keys to the 14.4, the black interdimensional portal humming off
to my side, I heard a voice pipe up from the back of the crowd.
"How do you know he's telling the truth?"
"KILL!" the ninjas screamed as they lunged towards me. With no time
to spare, I threw myself through the portal, my senses drowned out
in cold, inky blackness as I was teleported across the dimensional
drift, to...?
TO BE CONTINUED...
Watch for Fear and Loathing Part Eight:
James Earl Jones is in Deep Doo-Doo!
=================================================================
=================================================================
The Prayer Of The Congealed Mass Part Two:
SURRENDER, Dorothy! We Have You Surrounded!
-------------------------------------------
(Part Two of the Dystropia/Cyberspace Crossover)
They call me Floyd. They also call me "idiot", "psychopath", and
"lunatic", but "Floyd" has the nicest ring to it, so I choose that one.
And a funny thing happened to me on the way to the office......
I was chatting with a chicken as we both crossed the road, our goal
the same, to get to the other side. I knew that I was supposed to be
doing something vaguely heroic, but I couldn't be sure what, so I
crossed the road again - but this time, standing in my path, were a
large group of pasty-faced teenagers. They had joysticks slung around
their shoulders, a dirty looking vehicle with "BLu WaV - CRaKeD!" written
on the side, along with a curious word called "WaReZ". Hmm....one of
them stepped forward, and began to speak.
"R U....(he glanced into a computer screen) Elvis?"
"Um, no."
"R U....Forrest Gump?"
<Who IS that guy?> "Nope."
"R U....Kurdt Kobane?"
(upon saying this, the teenager seemed to have realized that he had
made an error, and the others burst out in tears. When they had
composed themselves, he continued the questioning)
"R U....a chikin?"
"No....there was one here, but he crossed the road."
"R U....Meat Loaf?"
"I'd do anything to be him, but I won't do that."
"R U a membur of any DiST groupz or ANSi?"
"I'm getting a bit antsy, yes."
<this seemed to please them>
"/<00l! R ya in ACiD? Can u make me a membur?"
"Um, sorry, I've said too much already...." (I was getting confused)
"Oh, we getcha. FeDZ 'n all...."
"Um, right."
"R U....Floyd?"
"Why yes, pleased to meet you."
The teenagers cheered, and broke out a few MODs in celebration. Then the
leader stepped forward to explain himself.
"C, d00d, we r not from heer. Wur from anothur place, the NeT!
An' wur /<-Ra|>!!!"
<they all exchanged high fives>
"Wur PeNiS, an' wur the....(he flashed a colorful sign at me,
which read "MaSTuRs oF DiSaSTuR!!! - ANSi by WiZaRD"). An' we want u
to com with us."
I suddenly remembered my mission.
"I have to go save somebody named Constantine from a large group of
ninjas....sorry, I have to go, guys. Nice meeting you, though."
The teenagers conferred, argued, threatened each other with deletion,
and finally came back to me.
"Gess whut? We knowe wher Constantine iz! YeaH! Wu'll taik u 2 him!"
"Okay, sure! Let's go!" This had to beat taking the bus again.
And we left....
The PeNiS members seemed to be very excited about "the file pointz
we'll get for this guy!!!", and after a long journey, the vehicle slowed
down. The teenagers seemed to agree that they had finished the "upload",
and were home. We stood in front of a seedy looking place identified as
"THe CHeaP MoTeL 16.8!" The members of PeNiS told me to go inside. I
cheerfully strolled in, sidled up to the bar, and ordered a Mango Madness
Cocktail. The entire bar quieted, and stared at me. Were they offended
by my day-glo boxer shorts? Had I said something wrong? I turned to
ask the nearest PeNiS member, but was instead confronted by a large man.
A PeNiS member stepped forward.
"Okay, Mr. Foster, thatz Him!"
The big man stepped forward.
"I'm Joe Fred Foster. And you ain't going to be helping Constantine
out today, tomorrow, or any day."
I hated violence, but it was time for action. I whipped out my
trusty tiny purple fish - only to find something called a "virus" in its
place. My weapons were of no use here in Cyberspace, and Joe Fred Foster
was closing in......
<To Be Continued!>
=================================================================
=================================================================
How I Got in Touch with my Inner Feelings about
My Cross-Dressing Multiple Personalities
by Newt
I have hit a new low in my life. Becoming addicted to a
chat is really nothing to be ashamed of considering PU's
audience, and any rumors you have heard about the incriminating
incident with the chainsaw are completely untrue. Heck, I'm one
of only three women in the country who HASN'T slept with Bill
Clinton (the others, of course, are Hillary and Angela Lansbury.)
However, it has taken me a few weeks of intensive counseling to
be able to admit this: I have become addicted to talk shows.
Oh, it started out so innocently; I couldn't get a summer
job and didn't have a car. The only thing to do after I
refinished the kitchen floor and painted the garage roof was to
watch television, and now I cannot stop. Oprah, Donahue, Sally,
Ricki, and <gasp!> even Geraldo now fill my days! The tales of
mothers who strip to keep their children from joining the Nazi
party fascinate me. I am enthralled by lesbians who impersonate
Elvis, and frankly, the show on hermaphrodites who marry their
foster parents has changed my life. But I cannot stop! Oh, the
joys of hearing people with IQ's even lower than that of your
average politician talk about their inner being on national TV!
To know that I can turn kitchen appliances into beautiful jewelry
gives me something to wake up for. To hear Kato Kaelin's
testimony about the thumps and the bloody glove daily makes me
feel that I am in touch with current events.
Oh, don't underestimate me; I AM embarrassed. When I
started shaking uncontrollably and talking about my inner child
with a glazed look in my eyes, I knew I had gone too far. I cut
back dramatically on my viewing time. I even saw sunlight for
the first time in three weeks yesterday when I went outside and
had a conversation about the Presley-Jackson marriage with my
mailman.
I know I can get better; I know my condition is not fatal.
My life doesn't have to revolve around the next episode of
Bertice Berry, and Jerry Springer's words of wisdom no longer
have to have religious significance to me. I am trying to take
it day by day and to keep busy, I'm reading books, seeing movies,
and next week I'm going on Geraldo with Hillary and Angela to
talk about why Bill turned us down.
=================================================================
=================================================================
Aquarius' Joke Corner!
[It's due to popular demand. You can hate us all you want.
--editor]
What do you get when you cross a rabbit with a chipmunk?
A mess.
Why did the leprechaun kiss his pot of gold?
I don't know.
Knock knock...
Who's there?
Paul.
Paul who?
Paul Smith.
Why did the baby cross the road?
It was stapled to the chicken.
Why did the lifeguard make a sand castle?
For the hell of it.
Wasn't that funny, boys and girls?
=================================================================
=================================================================
COMING SOON...
-- The stunning conclusion to the Dystropia/Fear and Loathing
crossover! The megaverse will never be the same! Well, at
least, it'll be kinda different. Maybe.
-- Malakai's Black Death, the beginning of a new serial for
people who like blood. Lots of it.
-- He's back, and he's got poetry! It's Psychotic Ambition's
poetry feature-- and we take NO RESPONSIBILITY for what it
may do to your psyche. None. Period. Just wanted to get
that straight right now.
-- Defenestrations galore!
=================================================================
=================================================================
D I S T R I B U T I O N
Call these boards, or we'll personally come around to your houses,
drag you out by the scruff of the neck, and give you a good
beating. Unless you'd enjoy that, in which case we'll just make
you watch OJ Trial footage until your head explodes.
And for letters, comments and rants, don't forget the Propaganda
Mailbox at Internet address PULETTERS@AOL.COM!
Board Phone
--------------------------- --------------
Strangeways Asylum (312) 588-4231 (Headquarters)
Legion of the Undead (708) 546-4605
The Ice Palace (708) 635-0953
Big Bob's Leech Burger Farm (708) 838-1015
MicroInformation Systems (805) 251-0564
Dark Globe (815) 363-1351

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=================================================================
=================================================================
P R O P A G A N D A U N L I M I T E D
December 28, 1994 Volume One, Issue Eight
"More Fun Than You Can Have In Zed's Basement!"
=================================================================
=================================================================
CONTENTS
--------
1. Introduction to Issue #8
by Constantine
2. Propaganda by Mail
3. Black Plague, Part One
by Malakai
4. Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Eight
by Constantine
5. Part, Eight Dystropia
by Midget Caesar
6. Poetry Roundup
by Psychotic Ambition
7. Coming Attractions and Distribution
================================================================
================================================================
STAFF
-----
Midget Caesar.......... Pumpkin, Head Writer
Constantine............ Honey-Bunny, Head Editor.
Oregano................ Le Big Mac, Evanston
Correspondant.
Nyarlathotep........... Royale with Cheese, Indiana
Correspondant.
Newt................... Had the Briefcase,
Writing Staff.
Aquarius............... Has the Briefcase, Writing Staff.
Psychotic Ambition..... Doesn't Care What's in the Briefcase, Writing
Staff.
Comrade Slash.......... Doesn't like Quentin Tarentino Anyway, Writing Staff.
Malakai................ Mrs. Mia Wallace, Writing Staff.
Platinum Ego........... (Expletive Deleted), Writing Staff.
Dr. Fig................ Just Dr. Fig, Writing Staff.
and, of course...
Two Fish............... Bad-Ass Motherfucker.
=====================================================================
=====================================================================
Intoduction to Issue Eight
by Constantine
Hello, and welcome to issue eight of Propaganda Unlimited: new, improved,
and only half a month behind schedule this time. Our world headquarters has
moved to the scenic Club Evermore (312.476.1508), where the music is loud,
the drinks are strong, and reality is optional.
Actually, we haven't "completed" the move, per se; everything is sealed up
in cardboard boxes, and since everybody on staff developed serious back
trouble the second we got here, this entire issue has been composed on a
spare TRS-80 we found out bac k. Our only alternative was doing it on a
Pentium, but I wanted to use the more powerful machine. The TRS-80, after
all, can do basic division.
Before I turn the issue over to our monthly roundup of lunacy, a bit of news:
this issue will be my last as editor of Propaganda Unlimited. Outside
concerns (food, rent, a life) have made it impossible for me to meet my
deadline commitments and get these issues out in time. So, starting next
issue, Midget Caesar will be helming the magazine and making sure that your
every dose of PU is a timely and potent one. I will still be writing
regularly, and Fear and Loathing will continue indefinitely-- and you
thought you'd escaped.
And now, on with the show!
=====================================================================
=====================================================================
Propaganda By Mail!
Your personal propaganda missives can be directed to our mailbox
at PULETTERS@AOL.COM. This week brings two letters, one scathing
and the other a mild irritant. You guess which is which.
---
Subj: moo
From: chucks@chinet.chinet.com
I'd just like to say that PU is a total rip-off of MaDCaP and you should all
get gangrene and DIE.
-chuck
[Editor's Note: Chuck, you silly little shit. If PU was going to rip
someone off, don't you think we'd rip off people with TALENT? We rip
off the BEST, and you simply don't qualify. Ta-ta.]
---
Subj: a letter, darnit, what else?? :)
From: Two Fish
Dear messrs. Constantine & Midget Caesar:
I've got a couple of points to make about issue five of PU.
First of all, you can't fool me--it's pretty plain to see that this was
ACTUALLY issue # SEVEN (7), and NOT five as your masthead so brazenly
claimed. Being not only the Arbiter of All That is Cool, but ALSO (and,
might I add, much more importantly) the _Arbiter of Truth_, I feel it is my
sworn duty to inform the masses (gelatinous, congealed, or otherwise) of your
hopefully unintentional and therefore unfortunate blunder. For shame, boys!
If you had named the issue the SECOND issue #5, well, than THAT would have
been different. But you didn't, and that is irresponsible. Have you thought
of how the poor souls reading PU reacted when downloading this issue? How
disjointed they all must have felt by seeing issue five come out immediately
AFTER issue six (6) and exactly two issues after the REAL number five?
I'm sorry. I really don't mean to come down on you. Honest. After all,
you're doing a fine job with PU, and I wouldn't have it any other way. It's
just that I expected better of you than the blatant disregard you displayed
with the issue-# foul-up. But that can't be fixed now. I'm just doing my
duty by clearing up the discrepancy. No hard feelings, guys? :) Thanks!
Anyway, point # two (2):
re: Aquarius' Joke Corner. All I can say is, BRILLIANT!! What a talent
that young person is, and what a fine job you all did in discovering him.
Keep this feature, please. Oh, and if I may indulge in my own foray into
humor...?? Thank you. Okay, here goes.
Why'd the monkey fall out of the tree?
'cause it was DEAD!
How's that? (Don't worry, Aquarius, it's the only joke I know. You need not
fear me intruding upon your sacred joke-telling ground, believe you me! ;) )
Okay, well, that's about it. Constantine, keep the flows tapping. And until
Midget Caesar turns into a WaReZ />00d and becomes a devout follower of Joe
Fred Foster, make mine Marv--- oops! I mean Propaganda Unltd.!!!
The Arbiter of Truth and All That is Cool,
Two Fish
See ya 'round! ;)
[Editor's Note: You know it's a sad month when Two Fish will only
communicate with the home office via email. He usually prefers notes
tied to rocks and letter-bombs. At any rate, responsibility for the
issue numbering foulup belongs to me. Until I find someone I can
pin it on.]
=====================================================================
=====================================================================
The Black Plague
by Malakai
Mikoun once was a great explorer and a great hero, but he has now
slowed down his living. He lived in the castle of King Arenthas of the city
of Nalevin in the south near the Great Waste, a vast desert which many
venture into but very few return. He was held in high regard amungst the
people of Nalevin, for he led the small band which stopped the bandits of
the area, who called themselves, The Black Plague. The band had recently
gained a new leader, an eight foot tall, muscular, yet brilliant giant of a
man who was rumored to be the spawn of Satan himself. Promised the throne
after the king's death, Mikoun decided to settle down in Nalevin, leaving
his adventuring past and adventuring friends behind. But always watching
Mikoun for a time to kill him, was Arenthas's jealous son, Landolin.
This is the story of Mikoun's fight with the Black Plague. Mikoun's
group consisted of a few of his friends which he met on his many adventures
through out the lands. Mikoun's best friend, whom he saved from a prejudiced
mob many years before, was the only one who could rival him in the sword as
well as in brains, 'Nym by name' as Nym would often say. Nym was a black
skinned human from the Northern steppe, a race whose brutality has left them
with a large black mark on thier reputation. Then there was Feinam, once a
practiced rogue, but was defeated in a duel by Mikoun years before and turned
to a life of good, using her skills for the good of mankind. Then there was
Saychen, a friend of Mikoun's from childhood, but they had grown distant,
mainly because Saychen LOVED to play pranks, though he was pure of heart, he
was mischevious. The strange thing about Saychen were the powers in which he
possessed, his mind was extremely advanced, for what reason, that is not
known, but he has the power of magic in his mind, and his eyes reflect that,
pure white with no pupils, but he is not blind. Then there is Amber, a young
and beautiful priestess who started travelling with Mikoun not too long ago,
she wished to learn the cruelty, as well as the love, of the world. Mikoun
could not turn her down, so she's been with ever since. Finally, there were
the twin midgets, Kenami and Ruun. They were opposites of each other, both
good, but one used magic of making illusions, this was Kenami, the other used
a magic of hiding reality. Mikoun met these two in a forest west of the Great
Ocean, where they were captured by a few semi-intelligent carnivores.
Mikoun and his friends were riding on horseback down the long trek
south to the city of Nalevin, which was quite a distance from Beikos, the
city in which they were in, which is rather near the swamps. Earlier that
week they decided to go to Nalevin, because Beikos had grown, well, boring.
So as they were trotting along, Nym heard the clopping of hooves (besides
thiers) and decided to tell everyone. "Prehaps Feinam and I should stay
behind about a minute to prevent an ambush of sorts," Nym suggested with his
usual suggestive tone. Mikoun nodded to Nym, and continued by saying, "I
will go ahead then, I shall see if those in front are headed for Nalevin,
after all, better to travel in groups! Come on people, I will see what they
are about." Mikoun finished his sentence and sped his horse ahead with no
delay.
A short travel of a minute or so led Mikoun to a row of armed and
lightly armored horsemen. They advanced, with a large man in front who wore
the skull of an animal, apparantly a bear, on his head as a helmet, the
bulge of muscles showed under his black chainmail, and a ray of light gleamed
off the 2 handed hilt of a very long bladed sword. The man stopped a short
distance in front of the others, and Mikoun promptly stopped his horse a good
distance in front of the 8 foot tall man. After a short pause, Mikoun decided
to speak first, "Hello there, horsemen, are you, perchance, headed for
Nalevin?" The man's only response was a cruel smile and a raise of his left
arm. At this, the men dismounted from thier horses and they drew thier
swords.
Mikoun kept a calm look as he dismounted and drew his two beautiful
rapiers and in a concerned voice he said, "I have no wish to harm you,
please, sheathe your weapons."
Again, the reponse was a violent one, they charged with thier
swords poised, outward and ready to strike. Mikoun ducked under a couple
swings and lept over another. He then countered with a forward lunge and a
feint, finally a stab which pierced one of the horsemen's neck all through.
At this, the man spoke something which Mikoun could not understand, and then
men moved away. Mikoun pulled away in defense, expecting something dangerous,
then the giant man dismounted, and pulled out the sword at his side, and
grinned evilly at Mikoun as he advanced toward the crowd.
-- To be Continued! --
=====================================================================
=====================================================================
Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Eight:
This is REALLY Gonna Hurt...
(Part Three of the Dystropia/Fear and Loathing Crossover!)
I dove into the portal of inky black, my senses submerged in a whirlpool of
sights and sounds beyond imagination, beyond comprehension. I was subjected
to a vision of nightmare, morbid obscenities from beyond the wall of space
and time gibbering madly around me, disgusting atrocities that should never
have been born flapping and squawking in an insane cacophony.
Reminded me a little of Congress.
Then I was propelled through the other side of the interdimensional portal,
the smell of beer nuts and cheap silicone assaulting my nostrils as I flew
across a dimly-lit room to hit the grimy floor with a dull thud. Dazed, I
rolled onto my back and squinted at the harsh neon lights above, my vision
swimming. A myriad of faces appeared above me, short kids in Megadeth t-
shirts and coke-bottle glasses who looked down upon me with eyes of burning
hatred.
"Oh, shit," I muttered, "Warez geeks. Why don't you little fu--"
After they beat the living hell out of me, I slowly came to consciousness in
a dank back room, lit by a single dangling bulb. A tarnished sign over the
door read "File Library #458 -- Farm Animal GIFs". I was tied to a chair.
This worried me.
"Excuse me," said the man tied to the chair beside me, "Are you--"
"Yes," I said. "Yes, I am."
"I'm Floyd," he said, "I'm here to rescue you."
"Really? Great. You can start any time now."
The door swung open and Joe Fred Foster, flanked by his second-grade
disciples, swaggered into the room. The kid could swagger like nobody's
business.
"Ha! So, you thought you could defeat the invincible forces of (PeNiS!), did
you? Think again! Even now, your beloved "reality" is on its way-- to our
clutches! Muahaha!"
"YOU have reality? How the hell did you get it?"
"Shortly after it escaped the courtroom in Dystropia, Reality hid itself
inside a Granny Smith personal computer notepad belonging to some lawyer
named Darius-- a personal computer notepad that WE have the access code for!"
"No, you can't mean--"
"Yes!"
"No!"
"Yes!" he cried with evil glee, "WE'RE DOWNLOADING REALITY!"
"Wait a second," I said, "What's the speed of your fastest modem?"
"Are you kidding? (PeNiS!) possesses the most powerful hardwarez known to
man! We're running an 8088 with a heathkit 150 baud modem-- I built it
myself."
I groaned and slumped back in my chair, as Floyd turned to look at me.
"Constantine, I know I haven't been here long, but is everyone in your
dimension this stupid?"
Reality would be hovering between Dystropia and Cyberspace for the next 12
billion years, barring a system crash or power outage. These (PeNiS!)-heads
had to be stopped.
"I'll dispose of you two later," Joe Fred Foster laughed, "But right now, I
have a universe to conquer-- and a new copy of Little People Farm III!" He
swaggered out the door, goons in tow.
"That's it. We're dead."
"Actually," Floyd said as he jumped up from his chair and started untying my
ropes, "Fifteen years spent among the indigenous tribes of the Rubberobandes
Mountains left me with astounding abilities of bodily control on the
molecular level, thus allowing me to slip these bonds easily."
"That's swell," I said, running to the door, "Bet you're popular with the
ladies. But now we need to figure out how to get past this locked door,
and--"
It opened at my touch. They had forgotten to lock it. Normally I can't
stand incompetance, but in this case I decided to make an exception. We
stepped out into the darkened antechamber beyond, and Floyd halted me with a
wave of his hand.
"Careful," he whispered, "I smell a trap."
"How right you are!" cackled a high-pitched voice from the darkness. A young
boy of about ten years old stepped from the shadows before us, attired in
G.I. Joe Underoos and carrying a plastic zap-rifle.
"Who the hell are you?" I said, "Macaulay Culkin's evil twin?"
"I am the bane of your soon-to-be-ended existance! I am the ElYtE warrior of
the (PeNiS!) legions! I am... TIME WARRIOR!"
"Yeah. I'm scared, kid. Now, you wanna show us where the master control
room is, or do I take that cap gun and shove it up your--"
From the shadows behind us emerged another small figure, identical to the
first! He leveled his rifle at us and said, "If you mess with him, you mess
with me! I'm Time Warrior's dad!"
We spun around as two more stepped from alcoves. "I'm Time Warrior's
brother!" "I'm Metalhea-- I mean, Time Warrior's best friend!"
In no time we were beset by a flock of Time Warriors, a sea of them
surrounding us with no end in sight. Time Warrior's friends, enemies, lovers
and extended family declared themselves one at a time as they came out of the
woodwork, every one taking aim at us. I looked over to Floyd.
"Um... That rescue thing you mentioned earlier?"
"I'm working on it."
"Work faster."
TO BE CONTINUED...
Watch for Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace Part Nine,
James Earl Jones buys Comfortable Shoes!
=====================================================================
=====================================================================
Fear And Lotion in Dystropia Part Omega:
At Last, The Thesis Sentence.
by Midget Caesar
"And I'm Time Warrior's proctologist!", declared yet another being who
looked remarkably like Time Warrior, down to the Underoos. I had lost count
by the time Time Warrior's entire soccer team had showed up, each also
bearing an identical resemblance.
"Yes, apparently, you did smell a trap," said Constantine. "Now will you
please go about this rescue business soon?"
I was forced to admit that I was wrong. "Actually, it wasn't a trap I
smelled, Time Warrior just needs to change his Underoos. It was a lucky guess
about the trap." I didn't want to admit that I hadn't been able to find the
script to this whole thing, and thus couldn't slip through a hole in the
plot.
Constantine and I were backed against the wall, an unceasing multitude of
voices announcing new arrivals from Time Warrior's extended family. I
needed a plot device, and I needed it quick.
To stall for time, Constantine asked Time Warrior WHY he was doing this.
"Why??? I'M ON A MISSION FROM GOD!!!!!" was his manic reply, as the
crowd advanced closer.
"Gee, that's nice. Why is God mad at us? Just because our respective
writers haven't been returning HIS calls either doesn't mean --"
"And because you hate me!!1! You're talking about me right now! I know
it! You were making fun of me in secret!!1! And you tried to crash my BBS
when it wasn't up yet! and....and....you don't LIKE me!"
So we were backed into the corner. Constantine tried offering Time
Warrior copies of something called "Mortal Kombat" with various numbers
after it, but Time Warrior was not to be swayed. That's when I found the
plot hole we needed.
Constantine turned to me. "What is that awful noise?" Then he saw, and
a look of shock passed over his face, which was nothing compared to the look
seen on the legions of Time Warriors.
"Yes, Time Warrior, those are all the chickens whose heads you've bitten
off, all the monkeys you've ever spanked, all the farm animals you've ever
abused - come back from the grave to enact their revenge."
When the thousands of Time Warriors had fled in utter fear, only one
was left, who thretened to see us in the future and shouted something Polish:
"Dobermanpuppychewzee!" it sounded like. Then he ran like hell, and we were
left to confront the PeNiS boys and the reality question.
We cautiously walked out into the dimly lit main room, to the shock of
the bartender, Lord Darkly Lit Abysz. Joe Fred Foster and his disciples were
nowhere to be seen. Constantine went over to ask Mr. Abysz a few questions,
and asked me to cover him as he went. So I went out into the middle of the
bar and showed the patrons what a great breakdancer I am. Constantine
demanded to know where the PeNiS people were hiding, and Lord Darkly Lit
Abysz informed him nervously that he had insufficient access for it.
Constantine whipped out one of those unpleasant virus things and told
Mr. Abysz to consider the virus an access raise. We were shown our way into
a seedy looking back room marked "oCCuLT teXTZ!!!", and there they were: the
Bee Gees. The door was locked behind us, and a demonic voice gloatingly told
us that we were trapped. Strobe lights flashed on, the disco ball descended,
the Jive Talkin' began, and I flung myself against the wall, ready for
certain death.
"Wow, that's a pretty catchy tune", said Constantine. I looked up from
my convulsions, and was amazed. So were the Bee Gees.
"Don't you realize that we're in hell? This is the Dystropian section
of Dante's Inferno!", I asked him. Too late, Constantine was already
Stayin' Alive in the middle of the room. The Bee Gees backed off, afraid.
But there was no stopping him. He had that Saturday Night Fever, and the
dance floor was all his. It all began to melt away until we were back in
Cyberspace, and Joe Fred Foster was angrily pounding away at keys on a
computer. Once Constantine had been calmed down, we strode boldly towards
the cowering legions of phallic envy, PeNiS.
Constantine assumed control of the situation. "Alright, Foster, back away
from the keyboard." (He did) "Who put you up to this? What were you seeking
to gain?"
"A big, dark hacker guy gave us 100,000 file points if we could keep you
two from interfering with his plan or something. He also gave us these great
GIFS, but accidentally left a copy of "reality.txt" in there, so we called
the number in it and downloaded what we found there, because it would give us
complete control of everything. We were able to do THAT (he waved at the
remnants of the disco) with the demo version of reality we've got now, and
it'd only be (he checked his watch) 62,000 years before we'd finish
downloading the full release!"
Meanwhile, I had found a trampoline in the back of the room and was
playing on it when Elvis Presley came into the room from an unseen entrance.
He spoke. "Good job, Constantine. I'll take them into custody now."
Constantine was about to hand them and the computer over to Elvis (because
if you can't trust Elvis, who can you trust?) when I came running over.
"STOP! That's not Elvis!" Constantine whirled around, surprised, and
Elvis took off running. Little did he know that I had telekinetically tied
his shoelaces together. I grabbed him, and ripped off his mask, to reveal:
Bubbles the Chimp.
Bubbles swore mightily. "Damn you, everything was going according to
plan, even AFTER those PeNiS interlopers got into the act! I was going to
have complete control over everything, and THEN I could enact my revenge
upon Michael for dumping me in favor of Lisa Marie! And I'd have gotten away
with it, if it weren't for you gosh darn kids!" He was still kicking and
screaming a few hours later, when the Apathetics arrived from Dystropia.
(It had taken that long to convince them to come over and do it.) However,
Joe Fred Foster had escaped in the confusion. And Milo was still on the
loose. At least things had been more or less resolved, there were frosted
doughtnuts for everyone, and I even got a "I Went To Cyberspace, And All I
Downloaded Was This Lousy T-Shirt." Only one thing was left.
"What will we do about Reality?", asked Constantine. "There's no way we
can abort the file transfer, and things will continue to fall apart if we
don't do something." I assured him that everything would be fine.
Later that day, my hand opened a door that had only been opened two times
before in eternity. Once was when Reality had been put in its place, and the
other time was when it had left, for good. The man I was with smiled at me,
and thanked me for the ride. I made sure that Jim understood what he was
doing, and he assured me that this was going to be a fantastic gig, and
he couldn't wait. So I turned to leave.
"Well, hope you have fun as the new Reality, Mr. Morrison."
The End.
(be sure to tune in next time as we boldly Clean Up After Ourselves!)
=====================================================================
=====================================================================
Poetry Roundup
by Psychotic Ambition
Behind You
------------
Like a knife in the back
Like a shiver up the spine
Life catches up to you
Unwanted
--------
Old and weary
Small and bold
This man of creation
Sunset to sundown
Fields of sorrow
He plowed
Tool of life
Rusted and cold
He and his knife
All alone
Broken face
Brittle boned
Piggen toed
Nothing
Was he
His friends were the sky
The water below
How could he be alive
With a moral so low
Day by day
Scrapes and Scratches
Nothing to show
For all his actions
He sat on the throne of poverty
Hunched over
Black and blue
Ruler of the unwanted
Chipped Trophy
---------------
Gripped upright
Thrown around
In your world
Tugged at the chains
Scratched at the floor
Wallowing in a false hope
I am molded
Trophy of mockery
I'm put in place
Lies and guilt cover me
Shelled in
I cannot see
Make loose
What is firmly in place
I'm accused
But I excuse
To defuse
The madness
Look at you
-----------
Excellent perception I say
For someone today
Noticed they were imperfect
Filtration
-----------
Burning pain
Punctured twice
Nothing to gain
Strapped to this vice
One hole bleeding my existance
My memories, happiness, and freedom
Pissed away
The pulsing of a lifeless body is all I feel
The pumping is slow
I'm getting into the rhythm
I'm forgetting
Who I used to be
A second hole is felt
Cold and harsh
This one is easier
I can't really feel it
I'm getting numb
As I forget who I used to be
I'm reborn
As one hole is taking life
The other is giving it
But my new life is unwanted
I just want to die
I'm getting thoughts
Pain, suffering, frustration, anger
I can't stop it
My head is getting fuzzy
With lusts
Greed, exploitation
I want it all
Less and less I feel
I just don't care
The new life is here
afraid I don't dare
To stop
The first hole is sealed
It is complete
The second hole pumps away faster
Nothing to compete
For me
No outside influences
To detach the pump
Not one pure soul
In this sick world
So I have to be filtrated and cleansed
To be tolerated
I'm sick
All of this takes it's toll
I'm black and cold
Barely alive
Inside
Outside
I'm happy and faithfull
A follower
Just perfect for this world
[Editor's Note: Rumors to the contrary, Psychotic Ambition is NOT
Trent Reznor in disguise. If he was, we'd be milking him for money
and publicity at this very moment, probably as an opening act for
Def Mangoe.]
=====================================================================
=====================================================================
COMING SOON...
-- A New Look, New Attitude, New Deadlines...
-- A Responsible Editor.
-- Malakai's Black Plague Part Two. Nuff said.
-- Lots of really neat-o-keen stuff, really.
=================================================================
=================================================================
D I S T R I B U T I O N
Please call these boards. If you don't, they'll cry.
And for letters, comments and rants, don't forget the Propaganda
Mailbox at Internet address PULETTERS@AOL.COM!
Board Phone
--------------------------- --------------
Club Evermore (312) 476-1508 (Headquarters)
Strangeways Asylum (312) 588-4231
Legion of the Undead (708) 546-4605
The Ice Palace (708) 635-0953
Big Bob's Leech Burger Farm (708) 838-1015
MicroInformation Systems (805) 251-0564
Dark Globe (815) 363-1351
=====================================================================
=====================================================================

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Propaganda Unlimited
====================================================================
Volume TWO, Issue One!
February 4th, 1995
(Endorsed by the American Evangelical Council:
Preaching the Word since 1994)
====================================================================
CONTENTS
--------
1) Introduction
by Midget Caesar
2) Rancor (Prequel)
by Nyarlathotep
3) Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace Part 10
by Constantine
4) Stylus - The Beginning
by Zaphod
5) Dystropia, chapter Six part Two
by Midget Caesar
6) Why The Media is Evil
by Newt
7) House of Meats - A Morality Play
by Dr. Fig
8) Coming Attractions, Distribution, and Rampant Materialism
--------------------------------------------------------------------
STAFF
-----
Constantine..........Captain, Editor-In-Chief
Midget Caesar........First Officer, Executive Editor
Oregano..............Security Officer, Evanston Correspondant
Newt.................The Real Brains Around Here, Head Writer
Dr. Fig..............Ship's (fruit) Doctor, Theatre Correspondant
Zaphod...............Improbability Drive, Staff Writer
Nyarlathotep.........Chief Engineer, Staff Writer
Comrade Slash........Chief Mysterious Person, Staff Writer
Malakai..............Token Alien HitchHiker, Staff Writer
Psychotic Ambition...Communications, Head Poet
Aquarius.............Lost In Space, Staff Question Mark
and....
Two Fish.............All-Powerful Cosmic Entity,
Arbiter of All That Is Cool, Tasty, True,
and In Stock.
=====================================================================
Introduction
------------
Who'd have thought that PU could actually release three issues in
under five weeks?
We didn't, that's for sure.
As far as schedules go, I'm aiming for a new issue once a month at
least, possibly quicker depending on when we have enough material
(and time) for a new issue. I'm officially a Second Semester Senior
in high school, though, so I should have plenty of time.....
Anyways, I'm on my second issue as Editor, and none of our three
fans who live in the backwoods of Idaho have lynched me yet. (It's
the small victories that count, really) Corollary to that, Newt
Gingrich hasn't blown anything up yet. hurrah!
The ever-changing distribution list changed again (surprise!). We
lost all contact with MicroInformation Systems out in California, and
so we wish them good luck and farewell. Due to <censored>, we have
also had to end our association with our former hub, Frontal
Lobotomy. But we still have a few loyal sites and our blue suede
shoes, and that's all that matters.
This is the first issue of Volume Two, to silence all doubters who
thought we wouldn't make it this far (as well as to make our
numbering system a bit more confusing). Volume Three by the end of
this millenia or bust!
[Side Note: Many thanks to all of you who sent letters of sympathy
over last issue's Plea for Help. I haven't heard anything
from Sergeant Weikert since writing it, and I'd like to
send my gratitude to whatever made that possible.]
A few new things happen this issue: a prose piece from Zaphod
entitled "Stylus", a new morality play from Dr. Fig, and the prequel
to the long-awaited (by us, at least) new series from Nyarlathotep,
"Rancor". For our literate readers, enjoy! For our illiterate
readers, we're still working on the ASCII-Illustrated version of
Propaganda Unlimited. Have patience! On the subject of patience, the
Propaganda Unlimited FAQ should hopefully be ready next issue.
Constantine is in the middle of moving to a new apartment, and didn't
have time to get it finished.
February is a High Righteousness Month here at the PU offices, as
the birthdays of the entire PU editorial staff are this month:
Constantine on the 5th, and myself on the 19th. Please wish us well,
and lay off the protest marches/fire bombs outside our offices just
this month as a birthday present, okay? Thanks!
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Rancor: Prequel
-----------------
by Nyarlathotep
Crunch went the bones in the legs of the men. Crunch went the
bones in their arms. It wasn't enough to merely kill them, but
instead, their bodies had to be crushed to a pulp of a smooth
consistency. I believe I am getting a little ahead of myself here
however.
The Mad God Talgrok lives in a castle in the sky. Well, he's not
really a god, and his castle in the sky isn't really in the sky. Its
just on a large hill. And it can barely be called a castle, but it
does have a wall. From this fortress Talgrok rules the surrounding
countryside with an iron fist. He tolerates nothing, and kills all
that displease him. He is fond of torture, and his finest men keep
trying to create new ways to kill these unfortunate prisoners.
Drowning in Water, flaying, burning alive, these are all too simple
for Talgrok's taste. Drowning in maggots, well thats something
that he could like.
For 35 years this Mad being had ruled the land of Entallor, ruled
it because he had the power of the Mantjor Staff, and for the fact
that no one else wanted to rule it. Which isn't to say that his
subjects didn't want a different ruler. He had aquired the Staff by
slitting the throat of its former owner, Jalron of Tiben, in his
sleep. At this time Talgrok was a petty sorcerer, and used his meak
spells to keep Jalron's guards busy. Now, with the aid of the Mantjor
Staff Talgrok's powers had increased 20 fold. He could effortlessly
fly, or cause the death of his enemy with a single word. But this was
not enough for him. The world he wanted. That was his greatest
aspiration. He was planning an attack on the neighboring Kingdom of
Apsertoo, an attack of great cunning, or so he thought. The attack
that he pondered, sitting on his bed, would never come into effect,
however.
Despite the power he possesed with the aid of the Mantjor Staff,
he still did not possess the wisdom to see the quarrel, nor to block
or dodge it as it sped towards his dark heart. He expired quickly,
blood running from his mouth, the bedchamber guards unaware of the
death of their master. The Master Thief Fendin grapped the Staff as
he left the room, as silently as he came, fading into the shadows.
--to be continued!
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Ten:
A Boy and his (Mental) Fog
by Constantine
"It's... It's YOU!"
I couldn't have been more surprised to see the dark, broad-shouldered
man standing behind me, even if we weren't both hip-deep in muddy
water in the smoking crater that used to be my officebuilding.
"Yes," he said in a deep baratone, smiling as I groped in my pockets
for my instant digitizer. I raised the lens to take his picture, but
the water had scrambled its circuits beyond repair.
He handed me a pair of batteries and said, "Here. Use these. They
keep going, and going, and going."
James Earl Jones had come to Cyberspace.
And he was doing product endorsements.
"Before I go any further," he said, "I have to ask a question. Are
you--"
"Gay? No, but I could be."
"No. I'm looking for a private investigator, but I seem to have
gotten lost. Maybe I should have made a left turn back at Idaho
Falls. Are you--"
"Here we go again," I sighed, "Lemme save you some time. I'm not Gary
Shandling, I'm not Conan, I'm not Conan O' Brien (thank the Gods),
I'm not Ivanhoe, I'm not Metalhed (and neither is Time Warrior), I'm
not Ally Sheedy, I'm not Sherlock Holmes, I'm not Watson, I'm not
Meatloaf (but I'd do anything for love, I just won't do that), I'm
not 'Super Dave' Osborne, I'm not Barney, and I am not Gilbert
Gottfried."
"Are you Phillip Marlowe?"
I paused for a moment. I was talking to James Earl Jones, THE James
Earl Jones, and apparently he needed a private investigator. An
investigator with skill, preserverance, integrity and, most of all,
honesty.
"Yes," I said, grinning broadly, "Yes, I am."
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Marlowe. Your reputation is top-notch.
I have a job of very sensitive importance. You see, my family jewels
have been stolen."
"Yeow! That IS sensitive!"
"These jewels have been passed down my family line for centuries, but
no longer. When I was in Rio last week, burglars invaded my home and
stole them. They went right for the hidden safe-- there's no doubt
that the thief, or thieves, was familiar with the layout of--"
"Wait a sec. What were you doing in Rio?"
"Looking suave."
"Okay. Go on."
"I have reason to believe that the thief, or thieves, was last headed
in this general direction. In fact, I'm certain that they traveled
to a local nightclub, a place called Evermore."
"How do you know?"
"One of them left a trail of reeses' pieces all the way here. I've
been walking for four days."
"Bummer. Can you describe these jewels?"
"There were eight of them, all about the size of a large egg and
flawlessly cut."
"Any super powers, mystical curses, anything like that?"
"No, but if you collect all eight, they can be redeemed at your local
Hardees for valuable cash prizes."
"I'm your man, Mr. Jones."
"I knew I could count on you," he said, shaking my hand, "If you
succeed, I trust an offer of ten million file points will be
sufficient?"
"TEN MILLION?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Marlowe. I didn't mean to insult you. Twenty
million?"
"TWEN-- um... That'll be fine, sir."
"Good! Let me know when you have the jewels-- you'll know how to
reach me. Now, please, avert your eyes."
I turned my head and covered my eyes. "Why, exactly, am I doing
this?"
"Because I like dramatic exits," he intoned, as a flash of light
crackled across the heavens. When I looked back, he was gone.
"Sure," I thought as I climbed out of the mud crater and shook myself
dry, "I've still got that missing-persons gig, but this kind of money
is just too good to pass up. Maybe things are starting to look up for
me, after all!"
****
And somewhere, far away, across the multiverse, an oddly-angled room
throbbed with evil laughter.
TO BE CONTINUED...
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Stylus - by Zaphod
Part One: It All Begins Here
From the distance, a shadowy figure could be seen walking
gracefully down the high-tide line of a nameless Chicago beach. His
booted feet barely escaping the water's tarnishing flow, as the wind
blew his long, beaten, coat behind him. He pulled a crushed pack of
Marlboro's from his inside breast pocket, carefully taking the last
cigarette from its beaten home and lighting it. He inhaled deeply the
first puff of smoke, feeling its warmth as it entered his lungs.
Quickly Stylus turned and stared his prey dead in the eyes. The
fool had no idea what he was in for. The man that had been following
Stylus pulled out a knife and began to speak. The only words he
managed to get out were, "Give me all of..." This predator, now
become prey froze in mid-sentence as Stylus' eyes began to glow
brightly, with anger and hunger; and as often happens to mortal men
when they realize death is upon them, the would be thief found that
he could not move, and tried, hopelessly, to scream; managing only a
meek whimper. Before he had time to think about anything, much less
the mistake he'd made in even thinking about robbing this man, the
hungry Stylus was upon him.
Split seconds later the thief lay at Stylus' feet, bleeding,
unconscious, ready to be drained of his soul and his foul memories.
The stench of evil was strong on the incapacitated feed-flesh and
Stylus knew he would hate the sting of the memories when he drained
the criminal of his thoughts; but he needed food badly. It was
becoming hard for him to remember the last time he had fed.
Stylus arched backwards, arms outstretched, as the meal's memories
and soul mixed with his own. A roaring, wordless cry of pain and
relief was released from his gaping mouth as he once again felt
alive. The warm coloring of man came back into his face as his first
meal in what seemed an eternity found its way into his body. It felt
wonderful to finally eat, even if it was a rapist and a murderer.
Stylus pushed the limp, drained, corpse into the icy water and
watched as the hollow body floated out into the lake. He crushed the
last of his cigarette lazily into the sand with the his scuffed boot.
The last of the sun was being soaked into the rainbow water at the
horizon, and the dark figure of the man-beast, Stylus, sank down onto
the sand, relaxed and relieved to be free of his hunger and the
burden of choosing his food, and fell into a dreamless slumber.
_____________________________________________________________
Part Two: Home again, home again...
The next day, Stylus awoke, dazed and disoriented, lying in a
smoothed patch of sand, no thoughts in his mind...it was the first
time in months he had slept so well; the first time he had slept the
whole night through without being awakened by a terrible fit of
hunger or a mind tearing dream. Fully rested, and clear headed, he
looked about to get his bearings and realized that he was still lying
in the sand. Standing up, he brushed the sand from the creases of his
coat and pants, shook more out of his hair and began his walk home.
Home to Stylus was a small, sparsely furnished, alley view
apartment in Chicago's Ravenswood community. He could hear and see
the "El" as it went by every so often, and the smell of the
restaurants below mixed horribly in the air he breathed. Chinese,
Mexican, and hot dogs, and aroma that could drive a cockroach to
suicide, but Stylus welcomed the variety, most of the time.
This however was not one of those times. The sensory overload of
the feed, the night before, was just too much to handle in
combination with the smell, and his stomach made sure the rest of his
body knew it. Upon opening the door, Stylus made a dead run for the
washroom and began his worship of the porcelain god. Thirty minutes,
and a shower later, he emerged from the washroom a new man, at least
on the insides.
_____________________________________________________________
Part Three: Too loud shadows
As the sky grew dark and the street lights came on, Stylus
awakened. Quickly grasping for the ringing alarm, he made contact and
there was silence. Through the near soundless Chicago night, a red
light and piercing siren flashed by outside his window.
He dressed quickly, knowing, that if the squad car or ambulance
were on its way to an accident, he may be able to find a quick snack.
He was a blur as he raced down the stairs and onto Chicago Avenue. As
he approached the corner, he realized that something wasn't quite
right; someone had just been there, waiting, and watching for him.
It was at this moment that he felt the blow and the street lights
above him swirled, and went black. When Stylus came to, he was
surrounded by silhouettes, moving about as if in a dance. Thinking he
was had not fully recovered from unconsciousness, he shook his head
and rubbed his eyes, hoping that the shadows would gain more
substance. His hopes proved worthless, and the shadows did not gain
more substance, they just continued to dance and occasionally look
towards him.
Propping himself up on both elbows, he realized that these were
definitely not humans, but, for lack of anything better to call them,
they were "living shadows". He yelled -Loudly- for the shadow men to
stop dancing (they were only confusing him and making and their
constant movement was not helping him think either). Fifteen
featureless, black faces stared back at him.
Slowly Stylus managed to utter, "W...w...what the hell are you?
And why am I here? For that matter, where is here?" The last
question was not meant to be heard, but came out anyway.
Apparently in response to his questions, the shadows shrugged
their shoulders in unison and began dancing again, this time it
appeared that there was some meaning to their movements. After the
third or fourth time through the same movements, Stylus realized that
the creatures were pantomiming his run from the apartment, and when
they got to the last moment he remembered before everything went
black, they pointed to him and around the room. The only clear
thought he could manage at this point, "A mime is a terrible thing to
waste", seemed extremely ridiculous and frustrating to him. Then,
more questions came pouring into his head. Did they not know how he
got here, or where here was, or were they just not showing him? Was
he supposed to know where he was? He managed to keep the questions to
himself this time and the shadow men went back to their dancing.
Stylus chose to ignore their foolishness and to try to find some
sign of where he was. Scanning the room, he saw nothing, but white
walls, broken only by corners and the "shadow people". No doors, no
windows, no way out or in. The questions came back even stronger and
finally he let loose and just screamed them at the creatures, much
the same way as one does when attempting to speak to someone that
doesn't understand the same language. Louder and louder until he
realized it was useless, they didn't know where he was or how he had
been brought to the room......
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Cry Havoc, And Let Slip The Small Woodland Creatures of War!
(part Two of chapter Six of the Dystropian Chronicles)
by Midget Caesar
Forgotten amidst the sands of time, long-closed eyes suddenly
opened. Vengeance burned within; vengeance that screamed for
satisfaction, that could no longer be ignored. Long ago the thing had
lost, had been buried here, but this time was different. The world
was going to know the thing's pain, the world was going to suffer.
The thing struggled to the surface, ready to carry out its grim
agenda of death. It stumbled forth, but unfortunately did not realize
that the geography of the land had changed a bit since it was last
free, and the entity fell off a cliff, slammed into the ground below,
trigged a minor earthquake, and was squished by the tons of falling
rocks. A little later, city developers arrived at the newly leveled
area, and proclaimed it the perfect place for the city's new
playground.
Silas wasn't happy about the earthquake. For many years, he had
plotted to increase tourist activity by diverting a nearby river to
create a waterfall above the cliff, and his plan had been ready to
come to fruition at the moment of the earthquake. 603 years of work
(Silas's ancestors had had the same plan) were now blown, and Silas
needed a new hobby. His long, white beard wrapped around his body by
the wind, he staggered forth towards the town, hoping to find
something new to do. After all, he had plenty of other plans waiting
to happen, didn't he? He assured himself that he did, and continued
his journey.
Dtjkrslvao arrived in Dystropia, overjoyed to be in what he hoped
was a land of great opportunity. In his native land, his name meant
"Boundless Adventure", and he considered the travel to Dystropia a
fulfillment of his name's legacy. The rest of his family laughed at
him when he said that he was going to Dystropia, but Dtjkrslvao
didn't know why, and paid them no heed. He was, however, alone, his
family having scoffed at the idea that they come with. Dtjkrslvao was
determined to prove them all wrong, and to return home triumphant
with his newfound riches. He entered the Dystropian Immigration
Centre excitedly, and wasn't surprised to see a very crowded room. He
got in line patiently, and listened eagerly to the proceedings going
on in front of him, barely able to wait for his turn. However,
Dtjkrslvao didn't speak Dystropian very well, and didn't understand
much of what was being said. As he got closer to the desk, he thought
it strange that the clerk didn't seem to care very much about what
was going on. The words were strange to Dtjkrslvao, but he listened
carefully to them so that he could remember them for when he did
understand their language.
"Next." said the clerk.
The person ahead of Dtjkrslvao stepped up.
"Name?"
"Anonymous."
"Alright, hold on while I check.....
...GOD DAMN IT, YOU DON'T EXIST EITHER!"
The person smirked and faded back into non-existence.
"THIS ISN'T FUNNY! EVERYONE WHO COMES TO THIS MISERABLE BUILDING
DOESN'T EXIST! I'M FED UP WITH THIS CRAP!"
The clerk swung his crazed attention to Dtjkrslvao.
"COME ON, FUNNY BOY! WHO ARE YOU? "UNKNOWN"? "FIRST M. LASTNAME"?
"UNIDENTIFIED"?
Dtjkrslvao looked at him nervously, and answered with the speech he
had prepared.
"M-My name is Dtjkrslvao and I would l-like very m-much to be in your
n-nice c-country of Dystropia."
All of the non-existent people in line behind him left in disgust.
The clerk gaped.
"You-you're real? Wow! Um, right this way, please, may I see some
ID?"
"My name is Dtjkrslvao and I would like very much to be in your nice
country of Dystropia."
The clerk whipped out a pen and completed several forms at record
speed, sadly not paying attention to the typos he had made.
"Here's your Dystropian Translation Guide, Welcome Guide, and a free
lollipop. Welcome to Dystropia!" said the clerk, and before
Dtjkrslvao knew it, he was being pushed through a door and out into
the sun.
Silas wandered through the countryside. It had been a long day,
and certainly not the best of his long life. Still, the rest of his
various plans scattered about the area were still moving according to
plan. Thanks to the rockslide, Silas had no home to return to, and
the mansion he spied up ahead seemed as good a place to stay as any,
so he made his way towards it.
Dtjkrslvao wasn't quite sure where to go. However, the city was so
full of new, wondrous things that there was always somewhere to go.
Dtjkrslvao let fate guide him, which was a mistake, as usual. As he
walked, he studied the material he had been given, and after not too
long he had a working grasp of the language. He had a new name as
well, a shortened version of his old one. Dtjkrslvao couldn't wait to
try it out on someone. After quite a bit of walking, he grew tired,
and it was night, and the sum of those two things necessitated that
he find a place to sleep for the night. He was still under the
impression that this was a golden, open land, so he picked the first
house he saw, which was a large, brooding mansion,and entered.
Finally, the time had arrived. Vernon was working the late night
shift, and it was time for his lunch break. NOW! Now, he was going to
make headway on his quest to be considered the greatest hunter in the
world! Vernon slipped excitedly to the back of the store, ready to
use his new equipment to help him track down his prey. Vernon used a
complex blend of physics, geography, geometry, trigonometry, and
astrology to track his prey, and he never failed. He eagerly set the
calculations in motion on the new computer, printed out the results,
and set out.
When Vernon arrived, he was right in front of a giant, dark
mansion, and there was no prey in sight. He couldn't understand it.
He had never failed before! Vernon kicked at the ground in disgust.
He was washed up, he knew it. After all, he had made the calculations
on the office's Pentium computer! Vernon stalked into the mansion in
disgust, looking for something to redeem himself....
The Entity smiled. Everyone was now in place, and the plot was
focusing squarely on him, not that damned show-stealer Milo. It was
time for the Entity to make its mark....
The entranceway was rather crowded. When things calmed down a bit,
everyone introduced themselves to each other for the sake of
character interaction.
"Hi, I'm Percy. I don't really care if the rest of you stay or not, I
just want to go to sleep."
"Greets, I'm Darius. I was the hottest lawyer in Dystropia and will
be again, 'cause this place smells of redemption (and chicken)."
"AND WE'RE HIS FOLLOWERS!" shouted a hundred or so similar looking
people. Darius silenced them with a glare.
"I am Silas. I'm having a bad day."
"I'm Vernon. I'm here to kill you all."
Everyone nodded and turned to Dtjkrslvao. Dtjkrslvao decided that it
was time to shout out his new name, and did so, barely able to
contain his excitement:
"DITTO!"
Everyone (except Percy) screamed and ran, calling poor Ditto a
homicidal maniac. He didn't understand why everyone was so mad.
Fortunately, they had found a new thing to be scared about, courtesy
of Percy:
"Uh, guys, the door's locked."
The Entity cackled.....
[In Part Three:
-A Plot begins to Develop!
-The Entity Makes Messy!
-A Dramatic Arrival!
-That Rambler Spirit!
don't miss it!]
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Why the Media is almost as Evil as my namesake in Congress
by Newt
Today, home sick, instead of tackling my overdue calculus
homework, I did what any self-respecting student would do: lie
around and watch daytime television. However, just as I'd
settled comfortably and was happily watching Jerry Springer talk
about bisexual teenagers, my bliss was interrupted by a NBC
special report. Had Clinton died? Was there peace in Bosnia?
Had someone actually figured out the French political system?
No, Dan Rather just wanted to tell me that nothing new had
happened in the OJ Simpson trial. oh. I flipped through the
other network stations; sure enough, Peter Jennings was trying to
intelligently discuss Kato Kaelin's contradictory testimony.
No, it's not really the OJ Simpson trial I'm mad about: it's the
media that's perpetuating it. Think about it: who do you know
that REALLY cares about this trial? No one, I'd wager. And yet,
the press continues to thrust this media carnival at us, trying
to condition us to run to the TV set every time we hear the words
DNA testing.
See, right now, they think this story is hot: but when the
ratings go down, our lives will become saturated with yet another
pointless event until we become sick of it. When was the last
time you heard about Tonya Harding or Nancy Kerrigan? A mere
year ago we could recite the facts and even knew the name of
Tonya's bodyguard. What became of the flesh-eating bacteria,
Lorena Bobbitt, and Amy Fisher? Frankly, I don't care now
because I didn't care in the first place.
Watching the network news seems more like Hard Copy: they open
with OJ and get to the real stories halfway through the
broadcast. I guess they feel they have to cater to the so-called
MTV generation -- short sound bytes with lots of pretty pictures,
with superficial coverage of everything except the sensational
stories like Mr. Simpson. The media has trained us to be fickle,
to flit from one story to the next. What happened in Rwanda?
Didn't that story just kind of disappear? If there is harmony
and peace, what happened to the story detailing that? Oh yeah, a
special report on Marcia Clark's former lovers pre-empted it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
What you are about to read is a morality play, which was actually
performed once long ago. For those of you who don't know, a morality
play <assuming English professor pose> is a story in which characters
represent certain qualities, be they good or evil. It usually
illustrates some sort of moral point, in this case an extremely
cynical one. I wrote it when I was in one of those moods, not only
cynical but a tad maniacal. As my mental state was, well typical of
me, this story won't make much sense, but hey, this is Propaganda
Unlimited...
House of Meats
by Dr. Fig
It was a cheeseburger stand for it was a cheeseburger land. Sooner
or later, everybody came to the cheeseburger stand, because that was
where life was. Cheeseburgers, fries, chocolate shakes, for which
milktrucks were always present outside. This was the world. Coming in
and out of this world were people from the outside world, a place
where cheeseburgers did not rule completely, but competed with the
terrible forces of greed, hatred and cruelty. In opposition to these
forces were generosity, love and kindness, but they didn't rate much
in the grand scheme of things, however in the hearts and minds of one
small group of idealistic teenagers they were very important. The
world called them fools for believing this, and maybe you will too.
They were three in number always good and gracious righteous and
pure. Their names were Jenny Rossity, Lawrence Oglethorpe <L.O.> Ving
and Kindie Ness. They were always smiling and always friendly.
However, not everyone felt the same way. They had three "friends".
George Reed was a young man who was seldom seen without his suit and
tie, cool car and Rolex watch. He was usually known simply as "G" for
short as in "Whatup G?". With him was the voluptuous Lusty who ate
young boys whole. Also present was the most wicked of them all, the
vicious Carl "C" Rule.
The six youths would go to the cheeseburger stand often, for
everyone eventually went to the cheeseburger stand. The cheeseburger
stand was home to all. One of the other regulars at the cheeseburger
stand, besides the youths, was a friendly but cynical old man who
would sit at a table there and eat cheeseburgers: A lot of
cheeseburgers, and we do mean a lot. He wanted what was best for the
children, but didn't interfere too much. He gave them wisdom when he
could and ate cheeseburgers the rest of the time.
The six young people came in one day to order their food. There
was a little collection box on the food counter to help lost souls.
Jenny Rossity contributed everything she had, excepting the money she
needed to buy a cheeseburger with of course. When he thought no one
was looking G Reed proceeded to smash the collection box and take
every cent contained therein. Jenny Rossity, upon seeing this vile
and despicable act of selfish larceny she was pushed over the edge.
She renounced her noble ways and proceeded to rush out of the
cheeseburger stand and steal G's car, vowing to destroy anyone she
saw engaging in acts of charity. At the same time, the gentle soul,
L.O. Ving was reading sentimental poetry while ordering his
cheeseburger. <"She walks in beauty, yes I'd like fries with that.">
At about the same time, Lusty approached him, and raped him from
behind his back, leaving him a broken and spiritually destitute man.
No one particularly noticed, since that sort of thing went on all the
time at this particular cheeseburger stand. When L.O. recovered he
would devote the rest of his life to lechery and hate.
Still untouched by the wickedness around him, Kindie Ness sat down
to converse with the gentle, if cynical old man. The old man told him
that once he too had been dedicated to goodness and niceness, but the
pressures of a sick and evil world around him lead him to give up on
saving it, and he wandered into the cheeseburger stand one day and
never came out. Thirty four years was a long time to spend in a
cheeseburger stand. Kindie Ness encouraged him to come out of his
shell, saying that evil did not completely rule yet, and that there
was still plenty of goodness in the world. The old man said that that
was a bunch of naive crap and that people were basically scum. But
Kindie didn't think so and remained true to goodness.
Just then an adorable little puppy came wandering into the
cheeseburger stand <Or maybe he was escaping from the butcher>.
Kindie hoped that this would melt the old man's hardened heart and it
almost did, but then C Rule came along, grabbed the puppy and
proceeded to inflict horrible pain upon it, making it squeal and
yelp. This almost led the old man to utter despair. Kindie chased C
Rule out of the cheeseburger stand, and C Rule ran him over with a
milktruck. This left the old man to reflect. Evil always conquered
good, the strong always conquered the weak, and no one ever lived
happily ever after.
The End
<OK, so maybe that's a little too sad. Hmm...>
A little girl went up to the old man and said in a sweet cute
little girl voice "Please Mr. Man, won't you be my valentine?"
And the old man's heart was warmed and everything was peachy.
=====================================================================
COMING ATTRACTIONS:
- Rancor: Unbound!
- The Propaganda Unlimited FAQ (hopefully)
- A new Fear and Loathing so shocking that Judge Ito wouldn't allow
it in court!
- A new Dystropia that no one in court was quite able to comprehend!
- What REALLY happened at the 1995 Illinois High School Theatre Fest!
- Return of the Poetry Corner!
- Yet another completely different Distribution List
and
- More Furious Madness From the Massed Gadgets of Auximines....
DISTRIBUTION LIST:
Club Evermore (312) 476-1508
Dimensional HQ, Worldwide Hub, Great Drinks
Legion of Cyberspace Users (708) 546-4605
New Name, Meet the New Boss, Same As the Old Boss
Munden's Bar (815) 455-9783
Underage Downloading Not Allowed Without ID
The Obloid Sphere (708) 965-3098
1.2 GiGS oF TeXT FiLeZ oNLiNe!!!!
MAIL:
To submit material for Propaganda Unlimited, to make your BBS a
PU Distribution Site, to let any PU Staff Member know that you're
stalking them, or just to send feedback on any PU issues,
email Midget Caesar on any of the above BBSes, or on the Internet:
PULETTERS@aol.com (official PU mailbox!)
or
mcfish@ripco.com (Midget Caesar direct)
Thank You, and Goodnight.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
(c) 1995 MangoJam Productions, all rights repressed
---------------------------------------------------------------------

magazines/PU/pu0202.txt
+974
View File
@@ -0,0 +1,974 @@
=====================================================================
Propaganda Unlimited
=====================================================================
Volume Two Issue Two
June 21, 1995
bogart (bo-gart) v. 1) To hoard or keep unfairly
to onself 2) To overuse or overexpose onself
and in doing so prevent another from experiencing
the item or event in question 3) To impede the
flow of Propaganda for four months....
=====================================================================
CONTENTS
--------
1) Introduction
by Midget Caesar
2) Annoyance: the Escalation
by Malakai
3) More Poems
by Aquarius
4) A Day in the Life
by Platinum Ego
5) HOW TO BE A MORON
BY ANONYMOUS
6) Short Stories and More!
by Aquarius
7) Social Awareness Corner: Chia Crusade '95
by Razorline
8) Obsession
by Oregano
9) Dystropia part Tweleventeen
by Midget Caesar
10) Ads, Coming Attractions, and Rejection of Conventional Values
---------------------------------------------------------------------
STAFF
-----
Constantine......Editor-In-Chief (Mellow Yellow)
Midget Caesar....Executive Editor (Jivy Ice)
Newt.............Head Writer (Chillin' Pomengranate)
Oregano..........Evanston Correspondant (Groovy Kiwi)
Zaphod...........Distribution Manager (Funky Banana)
Dr. Fig..........Arts Editor (Ravin' Quiche)
Aquarius.........Question Mark (Manic Beef Jerky)
Writing Staff: (Shaken, not Stirred)
Malakai, Platinum Ego, Psychotic Ambition,
Nyarlathotep, Comrade Slash, Jack Roberts,
and (new!) Razorline
and
Two-Fish.........Arbiter of all that is Cool, Tasty, In Stock,
and Aesthetically Pleasing in Sweaters
=====================================================================
Introduction
------------
Here and now, my moment in the sun. We all know that "cyberspace"
is "virtual", so my imagined sunlight is just as real here as the
latest online marketing trend. wooo hooo!
Anyways, another issue of Propaganda Unlimited is typed out. I
apologize for the ridiculously long delay between issues - well, I was
probably the only person who WASN'T expecting it, given our past
history. This time it was due to, well, inertia. We were also delayed
because Constantine is on vacation in Beirut, and he is not doing
anything subversive at all, nor is he playing any games with their
food supply, and finally he is not in any way involved in the
preparation for the landing of several dark, mysterious hovering
objects. We would also like to make it perfectly clear that
Constantine has absolutely no connection with any future unfortunate
"accidents" that may occur in the vicinity of House Speaker Newt
Gingrich. Just clearing the record, thanks. Anyways, Constantine will
return next issue, as will hopefully Newt and Dr. Fig, also on, well,
absentia. Meanwhile, we have a couple new writers for your reading
apathy, Razorline and Platinum Ego, and a few new submissions from
people who haven't written for us in awhile. And to top all that off,
you have my trademarked babbling. (If you've actually read this far
into my babble, you are a truly epic fan. Email us and we'll say nice
things about you)
We do hope to maintain some sort of frequent schedule in the
future, but even one as slow and optimistic as I has learned not to
make promises about it. Meanwhile, my time in the Chicago area is
limited. Northwestern University and I had.....a disagreement, and,
well, needless to say I won't be attending there this fall. (okay, I
got rejected, screw them if they refuse to accept me just 'cause I
didn't do any work in high school. fascists!) I'll be attending the
University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana. On that subject, so will
Aquarius. Platinum Ego's off to Iowa State, Newt to Wellesley, and the
rest are either staying here or destination unknown. We wish ourselves
well, woop. Propaganda Unlimited most likely will continue
publication during my dislocation, in what form remains to be seen.
Being well-behaved gee golly gosh whiz cyber-enthusiasts, we here
at PU have expanded - we now have our own HOMEPAGE on the INTERNET!
wowza! We'll be mentioned in Time Magazine any day now! Thanks to
Zaphod for setting it up. There have also been rumours that we might
also be involved in acquiring a....Winnebago! but you didn't hear that
from me. It's temporarily offline, but keep checking....the address is
at the end of this issue.
I hope you like the new material this issue, and I also hope that
the format changes to not incur the wrath of your stomach's digestive
juices. Heck, I'd be pleased if someone was actually READING this
stuff.
Propaganda Unlimited - You know we'll never give in to the hype.
(mention this introduction and get $5 off admission
to the PU Anti-Konformist Kamp! Your Summer Fun
Alternative!)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Annoyance: A How To Guide for Beginners
<a MalaGuide (tm) >
Hello! This is Malakai, PhD of Annoyance Skills, with
additional degrees in False Stupidity, Feigning Intelligence, and
Silly Voices. Being a trained professional annoyance, I have come
today to show you how to be effectively annyoing online *and* offline,
and ways where you can do both! Being though there are *MANY* types of
annoyance, I shall refer to my style of annoyance as 'Malakonian'
annoyance, a name which is rather annoying in itself. Now, please
stand by as we move into the main idea for our story.
Lesson 1: Identification of Annoyance Weaknesses
------------------------------------------------
Everyone has a various pet peeve, whether they hate it when people
spell wrong, hate people who say the same thing over and over, or just
hate people who appear to have little intelligence. Using this section
of your Annoyance handbook, you will learn to identify various types
of annoyance weaknesses, as well as strengths, to go off topic and be
annoying.
Section a: Weaknesses
---------------------
1. Intellectual Weakness: These people are easily annoyed by either an
apparant lack of intelligence (superiority complex) or an apparant
high level intelligence (just plain stupid); For the 1st, to annoy
with the best results, feign igorance, often beat around the bush and
take the conversation in circles, and of course, do NOT, I repeat, DO
NOT, use a word over 2 sylables unless you have to. For the later, try
and use words over 4 sylables when possible, try to ALWAYS sound like
you know what the heck you are talking about even if you don't; And
here's the sinker--- if they ask you what you're talking about, you
say, "If you don't know I'm not going to tell you,"; This almost
always gains an annoyed response.
2. Racial Weakness: In these days and ages and such, people are
getting to be more 'conscious', or basically intolerant of joshing
around utilizing words like 'nigger' 'spic' 'honky' and such. These
people you can easily identify. First you must learn to speak semi-
jive. The typical Semi-Jive entrance is 'sup foo' and you may or may
not get a response. If no response, especially no annoyed response,
occurs, then add on, "was ju niggahs up to?"; This will probably
invoke an annoyed response on any intolerant in the area. And from
there it's all child's play, assuming you saw the movies.
3. Words and Phrases: This is probably the most annoying weakness to
have, and the most common; It comes from the repitition of one word,
sentence, or even letter. You just keep repeating yourself over and
over. For example, I log onto a chat board, and go into Teleconfrence.
A user says, "Hey, what's up Mal?" and I say, "Are you talk'n na me?"
and they say, "Yeah, what's up?" and I go, 'I don't think you're
talk'n na me,"; If you use the same or a similar premise, this can be
VERY annoying and VERY effective. But be careful, some people may
carry on a conversation this way.
Section b: Strengths
--------------------
Haha! Fooled you! There is no strengths versus annoyance! Isn't this
annoying?
Lesson 2: Annoyance with an Attitude
------------------------------------
In the last lesson, you learned basic tactics for annoyance of people
with the weaknesses stated above, as well as for the strengths stated
above. But sometimes this isn't enough; I am a Certified Professional
Annoyance, and am banned from the bulk of chat boards in Illinois and
south Wisconsin due to this fact, and people like us are almost IMMUNE
to the effects and strategies of annoyance. However there are a few
sure fire ways to annoy someone.
Section a: Superior Annoyance Tactics- Online
---------------------------------------------
1. Continiously talk about nothing, the faster you can type the
better, cloud up the conversation with meaningless babble to the point
that you are the main converser, but no one is listening to you. This
may or may not show signs of obvious annoyance, but it annoys; If you
add other tactics, even basic tactics, into this tactic (the Speak
Tactic), it can be EXTREMELY effective, and may even annoy a trained
professional like myself.
2. If you know someone never shuts off call waiting and you have two
lines, you simply keep calling them as they get on, they will
eventually get VERY VERY pissed off and either shut it off or stop
calling. While this is not directly noticable, it can be used to annoy
someone who was waiting to talk to that person but now can't because
they kept getting kicked off.
3. If you can, keep sending E-Mail to one person, a constant steam, if
possible, make a script program for it, that keeps sending a one word
E-Mail message over and over. The user will log on, and have 500 E-
Mail messages saying, for example, "Ort" on them. You can also do this
with pages if they are online, so that they can't read what people are
typing because they are getting too many pages.
4. In a public messages base, post a long message, with one word as
one message, then the next as another, and so on. This will piss
everyone off and annoy people extremely.
Section b: Superior Annoyance Tactics- Offline
----------------------------------------------
1. In reality, if you talk and fluctuate the frequency of your voice,
and change the accent every sentence, this can be VERY annoying. Or
keep one stupid accent all the way through, for example keep using the
Hans and Franz style of talking. This gets VERY old and VERY annoying,
VERY fast. It has a rating of 3 V's <grin>
2. Also, now you can have physical contact; One annoying thing to do,
is keep tapping people on the shoulder, gently, but to get them to
turn around, when they turn around, give them a big shit eating grin,
and then they will turn back around, and you start up again. You can
also ignore the grin and just keep tapping even when they turn thier
head.
3. Taking a blanket and throwing it over your friend's head and then
taking a bat and hitting it very hard is VERY annoying, they'll be
really annoyed once they find thier way out of the sheets. Be careful
though, because you may over annoy them.
Lesson 3: Hints and Stuff
-------------------------
If you can get all these techniques down, you will have the equivelant
of a Bachelour's degree in annoyance. With practice you can gain
annoyance experience behind your years! In this lesson I shall give
you a few pointers to help you on your way to become a famous and
powerful annoyance!
Section a: Hints for Feigning Stupidity
1. Say 'huh' 'duh' 'what' and other such one sylable words that
express ignorance often, this will make you appear to be a complete
moron.
2. If someone says something that can be interpreted two ways, but one
is very unusual and very stupid (for example, 'you know, my
refrigerator went out today,' is said by someone, you would reply,
"Oh, where'd it go?"); You will gain experience in this over time, and
some people have become VERY good at it.
3. If you can, try and make up some dumb looks of your own to help you
offline as well, it can work. Also, if you are driving, just stare out
the window stupidly; This will annoy either someone in the car, or
someone looking out thier window at an idiot staring right at them
(that's you)
Section b: Quick Slanguage Tutorial (id=real translation d=direct
tran)
1. Jive Phrases
---------------
foo = fool (d), you (id)- More often use to personify a previous *you*
sup = what's up? (d & id)
G = gangstah (d), friend (id)
niggah = nigger (d), a friend who did something cool (id)
beoch = bitch (d & id)
2. Espanol Rapido
-----------------
¨Hablas a mi? = Are you talking to me?
No creo tu hablar a mi = I don't think yur talk'n na me.
Sabo no tu hablar a mi = I know you are not talking to me.
3. Other Various Phrases/Words
------------------------------
Ort = Stupid
Monkey = Cool
Duck = God
Spam = Fruit of the Gods
Chickenman = Some old guy who goes through dumpsters
Ooo ooo ooo ah ah ah = Great mating call
Teuchalatatiteez = The Great Monkey God
If you wish to increase your annoyance skills, please write Malakai at
the following address:
Malakai@cloud.com
Remember, postage is now like 31 or 32 cents.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Poems
by Aquarius
Oooh, Oooh
----------
oh no
they're coming
what shall i do?
shall i play my kazoo?
should i go to the zoo?
should i take a poo?
will you too?
in 2002?
after making beef stew?
This has become quite tiresome.
Your Eyes
---------
Your eyes.
They are so beautiful.
I could stare at them all day.
Full of love.
Curiosity.
Knowledge.
Secrets.
But the optic nerve sticking out of the back of them is pretty
disgusting.
I wonder who the hell they came from?
Tokens
------
Headin' to the arcade
Gonna play some vids
Heading over to Arkanoid
I insert a coin
But NO!
It uses TOKENS!
Sorrow.......despair
Tokens....why why why
Please no tokens
Quarters
Doesn't anyone care?
The token machine
Pinnacle of evil.
Car Wash Attendant
------------------
Who weeps for the car wash attendant?
When he's alone?
Who weeps for the car wash attendant?
When he gets wet?
Who weeps for the car wash attendant?
When people drop their dollar bill onto the ground?
Vigilant and proud,
You can yell but he won't get loud.
Quietly accepts money from you
Your car MUST be free of bird doo.
We must all weep.
His pain is ours.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
A Day in the life of Monty the Python
My snake's point of view
from Platinum Ego
Well today started out relatively normal... the sun came up all
at once nearly blinding me again at the same time this weird noise
started. I heard someone groan and then there was a crash and the
weird noise stopped. I slithered out of my box to hunt for mice again
but to my dismay, there were none in my little 5 by 2 foot kingdom.
So I did what any self-respecting member of the reptile kingdom would
do: I fell asleep in the sun for 8 hours.
I woke up when I heard something slam, and then that box in the
corner of the room started flashing the little lights again. Up above,
the sky opened up and that big warm tree picked me up. I love these
big warm trees, I just wish they wouldn't move around so much. I
curled around the top part really tightly to get as warm as I could.
The tree started making weezing sounds and struggled a lot, but it
eventually stopped. Anyway, I went off to hunt for mice again... I
couldn't find any.
What I did find were a lot more of those warm moving trees, but I
was warm enough so I just left them alone. That black furry thing with
legs that doesn't like me went to this place called "outside" a lot, I
hear the word every time the invisible wall opens. I got to wondering
what was so wonderful about this outside place anyway, so I followed
it through the invisible wall. The first thing I saw was a lot of wood
on the ground. I couldn't even see the dirt there was so much of it.
I went out looking for mice again... I found a really big one with a
furry tail. So I hid in the bushes for a while till it got really
close and I bit it and wrapped around it and suffocated it.
Then came the fun part. It was too big to eat...
So I carried it back to the "inside" place and got up on one of
the high places in the "kitchen" place. I saw the big warm trees put
things into a big invisible cup that makes a lot of noise, so I
decided to try it. I put the big fuzzy mouse in a big invisible cup
and pushed a button and it made a loud noise and there was red stuff
everywhere and when I looked back at the mouse, it was gone. Just a
lot of red liquidy stuff. Then one of the big warm trees came into the
room so I hid. It said "Hey who made tomato juice?" and drank all the
red stuff... That was mine! oh well... Maybe tomorrow I'll eat,
snakes can go months between meals.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
(Editors Note - In response to new legislation requiring equal space,
coverage, and facilities for the stupid, we have included the
following article)
THE TEN RULES OF MORON-HOOD
AS SOME OF YOU MAY OR MAY NOT KNOW, I HAVE HAD MANY YEARS
EXPERIENCE ACTING LIKE A MORON ONLINE, SO I HAVE DECIDED TO PASS THIS
EXPERIENCE ON TO OTHERS IN SOMETHING I WOULD LIKE TO CALL A PATHETIC
ATTEMPT AT ANOTHER T-FILE. HERE'S TO ALL YOU FELLOW MORONS OUT THERE!
FIRST RULE: YOU MUST LEAVE CAPS LOCK ON.. IF YOU DO NOT, YOU WILL NOT
BE SPEAKING SO PEOPLE CAN READ YOU, SO YOU WILL NOT BE LISTENED TO. IF
YOU HAVE NO CAPS LOCK KEY OR IT IS STUCK DOWN BY STICKY THINGS <GUM
AND OTHER WORDS WHICH RHYME WITH GUM> JUST PUT A LARGE HEAVY OBJECT ON
THE SHIFT KEY.
SECOND RULE: IF YOU KNOW PEOPLE ON THE BBS YOU ARE CURRENTLY ON AND
YOU SEE THESE PEOPLE ONCE OR MORE PER WEEK YOU MUST GO INTO THE
GENERAL MESSAGES OR EQUIVELANT MESSAGE BASE AND POST A MESSAGE SAYING
HI TO THOSE PEOPLE, BUT IT CANNOT EXCEED 10 WORDS, OTHERWISE YOU WILL
BE MAKING IT TOO LONG AND COMPLEX FOR PEOPLE LIKE YOURSELF TO READ, SO
THEN YOU WILL NOT BE LISTENED TO AGAIN.
THIRD RULE: TRY AND TALK ABOUT PIRACY AND ANARCHY EVERYWHERE. YOU MUST
GO INTO THE MESSAGE BASES AND POST ADS FOR 3LŒt3 BBS'S AS WELL AS TALK
ABOUT HOW MUCH YOU WISH AMERICA AND THE WORLD WOULD NOT HAVE ANY
GOVERNMENT SO YOU CAN LOOK LIKE YOU KNOW EVERYTHING AND THEN HAVE
EVERYONE REPLY TO YOU AND PROVE YOU WRONG, THIS WAY, YOU KNOW PEOPLE
ARE LISTENING TO YOU BECAUSE THEY ARE RESPONDING TO YOUR MESSAGES.
FOURTH RULE: IF THERE ARE X-RATED GIFS ON THIS BBS, DOWNLOAD THEM ALL,
GETTING FILE POINTS OR RATIO ETC'S BY UPLOADING LARGE TEXT FILES THAT
ARE 1 MEG THAT GOT THAT BIG BY HOLDING DOWN THE T KEY FOR AN HOUR. IF
THERE ARE NOT ANY YOU MUST PESTER THE SYSOP ABOUT THEM SAYING THAT HE
MUST BE A FAG BECAUSE HE DOES NOT HAVE ANY X-RATED GIFS OF GIRLS OR
ANYTHING ON THE BBS.
FIFTH RULE: YOU MUST POST ABOUT VIRUII AND UPLOAD SOME VIRUII TO THE
BBS SO THAT THE BBS CAN BECOME COOL. WITHOUT VIRUII, THE BOARDS SUCK,
WITH THEM YOU KNOW THAT THEY WILL BE SAFE AND YOU'LL KNOW YOU'LL NEVER
GET A VIRUS ON ACCIDENT <OR ON PURPOSE, BECAUSE THEY ARE ALREADY ALL
ONLINE! ISN'T LOGIC WONDERFUL?>
SIXTH RULE: YOU MUST SAY THINGS THAT ARE TOTALLY STUPID, YOU WILL SAY
ONE WORD ANSWERS THAT WILL LEAVE THE POSTERS GUESSING! THIS WAY YOU
KNOW YOU ARE ENHANCING THE LIVES OF OTHERS BY MAKING THEM THINK ABOUT
WHAT YOUR POSTS REALLY MEAN. YOU ARE PAVING THE WAY FOR A CLEANER,
SMARTER, CYBERSPACE.
SEVENTH RULE: E-MAIL AS MANY PEOPLE AS YOU CAN ASKING STRANGE AND
STUPID QUESTIONS AND TALKING ABOUT ONLINE GAMES, ATTEMPTING TO GET
THEM TO PLAY THEM AND BE ON YOUR TEAM AND SUCH AND SUCH SO THAT YOU
KNOW THESE PEOPLE LIKE YOU AND WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND. IF THEY REJECT,
THEY OBVIOUSLY ARE FUCKED IN THE HEAD SO YOU WANT TO PUT ON ALL YOUR
ELITE BLACK-LISTS THAT SO-AND-SO IS SOMEONE WHO WILL NOT BE ABLE TO
CALL THE ELITE BOARD BECAUSE THEY ARE OBVIOUSLY MORONS.
EIGHTH RULE: IF THERE IS SOMETHING YOUR SYSOP HATES AND YOU KNOW ABOUT
IT, YOU MUST POST THIS IN EVERY SINGLE MESSAGE BASE YOU CAN THINK OF
TO POST IT IN. THIS WILL ENSURE THAT THE SYSOP GETS OVER THIS HATRED
OF THE PARTICULAR THING BECAUSE HE IS FORCED TO DEAL WITH IT. AND THIS
GOES TO PROVE AGAIN YOU HAVE HELPED HUMANITY, ONE STEP AT A TIME.
NINTH RULE: IF THERE IS A BBS YOU WANT TO ADVERTISE FOR, YOU WILL POST
IT IN EVERY BASE! THIS WILL MAKE SURE PEOPLE WILL HEAR YOU, I MEAN, IF
THERE'S A 15% CHANCE THEY'LL CALL AFTER SEEING ONE ADD, AND THERE'S 5
BASES ON THE SYSTEM, IF YOU PUT IT UP ONCE IN EACH BASE, THAT'LL BE A
95% CHANCE OF THEM CALLING! ISN'T THAT WONDERFUL! MATH WORKS INTO ALL
THIS TOO!
TENTH RULE: YOU SHOULD SPEND ALL OF YOUR TIME ONLINE. IF YOU HAVE 3
HOURS, TRY AND USE THE FULL 3 HOURS. THE SYSOP GIVES YOU 3 HOURS SO
YOU CAN USE IT, NOT SO IT SITS AROUND AND IS NOT USED AT ALL! GOOD
PLACES TO STAY ONLINE ARE THE T-FILES, ONLINE GAMES, AND LISTING OF
FILES. YOU CAN DO THESE OVER AND OVER AGAIN SO THAT YOU REMEMBER WHERE
EVERY SINGLE THING IS LOCATED, SO YOU CAN IN TURN HELP USERS OUT LATER
WELL, IF YOU FOLLOW THESE 10 RULES OF MORON-HOOD, WITHIN 2
DAYS YOU WILL BECOME A MORON! I HOPE THAT YOU ENRICH THE LIVES OF
OTHERS WITH THESE NEW SKILLS YOU HAVE LEARNED! AND REMEMBER, NEVER
STOP LEARNING!
----------------------------------------------------------------------
More Short Stories
by Aquarius
The Broken Printer
Samuel Yartley had a broken printer. No matter what he tried,
it would not print a single letter. He took it to the nearest service
center and asked if it could be fixed.
"Yes." said the repairperson.
"How much and how long?" said Samuel.
"Around $75 and probably four weeks since we'll have to send
it out." replied the repairperson.
"Oh, O.K." said Samuel as he handed over the printer.
Samuel and the repairperson stood there for a little bit,
waiting for the narrator to return from the restroom.
When he came back, he had forgotten how the story was supposed
to end and that I was telling my story from the wrong perspective.
Collecting Stamps Is A Fun And Enjoyable Hobby
Ron enjoyed collecting stamps. It was fun to look at all the
different stamps from around the world and then paste them in the
correct spot in his book. Once in a while he would go the post office
and get some brand-new stamps! Shut up.
What A Cretin
Albert was overweight. He wished he could just look like all
the other kids. One day Albert decided to change his life. He began
jogging, excercising, and eating all the right foods. After two years
of this he looked at himself in the mirror and saw that he was still
as fat as ever. Disbelieving, he weighed himself. The scale still
showed 290! He hadn't lost a pound.
Two days later he died of hunger.
Time Travel
Dr. Porters had done it! The time machine was finished! At
last, he could finally become the first person to travel through time!
He got into the time machine and set the controls for 1908.
The moment of truth had arrived... he reached forward and pulled the
lever to activate the hypo-drive.
Unfortunately, Dr. Porters was only hallucinating. He is
really a ferris-wheel operator at your local carnival. As he stepped
out of what he thought was his time machine, his lab coat got caught
in the ferris-wheel motor. Dr. Porters was mangled beyond
recognition. As the paramedics took away what was left of his body,
the ferris-wheel timewarped back to the year 1908, a land of mystery,
intrigue, and... DINOSAURS.
(to be continued in Time Travel ][)
Alternate Family Circus
We all hate Family Circus and its unrealistic cheerful family
portrayals. Here are some alternate captions, I think you can picture
the actual drawing fairly easily...
1. "Daddy, I liked how you spanked me that time!"
2. "Was the mailman in Mommy's bed because he was tired?"
3. "Why are you kissing Daddy down there?"
4. "I HATE ALL YOU FUCKING KIDS."
5. "Dolly had a headache so she ate all Mommy's pills!"
6. "Will Jeffy's arm grow back like a starfish?"
7. "Gramma won't wake up!"
8. "So the integral of that parabola factors into an acceleration
curve?"
9. "Why was Daddy snorting the powdered sugar instead of eating it?"
10. "How do we know Grampa isn't in hell?"
----------------------------------------------------------------------
****Social Awareness Corner!****
"The Invasion Of The Giant Chia Pets From Mars."
OR
"Anti-Chia Crusade '95"
- By Razorline
The Chia Pet.
Totally harmless.
Water it.
Watch it grow.
Fun for the whole family.
Right?
WRONG.
THE CONSPIRACY
It's all a conspiracy. How else would such a cheap company
afford to show so many cheap commercials at every time of the day. Ok,
so they don't anymore. But they used to. It's because their conspiracy
has begun. Their plot has started. The time bomb has been activated.
WHAT CONSPIRACY?
Ah, yes. What conspiracy indeed. Brilliantly planned.
Brilliantly executed. No one would suspect a thing. Until it was too
late. The poor, unsuspecting housewife, with her 2.3 kids, currently
popular breed of dog, husband making the current average income of
$55,000 grand a year, and her nice, domestic two-story brown and white
brick house, was doomed. And there was nothing she could do. The
conspiracy was perfect. Who would have suspected. Yes, who indeed.
WHAT CONSPIRACY, ALREADY?!?!?
The conspiracy of World Domination. Yes, that's right. World
Domination. Watch them grow. Yes. Watch them grow. But once they've
started, who's going to make them stop? You water them. They grow.
Water. Grow. Water. Grow. Soon, they've reached the perfect size
advertised on the TV. But do they stop there? Nope. You don't have to
water them. Watch them grow. And grow. And grow. WHEN WILL IT ALL
END??? WHEN WILL IT ALL END???
WHEN *WILL* IT ALL END?
It would end when the Chias have complete control over the
world as we know it. When the world is thrown into anarchy. When we
are but slaves here to cater to their every whim. The Chias have come,
not from a science lab, but from Mars. Yes, that's right. Mars. The
Invasion Of The Giant Chia Pets From Mars. They forced the television
producers to run their ads. It's all a huge conspiracy, right up to
the big cheeses up in Fox. The Chias Rule Them All. Who would have
suspected.
WHAT CAN I DO TO STOP THIS INVASION OF THE
GIANT CHIA PETS FROM MARS? I WANT TO HELP!
Ah, good. You want to help. You CAN help. That's right. You
can help save the world from the Chias. Join the Anti-Chia Crusade. We
attack the television stations that promote the buying of Chia Pets.
We attack Chia Pet factories. We destroy Chia Pets wherever they may
be found. We burn them at the cross. The only way to kill them. They
are immortal but to fire when burned upon a cross. Join us. Save the
world. Destroy The Chia Pets.
For more info, write:
Farmer Bob's Homemade Chocolate Chip Cookies*
PO Box 123
Santa Ana, California
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YOU CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
*It's an alias. The Chias have spies throughout the postal service,
you know.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
(Editors Note - The following is a true story. Proceed with caution.
Also, all characters and products in the following article are
fictional. Any resemblance to real people, events, or soft drinks
is entirely coincidental. If you can suspend your disbelief long
enough to ignore the fact that the first two statements contradict
each other, you're our kind of reader!)
"The Hiss Of Success"
by Oregano
John wasn't the kind of person who would have noticed the
special sound. One day after a long hours at the office, filing
folders and writing memos, John opened a can of Pepsi and his
world changed.
The crunch of metal tearing apart from metal fed his need
for violence, the crisp sound, the can forever disfigured,
ripped open with leveraged force. Then a spurt, liquid turned
to gas in a sudden rush of pressure, forced out by freed carbon
dioxide. Spurt. The release let John release all his tension,
he was carried away to a a soft world of carmel color, floating
on a cloud of carbonated bubbles. He just listened as the gas
fizzled up through the cold Pepsi, fizz dancing on the surface,
he felt he was dancing along with it, stepping from bubble to
bubble, ready to dive into pleasure.
John licked his lips and pressed them against the cold can,
he tilted back the can till the opener-ring pressed gently
against his nose; he let the elixer flow to his mouth, bathing
his tongue in flavors too rich for this world. Still the best
part was over, though he was refreshed fully, he still felt a
loss after the can was opened, the first bit of violence was
over. It was the tearing of metal, and the *pfft* that the
Pepsi gave so willingly that excited John. He gulped down the
entire contents of the can and then opened another, just to
hear the sound of its music.
If only he could do this more often.
The next day he found himself opening more cans than he
could drink. After the release of opening them, he'd offer them
to his co-workers. They were suspicious, but they watched him
carefully and saw no tampering and wrote it off as John having a
new relationship.
There would have to be a better way to satiate this need,
the soda from the machine was expensive. The newspaper found a
solution, he could work at a party as a bartender's assistant.
He called up and came in for an interview, they responded to his
enthusiasm with a special deal, he would be in charge of soft
drinks at an upcoming party.
One evening a few days later found John in a tux, behind
him were 17 cases of Pepsi (the partygoer's favorite.)
Excitement welled up in John's heart, he readied himself for
the evening by taking out a can, and ever so slowly pulling
back the metal tab. A hiss escaped, and kept on going. Slow.
He was careful and the hiss lasted almost 30 seconds. He saw
the top of the can sink, like a boxer letting out his air after
landing the big punch, the can deflated under the pull of John's
finger. Finally the air was out, a little Pepsi floated around
the ring defined by the lip of the can. John then pulled harder
and listened to the crackling of the punch-top separating. A
wave of relief washed over him, he was ready.
A paunchy red-head came up to the bar and asked for a Pepsi,
John took a can off the top and popped it open, enjoying every
nuance of the sound. He filled a plastic cup with round ice
cubes and poured the drink. The red-head smiled and thanked John
as she curtsied away. Others soon followed as the party picked
up steam. A can here and a can there, but John was on the ball
and opened the cans with great care. The noise started to pick
up and things moved just a bit faster. He opened can after
can, but still got a tingle from each one.
The band picked up its tempo, and the sound guy who had been
dozing through the first part of the party, woke from some trance
and turned up the volume. John then had difficulty hearing the
rush of Pepsi as it broke out of the can, but he kept plugging
away, the night was young and he was happy.
Can after can was opened and excitement passed through
him. The music picked up, louder faster. Dancers, drained from
the furious pace came off the dance floor dripping sweat, their
pallets screaminng for Pepsi. John tried to keep up, but the
demand was too great, he opened cans as fast as he could, still
not fast enough, he opened them two at a time, still the crowd
ached for more. The Pepsi cans tormented his hands, his vice was
biting him back, the Pepsi cans were like metal dogs chewing at
his fingers, the spurts roaring out derision with each pull of
the tab. The spray was like venom, cursing him for ever likeing
the thrill. The crowd turned angry, they yelled at him for his
slowness in filling orders. Someone threw a cherry (from a cup
on the bar) and John tried to work faster, but the room was
spinning and angry cans of Pepsi mocked him wherever he turned.
A hand reached out from behind John and grabbed his
shoulder, "That's enough, John, Renaldo will take over from
here. Go home you've had a long night, this crowd is too much
for you." Those waiting at the bar cheered, John was humilated.
He tried to argue but the manager convinced him that it was for
the best. He got his paycheck and drove home, careful to not
touch anything with the raw flesh exposed from all the opening
of cans.
The next day dawned with beauty. John rolled out of bed
and threw open the curtains. The sun was out in full force,
children played baseball in the street. The night before John
had no time for dinner, not even a break to get some water and
now he was dying of thirst. In the refrigerator a can of Pepsi
stared him down; in his mind he heard the crack crack of a can
opening, like a child's leg bone breaking. He picked up the can
anyway, it seemed to burn his hands, like a crucifix to a
vampire. He bobbled the can and dropped it in the trash.
"Enough of that," he thought and quenched his thirst with a nice
tall glass of milk.
(Editors Note - Alright, well, "true" is a highly subjective word...)
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Dystropia:
Who Needs Titles When We've Got Each Other?
by Midget Caesar
Considering that it was a dark sort of house, and that it was
crowded, and that there was no way out, and that there wasn't much
food, and that something(s) smelled bad, and there were occasionally
menacing cackles emanating from thin air, and that the plumbing wasn't
quite working, and that no one much wanted to be there, and that the
latest issue of Propaganda Unlimited was ridiculously late because its
editor was locked inside the house too, and that the TV was having an
identity crisis (it kept trying to toast bread, and broke down in
humiliation at its repeated failure), and that no one much liked
anyone else there, and that no one had brought a change of clothes,
and that Vernon was late getting back to work, and that all the
furniture and wallpaper was a weird sort of floral print, and that
none of the rooms were really big enough to get a proper game of
"duck-duck-goose" going, and that no one could seem to keep the
sentences from running on to epic proportions, things were actually
going rather well. Percy thought so, at least. Just about everyone
else had become a raving lunatic to some degree.
Devotees were constantly underfoot, hunting for Darius (who was
quite sick of them by this point). For that reason, no one noticed
when a couple of them disappeared.....
(a light clicked on. Adam looked up. Maybe this secret passage
could lead to something good?
"Sit down, Adam."
The voice was so firm and kind, Adam couldn't see any reason to
resist. He didn't even get too annoyed when he found himself
superglued to the chair.
"Here, Adam. Eat this Jays [tm] potato chip."
Adam ate it and smiled. What a nice guy he had found! If only the
nice guy would step out of the shadows....Adam waited patiently
for the next potato chip. After all, you can't just eat one Jays
[tm]
potato chip.....
"Muahahahahhaha!"
Adam realized that he wasn't going to get another potato chip.
And then Adam went mad.)
Vernon had taken to hanging himself upside down from the undersides
of staircases and perching like a bat to go to sleep. He didn't want
any of these people usurping his place as the 8th deadliest hunter in
the world. In his caution, though, his boxers would ride up on him,
and that would lose him just enough points in the hunters' ranking to
drop him down to 9th place. Vernon wouldn't find this out until a
little later, though.
Around this point, Percy realized that he had never seen any of
those paintings that people sometimes talk about that have dogs
playing poker.
People were gone, there was no doubt about it. Darius admittedly
didn't do well in BC Calculus, but his devotees had all disappeared.
Soon, Darius was the only one left. How different his outlook on
things might have been had he only known that drinking 3 cups of %2
Milk is comparable to eating 9 strips of bacon!
A general rule: Don't inhale anything that can inhale you back.
The Entity reached over to scratch itself on the back, and found
itself strangled in the excesses of the plot. Upon this, everyone was
free. The Aphex Twins were nice enough to remix everything, and it
came out something like this:
"Hot cha."
Amen.
(stay tuned for....a miracle! of course, life is a miracle that we
experience through the bounty of God, so stop reading this and
convert you heathen child)
======================================================================
Afterword:
"live free, drink Pepsi", but Pepsi costs money.
one could begin to think they're only in it for profit.
Anyways, if there actually is anyone who still recieves this magazine,
I really am sorry about the delays in production. Submissions were nil
for a few months, and it took so long to get enough that it's hard to
get excited about any of this anymore. Do we have an audience left? I
have no problem with talking to myself (ask any CTA employee), but I
rarely type it out....
If you're still interested in PU (or just the idea of PU), email us!
Get interactive! If you don't want to submit anything, at least just
send feedback. And if you're a quid pro quo type, send along a GIF of
your living room decor and we'll have our professional team critique
it and send you back a nice reply.
The future being uncertain, we'll have to skip the Coming Attractions.
Hopefully by next issue we'll have Fear and Loathing as well as the
magic (not the Magic [tm]) back. woop.
MC
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Distribution List: (We Love Youse Guys)
Club Evermore (HQ)
312-476-1508
Legion of the Undead (home of Cyberspace Live)
708-546-4605
the Obloid Sphere (home of STD - the *text* group, that is)
708-965-3098
Munden's Bar is temporarily offline.
Patronize these boards! Don't give into the commercial services! They
only want your money, we're doing it 'cause.....well, we're bored. but
there's principle and everything.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Internet:
PULETTERS@aol.com
or
mcfish@ripco.com
and homepage:
http://crh0003.urh.uiuc.edu/~grog/pu/pulist.html
(temporarily offline, but keep trying!)
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Thank you, and goodnight.
(c) 1995 MangoJam '96 Productions, Inc. - all rights repressed
======================================================================