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Propaganda Unlimited Volume 1 Issue 2
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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!"
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CONTENTS
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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
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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.
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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)
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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.>
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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! ********
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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>.
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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.
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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?>
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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.
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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
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Intelligent Shade of Blue (312) 588-4231 (Headquarters)
Entropy (708) 991-4277
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