textfiles/magazines/PU/pu0101.txt

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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!"

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                         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

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                         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.

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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.

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                    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.

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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.

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          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!  ********

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   *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?

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           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.]

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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!"

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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.


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