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

vol. XCVIII       no. 35,469
Fri., Feb. 9, 1500


Q: Dr. Scott, I'm concerned I might have a massive head wound, so I was thinking maybe I could run something by you real quick and see what you think. Okay, so cows grow big by eating grass, and the grass grows under the cow's hooves, right? But then how come you have to sit down in a lawn chair while chewing a wheat stalk and drinking sour lemonade just for the privilege of asking yourself that age-old question, “why is the sky blue?” Call me old-fashioned, but where I come from that sort of bureaucratic red tape just don't fly. So do you think I should get it looked at? Pretty sure I'm seeing bare skull over here.

A: How did you get this number?
Who Would Know This, Even?

Each and every Passover Eve, the Easter Rabbi visits millions of children worldwide to deliver a brightly-colored treasure trove of leaky, unrefrigerated baskets full of traditional schmaltz, borscht, goulash, and—if the little one in question was especially good that year—a pillowy sleeve of kosher Peeps. Two sleeves if they were bad.
Unread Book Review — “Anna Karenina” by Leo Tolstoy

Look, I understand the caterpillar is very hungry. I get that. But what I don't get is why it took thirty-two full-color pages to get that point across. Talk about your long-winded tripe. I'm an avid non-reader. I don't read anything and everything I can't get my hands off. So when a nonexistent Russian-lit major friend of mine didn't say, “Hey, you shouldn't read Anna Karenina!” I wasn't like, “No.” And now, just look at what that brief surge of misplaced enthusiasm on my part has gotten me: three parking tickets, and an outstanding $40 tab at the local library that only grows by the week. I often hear of Tolstoy being compared to his myriad great contemporaries—L. Ron Hubbard, Ann Coulter, Dean Koontz—but I just don't see it. I don't get it. And you know, just because a caterpillar decides he's very hungry, that doesn't give him carte blanche to eat every goddamngoddamn thing he sets his six pairs of ocelli on. Didn't anyone tell him there's an obesity epidemic decimating our waistlines and pancreases? Pulp trash at its absolute worst.  ★☆☆☆☆

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Are you getting married? Recently passed away and/or died? Going to your senior prom, your boss's big swingers party you're not really that into, or yet another criminal allocution? Don't let overgrown, hairy teeth ruin the day! With all-new TeethWax for Mammals® your pearly whites will always be bald and bright! TeethWax for Mammals®—say cheese, 'cause today's the last time you'll EVER have to worry about those bigassbigass hairy teeth of yours!

Need fire, but lack a serviceable flint? No problem! Simply vigorously rub two twigs together until your arms get tired, and then set them on fire with your lighter.

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.
Yo! MTV Maths


Where Eazy-E is Mos Def times the speed of flow, hammered, the proof of which is simply too legit to admit  

Sponsored Content

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*BigStore doesn't have souls, either personally or for purchase. Please visit any ominous BigStore depot for information about where aftermarket souls can be procured and/or eaten

Established 1403 A.D.         “The World's First Web Pages” *
© Copye Ryghte 1500 RECYCULUS.  ✣   * Printed on 85.1% spider webs.

***  EDITOR'S BUFFET NOTE:  steam trays may be hot, please exercise (caution)  ***    
TRAVELING SALESMAN:  push hard upon lambs delinquents

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 undecillion duodecillion 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