textfiles/magazines/PU/pu0105.txt

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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!"

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                        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

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                         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.

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                       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!

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                    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.]

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                     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]

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                       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]

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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!>

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        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!"

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                   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.

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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!

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                  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
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Bob Saget Hate Club         (815) 363-1351
Wicked Garden               (708) 427-0679
Micro Information Systems   (805) 251-0564 (California Hub)