99¢  OR  1 grazing buffalo

32° / 18°
light rapture

28° / 19°
raptures late

33° / 13°
raptures late

17° / 0°
a.m. rapturing

19° / 3°
some rapturing

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

vol. D       no. 182,610
Tue., Dec. 16, 1902

In Loving Memory

To my darling mother, who sadly passed last week of hypothermia, right outside my apartment door, in the middle of telling what was sure to be a really good “knock, knock” joke.

“Please, I can't feel my fingers.”

“Please, I can't feel my fingers, who?”

I miss her so much, and I really just wish I had gotten to hear the punchline.
Dear Ethelberga,

My boss at work is a real jerk. He's always licking his chops and talking about what big breastsbreasts I have, and how I “look good enough to eat.” And it's not just me, either. He calls all of us ladies “my little chicks,” and then he brags to anyone who'll listen about how we're “all natural, baby.” He's so gross. It's just, I mean—what the cluck? You know? Is there anything me and the other chickens around the coop can do?
— Harassed On The Farm

Dear Harassed On The Farm,

If Old McDonald has a farm and doesn't seem to know that “no” means “e-i, e-i, no,” you and the other hens should definitely look into filing a complaint with human resources. Then again, they probably can't do much to help y'all, and there's a better than 50-50 chance they'll try to marinate you within the first few packets of the paperwork. Wow, this is a tough one (though the marination would admittedly make it a little less so). I dunno—maybe poop in your cages a little more? It's a bit passive-aggressive, sure, but it might be all you can really do right now. Just try to be strong, sister. Keep on cluckin', and godspeed. Oh, and apropos of nothing, you gals don't happen to be free-range, do you?
— Ethelberga
Relationship Update

Local man, Robert Boubleux, is enjoying his robust, consensual sexsex life with Betsy Boubleux-Robinson, his wife of eight years. Robert reports that everything is going just fine, and there's no reason to think that the marriage is a “desolate, sexlesssexless wasteland,” as was previously reported.
Dear Ethelberga,

I'm part of a close-knit group of friends from college who, lately, seem to be avoiding me for some reason. I mean, I guess I'm the only one of us not married yet—and most of them do have kids, now—but I just don't get it. Take last week: we were all hanging out (this was right after I came back from a lengthy trip to Africa with the “Kisses For Ebola” project), and my so-called “friends” were physically distancing themselves from me, and saying really hurtful things like “holy shit,shit, you're fuckingfucking bleeding from your eyes!” and “good god, please stop giving us Ebola!” I wish we could all hang out together and not have our skin sluice right off in the shower, like the good old days, but it seems that we've grown—and in some cases quite literally fallen—apart these past few days. Is there anything I can do? What's the antidote?
— Feeling Avoided

Dear Feeling Avoided,

It's very common for people with young families to be jealous of their single friends. Your old college buddies probably just wish they had your freedom, and I'm sure they'd love to be able to jet off to Africa, too—but don't give up on them just yet! Remember: they're still adjusting to the realities of their new “grown-up” lives, and, assuming you all survive through the next 48 to 72 hours, I'm sure you still have several wonderful weeks of friendship left to look forward to!
— Ethelberga

Found under the green bench in the northeast corner of Veterans Park: one expired can of Coca-Cola Lime, half-filled with what tasted to me like a roughly 3-to-1 ratio of rainwater runoff to Coca-Cola Lime. If you're still pretty thirsty, please contact Gregory at the lost & found hotline's Coca-Cola Lime desk at your earliest convenience.

Local star athlete, Boo Usuk, has officially committed to playing football for the University of Michigan next fall. This is notable because—even though Boo has led Plaintown High to state titles in football, basketball, baseball, and facial symmetry every year for the past four—he's never been fully embraced by his hometown's fans. To wit: even as he was busy shattering the local record for record-breaking, by simultaneously holding twenty-one individual school records, his friends and family alike taunted him loudly and in perfect unison. Hopefully, the students at Michigan—whose impressive stadium seats nearly 110,000 generally only metaphorically rabid fans—will show a little more love and support for Boo by loudly chanting his name. Good luck, Boo Usuk! Your mom and dad, well—they seem to like you like a son.
Marketer's Bulletin

Are you looking to get your message out to tens of thousands of people in the greater tri-city area? Give “My Lying Ex-Wife Skywriting, LLC” a try, and you won't be that disappointed, because it turns out I actually can finish what I start! Whether you want to spell out your successful skywriting company's name at a local tri-city area sporting event because it turns out you are the type to hold grudges, tell gridlocked commuters just what a malevolently duplicitous she-beast your ex-wife truly is, congratulate your child on their recent college graduation you weren't invited to attend, kamikaze bomb the den of sin at 874 East Billings Drive, tell everyone at the beach about how your ex-wife stabbed you in the back so hard she broke the handle, or advertise, “My Lying Ex-Wife Skywriting, LLC” is the very best matrimonial bitterness-based aerial advertising outfit this side of the quad-city area! Give us a call today and ask for me, because I'm not only the night manager, I'm also one of the receptionists! You hear that, Debbie? I'd like to see that pothead loser Ed work at his own skywriting LLC. Cheers from “Angry” Steve Reynolds! I'm doing great!

A renowned statistician has noted a statistically significant decline in oraloral sexsex with his long-term girlfriend since replacing his genitalsgenitals with a commercial-grade turnstile and state-of-the-art digital counter system.
This Week on the Fundamentalist Gourmet, Reverend “Brimstone Bob” Robert will show you how to

→ wash and prepare a cucumber without having impure thoughts about it, or about zucchini, or about Satan's gourd itself, the summer squash

→ exorcise the blandness and evil out of deviled eggs (hint: a sprinkle of cayenne or real Hungarian smoked paprika and 246,000 Hail Marys will go a long way)

→ take the sin and cheesecake out of sinfully good cheesecake

Established 1403 A.D.         “The World's First Web Pages” *
© Copy Right 1902 RECYCULUS.  ✣   * Printed on 23.8% spider webs.

***  EDITOR'S CAT BREED NOTE:  the gray one  ***    
     INSPECTOR GENERAL:  issue conforms to genteel crude     

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 trillion billion 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