SUBJECT: Do not open—could be annoying!
ATTENTION RECYCULUS READERS: There is a new RECYCULUS virus going around. Please watch out for the issue's subject line, which may read “Do not open—could be annoying!” If you've already read the issue, don't have done that. But if you cannot not have done that, fret not, because we have several easy steps you can take to protect yourself and combat the RECYCULUS virus currently attacking your Sanyo electronic personal organizer. First, do not read the issue (this one). Second, don't even think about it. Third, don't worry—it's just a RECYCULUS virus that is currently stealing all of your retinas' cones and rods. Fourth, as a last-ditch option to rid yourself of this scourge, consider immediately closing all banking and investment accounts, before transferring ownership to RECYCULUS. Once complete, you may proceed with obtaining new government-issued identification, replete with a new name, social security number, and hair. Though somewhat extreme, these actions are absolutely necessary to keep the RECYCULUS virus from knowing who you are, and who you were. Lastly, be extremely wary of RECYCULUS issues that attempt to guide you through the process of removing the RECYCULUS virus from your Sanyo electronic personal organizer. These issues are not your friend. They only desire possession of your full RECYCULUS history. In summary, you really shouldn't have read that issue (this one). Δ
“Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear,
Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair,
so Fuzzy Wuzzy finally convinced his insurance company to approve hair plugs,
and now Fuzzy Wuzzy's absolutely killing it and everyone else down here at the hospital,
where Channel 6 Action News is live on the scene.” ✣
Every time I see one of those “you're getting educated, very, very educated” billboards for the College of Hypnotherapy, I have this sort of sudden, overwhelming, almost out-of-body urge to attend its classes. But that's mostly just ’cause I'm one of the professors, and I was supposed to be there, shitshit—like almost forty-five minutes ago. ✣
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 ⋈
Patent Pending #7,590
“The Animal To Be Called Lion”
• cat-like face
• haunches (ample)
• flexible tail
• flowing locks of auburn
• single-seat sidecar with optional hydraulic speed brake ✣
I'm excited to announce that I now hold the world record for the largest fish ever drowned by a self-taught marine biologist. In other news, I sure hope the local rescue aquarium finds that missing manatee soon. Φ
IN THE NEWS
Unremarkable Daily Planet Reporter Suspected In Massive Time Theft Scheme Identified, Detained By Metropolis Police
→ Long Time Crime Reporter Charged With Over 100,000 Counts Of Hourly Time Theft Occuring Over 75-Year Period, Said To Disappear For Weeks On End While Continuing To Submit Regular Timecards
■ Enigmatic Scribe Known To Avoid HR Manager's Questions Faster Than A Speeding Bullet, Dodge Multiple Mid-Level Copyeditors' Concerns In A Single Bound ✣
EXTREMELY FUTURE NEWS: Apple
Apple Relaxes One Child LimitHOT TECH
iLoo Shuffle: The Newest Permissible Waste Receptacle Finally Takes The Predictability Out Of The BathroomMAC MOTORS
Everything You Need To Know About This Year's Hottest Only ModelPLUS
Apple Releases New Batch Of Oxygen, Paroles Walmart, Improves The Moon, Marries Your Mom, And Crashes On Your Love Seat For A Few Months ✣
Meditations On Genius
The common wristwatch I jokingly nicknamed “Small Benjamin” has proven to be a surprisingly fruitful tourist draw. ✣
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 billion sextillion 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)