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“E. recyculus recyculus, et r. cyculus recyculus.”
“From many small bicycles, one bicycle airship.”

vol. CCLXVI       no. 96,903
Sat., Apr. 21, 1668


Empty storefront, priced to sell at $18.95 (fairly thorough removal of transients for a small upcharge)! Let's get down to the brass tacks: if you generally like your buildings to be of the assembled variety, never, ever, under ANY circumstance, remove the brass tacks. And even though we've been making due without one (pun 100% intended), there IS a toilet hookup somewhere in the back office area (and electricity's not entirely out of the question if you know a decent electrician with mortuary experience). If you really wanna make the place pop, the rear wall is currently set up to accept a rear door. 4,000 sq feet of floor-ready interior gravel bedding is primed and aching to become any hard bottom surface you can dream up. A few quick notes to put you at ease: 1) graffiti removal isn't as labor intensive as you probably think, especially when a cloud of mercury is always hovering nearby 2) hordes of plague-savaged rabbits can actually be a great business draw 3) pipes are the best way to transfer fluids from one area to another, so maybe consider investing in one 4) the Bernie that lives in reception DID have a rough go of it, and yeah, 'nam DOES come back to him in terrifying ways from time to time …but we promise he doesn't bite very much. (Wish we could say the same for the rabbits.) Don't feel rushed, but we HAVE had a lot of lookers …and once they conclude their various investigations, we'll finally know the truth. To schedule a walk-through, please send a self-addressed, stamped envelope to Huntsville State Prison, D-block tier 2, and we'll try to get some drifters out to your house in the dark of night to pose you a series of evermore cryptic clues regarding the place's address, probably sometime between tomorrow and the next 8 to 14 weeks.
What's On The Steam-Powered Story Time Contraption Tonight?

Fox News

9:30 — Obstinate Paranoia (live; repeat)

10:00 — Barefaced Fearmongering (live; repeat)

10:30 — Solid Red Angry Screen For A Half Hour (live; repeat)

Mr. Tambourine Man, 50. Husband, father, accompaniment to many. Survived by wife Debra Tambourine Man (née Oboe), three grown maracas, and six grand pianos. All-ages services to be held this Saturday at the House of Blues. Doors at 7.

Great starter car. She's a '70 or '80 Datsun Firebomber family wagon sport. Old girl's been good to me. 7K miles on first couple engines. Not in “working mode” at the moment, but only needs full replacement of metal and rubber parts. Transmission's in the trunk and isn't plugged in right now, but you should be able to kill most of the snakes and clear a spot for it in the drivetrain, no prob. 4 doors, but the roof's gone right now, so they can't hook in anywhere. Mostly been using this workhorse as a livestock feed station the past thirty years, so you'll probably wanna flush the fuel lines and keep her away from cattle. She's a dainty gas-sipper, but be sure to prime her with a cup of canola oil every 3 or 4 minutes. And if you're planning to tow her, know that she ejects her wheel assemblies when rolled on surfaces, so bring plenty of battleship-grade mooring cable and a car-sized toboggan. $4,580 obo. Will consider straight-across trades for classic cereal box collections.
Forgive all of us here at the Haystack Dynamics Institute for perhaps stating the obvious, but why don't you just sell some of the hay, and then use the proceeds to buy a new needle? Who thought looking through that haystack would be a sensible use of anyone's time? Those clowns over at the Needle Dynamics Institute must've thought that was one hellhell of a special-assspecial-ass needle or something.  

Shelly Watson, a racist 47-year-old white woman from Celeryville, Ohio, was shocked to discover that she actually prefers the feel of the glossy, ebony dildodildo she was given as a lark, to that of her trusted alabaster member, one “Li'l Douglas.” Mrs. Watson—“Shel” to her many racist white friends—now wonders if perhaps she's been wrong about “those black folk” all along—or at least wrong about plasticized facsimiles of their disembodied genitals,genitals, from which, she's heard, one can never go back.
Call me a top-secret government land-whale, but if that Supercuts stylist had snipped my baleen any shorter, you'd be looking straight up my blowhole right about now.  

Excuse me, ma'am.

Yes? Who's there?

It's me, ma'am. It's Douglas the roof cleaner. Someone here called me to clean the roof.

Oh, did they now?

Yep. They said the roof needed to be cleaned a lot.

Do You Know The Truth?!

The folksy, increasingly prevalent expression “kill two birds with one stone” is not nearly as old as you have been led to believe! In fact, there are literally zero recorded instances of its use or utterance in writing or speech! However, following World War I—a suspiciously prophetic moniker if ever there was—and the unprecedented death and destruction it wrought on much of continental Europe, all of history was rewritten by the Freemasons (in conjunction with the Illuminati, and aided by a loose consortium of underworld lizard people), after which this completely nonsensical saying was insidiously implanted into the public consciousness as part of a sinister effort to further the Mason-funded Secret World Order's hard line pro-stone, anti-bird agenda! Open your eyes, proverbial sheep!

Established 1403 A.D.         “The World's First Web Pages” *
© Copye Right 1668 RECYCULUS.  ✣   * Printed on 59.5% spider webs.

***  EDITOR'S END TABLE NOTE:  it's getting a little dusty  ***    
  SHOPKEEP:  vend only to the wholesome squalid

recycle this issue                  keep this issue                 what's recyculus?                who's recyculus? 
RECYCULUS, from the lowercase, italicized recyculus, literally translates to “from many small bicycles, one bicycle airship” — most likely a nod to the extremely respectable publication's earliest days, during which it rode, impressively sans-hands, atop a wave of light-to-moderate interest in secondhand mega-bicycles that began all throughout history, and persisted well past the future.

In an age when draconian town ordinances hadn't yet been applied to enormous bicycles, exceedingly burdensome village laws required all huge local bicycles to take up entire city blocks, thereby — or so went the theory — maximizing computing power. Despite these job-killing regulations — and to say nothing of the continuous, violent Mongol conquest of its central sales office — RECYCULUS managed to stand out from the used-gargantuan-bicycle crowd, thanks in part to its line of similarly-titanic bicycles, based on designs the burgeoning daily newsletter distributor endeavored to license, at tremendous expense, from hundreds of competing outfits specializing in subpar jumbo bicycles.

Finally, in the first six or seven minutes of the winter of 1402, lightning struck. Later that day, in a quiet moment following the fires, came a turning point: Whilst hopelessly tending to his many serious burns, founder H. Angus Recyculus (no relation) took it upon himself to seize an opportunity to break into the centuries-shy-of-being-conceived-of collection of world wide webs, refocusing the samely-renamed RECYCULUS's efforts on becoming the world's first * and only ** daily issuer of high-test web*** pages — a distinction it maintains, on both counts, as of about 3 PM eastern, 2 PM central.

In those first few thousand heady days, the simple act of “uplinking” new content to the infant web printing press required tens of thousands of recently-paroled, hastily-minted engineers to tightly roll up each and every lovingly-crafted submission, before squeezing them into their hometown energy concern's expansive network of live, weather-frayed, high-load municipal trunk cable — itself yet to be invented — while taking great pains all over their humanity and skeletons to avoid allowing the sudden plumes of almost-certainly-unrelated person steam to curl and/or smear the delicate, invaluable blurbs, before allowing good old-fashioned American electricity to do what it does best, dozens of decades before those words would have any meaning at all. Back then — just like pretty recently — RECYCULUS engineers could be found electrocuted along our nation's many miles of pristine, white sand interstate highways; a quaint reminder of a time we were still in until, again, pretty recently.

As any latterly hypnotized student of history will be instructed to recall, RECYCULUS's unprecedented 587-year run came to an abrupt end at 11:59 PM, on that fateful night of December 31, 1989, when its headquarters exploded during the Great Headquarters Explodings of ’89, and shortly thereafter gently floated off to that elephantine bicycle reseller in the sky. Forty minutes later — once every piece of cinder had finally been looted, discarded, or eaten — it became abundantly clear to the wandering hordes that these scant 5.8 × 1083 scanned pages were all that remained of the once great whatever it had been. Another forty minutes later — after the cinder poisoning had largely subsided, and acting on behalf of RECYCULUS without the proper authorization — the mesothelioma-fortified de facto chieftains decided to make each and every issue available, free of charge, to the entire remaining world, with only the moderate wish that their publisher's great, indecipherable legacy never be truly forgotten or understood.

All of us here at RECYCULUS — from H. Angus Recyculus XVII, Sr. (no relation), on down to the lowliest Senior Vice President of Worldwide Distribution, each of whom has most definitely not**** gone on to live a life of magnificent luxury within the plush, palatial confines of the literal new head office they collided with the instant they missed the turn for the metaphorical one — sincerely hope you'll find something to enjoy in each of these 5.8 billion billion trillion septillion nonillion modest, extremely amazing, humble, profoundly transcendent, ordinary pages of woven web. (Maybe over a long***** weekend, or something.) And we say that not merely for the sake of the families of the millions who have died meaningless, excruciating deaths to bring you these bland yet succulent texts — but also for the many, many, many millions more who have survived; bedridden by intractable full-body hair pain and roving blood spasms, having long ago been rendered physically incapable of instigating death's sweet release.

This one's for the fans.

* presumably, based on fonts
** based on searches conducted in 1997, while the modems were in the shop — individual results may vary, if they so choose
*** prior to that point, most of the world's pages were spun from leftover cocoon fuzz
**** based on the most up-to-date lies available at the time of the lying
***** likely one of the longest on record, because even if you're a quick reader and were able to enjoy one issue per minute, it'd still take you 1.1 quinvigintillion years — or around 79.8 million billion trillion quadrillion septillion times longer than the universe has even existed — to enjoy them all (or you could just print them for later, in which case maybe ask about the bulk rate on ink, because the sheets of paper required to do so would stretch 205.9 unvigintillion light years across the cosmos, or — were the universe a sphere — roughly 13.9 trillion quadrillion quintillion septillion googol trips around it)


ߜ  Brian Adams

ʘ  Drew Adamski

ȸ  Justin Barricks

  Jack Oolders

Φ  Dave Prague

  Zack Zagranis

  Steve Brunton
  at-large contributor

ȼ  Aaron Casey
  at-large contributor

Δ  Dena Darvish

  at-large contributor

Ϟ  Allan Heifetz
  at-large contributor

϶  Lisa Hytner
  at-large contributor


  Matt Payne
  editor immortalis


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