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

vol. DLXXII       no. 208,573
Tue., Jan. 15, 1974

Editor's Note:

I'm about 99% certain that I'm the only person who actually exists, and the rest of you are just figments of my imagination—so go off and do with that information what you will, if you're really as “existing” as you all keep telling me you are through your court-appointed intermediaries.

½ bed, ¼ bath apt. with simply stunning view of the retirement home. Pets are OK, but I have many lizards. Really, like, I have a lot of lizards. Must be willing and able to pay rent in the form of pogs, marbles, or Beanie Babies. No slammers, boulders, or Peanut the Royal Blue Elephants. Steelies and Tabasco the bull are OK. Building “technically” condemned or whatever.
Hometown Local Area News

A man was arrested yesterday for forcing his way into the hometown local area preschool, and screaming incoherently at a group of young children enjoying nap time. When questioned by police, the perpetrator reportedly acknowledged an ongoing feud with little Billy “The Butcher of the Play-Doh Table” Thompson, and insisted that the little fuckerfucker “started it.” Thompson was also taken into custody, and is currently being held on $250,000 bail.

Just Walnuts is the premier walnut services provider for all of your many walnut needs! And guess what? For the seventeenth consecutive year, Just Walnuts has been ranked #1 on the Forbes Walnut List, recognizing only the very best in companies that only sell walnuts! Oh, your company sells pecans? Perfect. Great. Good for you. Thank god someone is. What would we ever do if nobody was selling pecans? Just sit around eating all the glorious walnuts we bought instead? Geez—what an absolute nightmare. Ha! Just kidding! Walnuts are the only nut anyone cares about, loser! Oh, what's that? You like pistachios, now? Figures. I should've known—you're exactly the kind of knuckle-dragging idiot I'd expect to go and like pistachios. How about you just eat your dumb little stupid idiot pistachios over there—no, much, much further, keep going—and we'll be over here topping our endless, free-flowing ice cream sundaes with the only nut anyone actually cares about. Okay? Yeah, that's right—go cry to your almond-loving mommy, pistach-hole.pistach-hole. You little pistach-clown.pistach-clown. God I'm so sick of you.

It doesn't even matter if you live to be a hundred and fifty—you'll never, ever run out of bleak, dreary bingo halls to yell “yahtzee!” into before robbing them blind.

• “Fifty Shades of Green” scratch ’n sniff potty-training picture book

• extraordinarily uncouth producer's cut of the double-sided EP Be A Princess Or Di Tryin'

• carefully synchronized full-body tattoos, which, when taken together, form a British Isles-sized “Baby On Board!” placard, viewable only from space, or possibly from the tops of extremely tall red buses  

Parenting Tip #52:

You're not alone—the first two years are always the toughest for new parents, because if the baby gets wet, it can still sprout gremlins.

• 357 Great New Ways!

• A Healthier You Is Just Seventeen Steps, Twenty-Two Hours A Day & Fifteen Or Sixteen Years Away!

• Planet Earth: The Most Important Place In The World? We Find Out!  


Despite being the object of near-constant derision and ridicule—a reality against which they've fought and lost for centuries running—amateur magicians are, in actuality, just like you and me: they're really, really, really, really good singers.

Established 1403 A.D.         “The World's First Web Pages” *
© Copyright 1974 RECYCULUS.  ✣   * Printed on 12.8% spider webs.

***  EDITOR'S GODDAMNGODDAMN NOTE:  gas bill already here  ***    
      MAILMAN:  present only to the holy unholy

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 million million billion nonillion decillion 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