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And now, an update from the spokesman for the Department of Search Efforts & Accentuating Rescuers' Courageous Heroics…
Alright, getting right down to business: Search & Rescue Team Beta, you are the second best of the best, and we need you. As you probably already know, an entire Boy Scout troop went missing approximately one to two months ago. Originally, we anticipated them putting their extensive survival training to good use, and quickly making it back to basecamp unharmed. But, as that has clearly not come to pass, we now need you to join in the effort. However, understand that you'll be searching not
for the Boy Scout troop—for whom we now feel all hope is lost—but will instead have a very different, very special mission: go into the woods and attempt to locate Search & Rescue Team Alpha, who, as you are also likely aware, went missing three to six weeks ago while searching for the missing Boy Scout troop. This will be a difficult mission, Team Beta, as Team Alpha is your superior in every way. I mean, you guys are literally
Plan B. And let me just be clear: if we have to use Epsilon Team to rescue you from rescuing the rescuers again, I swear to god, I'm going to be so pissed. Alright, gather around. Hands in, and let's do “Beta!” on three. One! Two! Thr—and they're all lost. Φ
When I was a kid my mother didn't like it when I would parade around in my underwear. I think mostly it was just 'cause the varsity marching bands and bedazzled caravan of show business elephants kept smashing the kitchen to bits. Φ
I'm a simple man: I like baroque composers, French art house films, and shamelessly lying about my likes to make myself sound like I didn't just fall asleep reading another Dean Koontz novel on the toilet. Φ
Women come and women go, but I'll always remember my first true love: the Brooklyn Bridge. Ours wasn't the traditional physical love, what with her being a bridge and me being a man, but, well okay, maybe that one
time—but she and I agreed to never let it happen again, lest we ruin what we had. Well—I
agreed, anyway. Bridges, as you know, rarely voice their opinions. So, with that one major exception, it's more like a deep, abiding respect for one another. And I'll never forget the first time I saw her. I was in Bed-Stuy for leisure. (When you're in love with heavy iron vestiges of American infrastructure, you generally have to go to them, as having them come to you will inevitably lead to all manner of logistical nightmare. But, I digress.) She was quite a bit older than me—having been completed in 1883—as I was barely more than a boy at twenty-two. To be honest, though, I think that's probably what most attracted me to her in the first place. I've always had a thing for older women and inanimate river crossings. All the experiences she'd had; all the things she'd seen. What can I say? Her uncanny ability to move people and vehicles moved me
. And a man even offered to sell her to me once, but I knew she could never be owned; she was too wild and free and welded together. Also, I kind of doubt that man was actually authorized by the City of New York and the five boroughs to sell its bridges to transient weirdos. But, as these things so often go, just as quickly as our romance had blossomed, it began to wither and wilt, as my vacation drew to a close; just another bittersweet case of summer love. Nevertheless, she shall always come first in my heart, and I'll forever treasure the memories we made together. This one's for you, Brooklyn Bridge, New York, NY 10038. Φ
I used to keep a 3 wood by the front door for protection, but two home invasions later I've learned that my face breaks hard to the left, so I switched to a plastic putter for children. Φ
My roommate works at an ultra-authentic Renaissance faire. It's so realistic, his morning commute takes a fortnight by armored steed, and he only takes his coffee with two Splendas and the plague. Φ
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
I made it through my high school art class by getting a little avant garde: I handed in an empty sheet of paper and told my teacher I drew a blank, so it's really only a matter of time before this ream I picked up at Office Depot lands me in the Louvre. Φ
I guess my biggest barrier to success is that I don't believe in myself. It's really hard to accomplish anything when you don't think you exist, despite all the evidence. Φ
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✣ 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 million million nonillion tredecillion 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)