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

vol. CCXCIV       no. 107,173
Sun., Jun. 3, 1696


I'm looking for a respected area physician to help cure my wife's intractable hysteria. I find her outbursts of, well…desiredesire to be rather unbecoming a woman of her upbringing, status, and advanced age of 28, and would very much like to be assisted in quickly putting an unceremonious end to it. A little background: Our previous doctor was run out of town after being found to have sired dozens of children with several married women, and also for looting the local medicinal concern's priceless store of Macedonian healing crystals. Now, we never had any problem with him ourselves—and, oftentimes, he would even perform home visits for my wife, free of charge, whenever another bout of mania and gyrationgyration took hold—but, I suppose, such is the nature of the pitchfork mob. An hour or two of privacy and lubricationlubrication (for hydration) was all he needed to work his magic, so I'm dearly hoping to find someone with similar ability and commitment, who is also impotent.impotent.
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!
James “No, Not Benjamin” Franklin: The Other Franklin Boy, pt. 712

While we've all heard tell of the innumerable accomplishments and exploits of legendary statesman, founding father, and syphilis collector/madman, Benjamin Franklin, his eldest sibling, James, often fails to receive proper praise for his own notable contributions to contemporary eighteenth century society. These public endowments are known to have included such historical gems as:

• Founding one of the oldest truly independent American newspapers, The New-England Courant, where brother Benjamin would begin his storied career as a typesetter and up-and-coming venerealvenereal petri dish

• Putting sugar in the salt shaker—the first known instance of this now-classic Franklinian prank—and subsequently being beaten to a pulp by a sucrose-addled mob, as the price of sugar at the time had soared to an astronomical 45¢ per pound (or 3 soup turtles, in 1696 dowries)

• Slowly losing consciousness as the aforementioned beating resulted in a steady string of echoing pummel-ment noises, on its way to becoming the single most thunderous drubbing in recorded history—a distinction it would hold until 1883, when the sudden eruption of Krakatoa spewed nearly 100-trillion metric tons of ESPN's Friday Night Fights b-roll into the atmosphere)
James “No, Not Benjamin” Franklin: The Other Franklin Boy, pt. 386

While we've all heard tell of the innumerable accomplishments and exploits of legendary statesman, founding father, and syphilis collector/madman, Benjamin Franklin, his eldest sibling, James, often fails to receive proper praise for his own notable contributions to contemporary eighteenth century society. These public endowments are known to have included such historical gems as:

• Stealing both fire and s'mores from the forges of Mt. Olympus and bestowing each unto humanity, much to Almighty Zeus's unsurprisingly Zeus-ly chagrin

• Accidentally publishing America's first pornographicpornographic magazine, after younger brother Ben-“Frankie Sleaze Train”-jamin neglected to remove his decidedly pervertedperverted writings from the press before the The Courant's Sunday printing and distribution

• Presiding over the subsequent public scandal, for never before nor since has an American publication seen such gratuitous—and some would argue practically obsessive—use of the words “fragrant corsage,” “lady's Church bonnet,” and “jizzjizz hammock”

Hello, grown up women of America, I am an adult. As such, I am looking for an adult woman to be my girlfriend, so that my friends at school co-workers at the adult factory might stop making fun of me everyday. As I'm sure you're aware, being an adult working at the adult factory can make it quite difficult to find a suitable adult woman. Between counting taxes, shaving skin, and drinking the alcohol, how is an adult ever expected to find love? Please send a recent daguerreotype of yourself without delay (preferably with one or more ankles tastefully exposed), so that I may determine if we are indeed compatible for adult interactions.
Did You Know This Knowledge?

The legend of Paul Bunyan, though having had some liberties taken over the years, is based on the life and times of actual native Minnesotan, Derek Hayworth. And while it did require five stout storks to deliver the newborn Derek to his parents; and while he was in fact the owner of a gigantic blue ox named Babe (whom he did use to successfully tame the Whistling River); and while he did own a cooking stove in eastern Oregon that did cover an entire acre of razed fir groves; and while he in fact did stand taller than the most mature scrub pine, he was not a lumberjack at all! In fact, Derek “The Real Bunyan” Hayworth shunned his natural aptitude for logging and monster-sized frontiersmanship to pursue a career in railroad speculation, where the flannel-clad buffoon operated with complete and utter ineptitude. Eventually—having seen his options reduced to doing a bit in county debtors' prison and moving back to the Minnesota forest—Hayworth opted instead to stow away on the first sufficiently large ship steaming out of New York Harbor, and was, years later, found dead in a seedy, circus tent-housed Tangiers opium den, sporting a pierced navel and crudely forged Swiss passport identifying him as “Hay BayBay.” Though Moroccan authorities initially suspected foul play, no arrests were ever made, and the case was ultimately deemed closed by Interpol.

Q: Okay, so I have this …friend. And the other day he comes to me for some advice, and, well …here's something you don't hear everyday: “Hey, does this smell like cocaine to you?” How would anyone even know? Like, if you genuinely were just curious, there isn't really a way to merely smell some cocaine without actually inadvertently doing some cocaine. Believe …him. And I don't think that'd quite fly in court …“No, your honor—I swear I just enjoy its bouquet. I've been getting pretty big into aroma therapy lately.” What should I tell …him? And where might one find a good cocaine attorney in the meantime?

A: How did you get this number?
Increase Your Culinary Vocabulary!

pen • ne • cill • in   \ peh-nay-sill-en \
from Modern Italyish, c. 20th century

1. tube pasta-derived source of potent antibodies, esp. when administered by rectal gel cap, snortable powder, ear suppository, medicinal tramp stamp, or eighteen-part series of direct retinal injections

2. (archaic) a vaccine-infused ravioli dish

From Baby Name Meanings for GoddamnGoddamn DipshitsDipshits, 4th Edition : “Never mind what it means—which is obviously superior fuel economy and luxury car features at a mid-range family car price, like everyone already knows—and just join us in expressing our deep sympathy for all those poor kids whose parents named them Hyundai Elantra years before it became one of America's best-selling midsize sedans.”

Established 1403 A.D.         “The World's First Web Pages” *
© Copye Right 1696 RECYCULUS.  ✣   * Printed on 55.2% spider webs.

***  EDITOR'S TOWELS NOTE:  beach towels  ***    
REPLICATOR:  facsimilize for biblicist satanist

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 trillion trillion million 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


email    to contribute