Propaganda Unlimited

February 6, 1994 Volume One, Issue Two

"More Fun Than You Can Have With James Earl Jones!"


1. Introduction to Issue #2
by Midget Caesar

2. Romance and Red Lights
by Newt

3. Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Two
by Constantine

4. Your Pineal Gland and You
by Jack Roberts

5. Water Fountains of Evanston
by Oregano

6. Dystropia, Part Four
by Midget Caesar


Midget Caesar ............. Head Writer, Head Head, Head de tutti Head.

Constantine ............... Head Editor, Head Person Who Had His Birthday On The 5th.

Newt ...................... Head Female, Head New Member, (And Welcome Aboard!)

Oregano ................... Head Evanston Writer, He's Smart Enough, He's Good Enough, and Damnit, We Like Him.

Nex ....................... He's On Assignment, Okay? Head Distribution Manager.

Jack Roberts .............. Head Schizophrenic, Head Brain Surgeon.

Avocado ................... Head Great Expectation.

The Lone Ranger ........... Head 'em Off At The Pass.

Exactly Why Does The American Gladiator Have A Dolphin Swallowing His Head?
What Propaganda Unlimited Has Spooged, Is Spooging, and Will Spooge Again.

(a Midget Caesar introduction to Propaganda Unlimited #2)

In case you hadn't noticed, the first issue of Propaganda Unlimited has ended. Yes, the revellers went home. Yes, President Clinton has given up trying to get into the Premiere Party after being kicked out for not being important enough. Elvis has gone back to his existence as an Elderly Woman Behind The Counter In A Small Town (selling pearl jam). Somebody seems to have stolen the hole-puncher AGAIN, and we frankly can't tell whether Constantine is drunk or not. We *hic* know we're not, that's fer shure. (What? You weren't invited? We included invitations in 4 out of every 5 uploads of PU #1, you must have received that one. Sorry)

So we're here, and it's time to spooge out issue number 2. We here at Propaganda Unlimited are here to write pretty much anything, be it humor, veiled social commentaries, computer tips, reviews, or the fine print towards the bottom of a box of Fruity Pebbles. A Text file group's primary feature should be entertaining *text*, not an ANSi figurehead. And PU has no fancy ANSi masthead. Why? We here at PU would like to be judged for our writing merit, not a flashy ANSi. Propaganda Unlimited is not meant to be limited in scope, like a magazine that does nothing but steal the work of others and/or rip on others. Do you really care enough about what PU thinks of other TFile groups to read a whole issue about it? We don't. So should an entire issue of PU appear in which all that is done is crudely rip on another TFile group or any other form of competition, please come depose whoever is in charge, because it will NOT be Midget Caesar who ordered the article published. And do so violently. Defenestrate the scum, while you're at it. Stuff them in vats of cheese. Force them to download d00m beta versions at 300 baud. Why should Propaganda Unlimited do what's been done before? How much good has the number system done anyone, really? Why can't we change it? Why must PU include certain utilities, and stay away from controversial subjects? PU doesn't have to, and nor do we or you. This is your society, your culture, and it doesn't change by itself, and it certainly doesn't change by ignoring the problems all over the place. Don't let ANYONE define your existence for you. You're not obligated to do what has been done before, and neither is Propaganda Unlimited. So PU will be different. Not different for the sake of being different. Different because PU will hopefully have some class, taste, humor, creativity, originality, Jello, and some luck. Our guarantee to you: If we ever become SO desperate for inspiration that we have to resort to writing crude, inaccurate rips on other people's work to fill ANY space in Propaganda Unlimited, we will quit. Until then, we have a fair amount of ideas to put out there, and if you liked the first issue, stick around. It's only going to get better from here.

a sincere Peace, Love, and MangoBerries salute to you all!

SaFe-T-NuTz SeZ: PReTTy MuCH NoTHiNG. (and you're not missing much, either)

Romance and Red Lights
or, How Not to Spend a Friday Evening
by Newt

Sometimes I truly do believe that there is a god of love who, on occasion, to amuse himself, decides to toy with a young couple and make a potentially romantic situation utterly disastrous. I can come up with no other explanation for my recent encounter with the world of love which makes me cringe whenever it so much as crosses my thoughts. I would have been thankful if all had gone well, understanding if the evening had been less than perfect, but after such a complete and utter disaster, I cannot begin to imagine what I might have done in a previous life to deserve such an experience.

Even from the beginning, it had the strange mark that only the logic of an high school student can produce. I had convinced myself that even though I was going to a movie with a single, young male whom I had never met, it was not a blind date; it was, of course, simply an opportunity to meet a friendly young lad, nothing more. It was easy to ignore the strange looks my parents gave me when I explained my plans for that Friday evening, as I blamed their confusion on their ignorance of my generation rather than my own logic. Mark and I had decided upon an unassuming, unoffending rather bland picture to see. I had been told that there would be no love scenes where I would embarrassedly have to clear my throat and try to see out of the corner of my eye if Mark was looking at me. The evening sounded wonderful to me, and I could not imagine how anything could go wrong. I suppose I should have suspected something when my friends who had met Mark threw me surprised glances upon hearing about our plans for the evening. And, of course, when Mark had to find my house on a map before understanding my clear directions, I received another blatant clue. But, alas, the optimism of my youth prevailed and I remained blissfully ignorant of the upcoming disaster which would send most lusty young girls screaming towards a nunnery.

At first, all was well. I awaited the doorbell's call, and when it finally did come, I was in no way discouraged by Mark's appearance. I admit I had conjured up worst case scenarios in my head, but Mark was not a greasy, smoking biker clad in tight black leather who would make my parents send me to that nunnery on their own. In fact, he was a clean- cut, rather kind looking person who did not in any way offend my parents. I was pleased by this turn of events, and the only fear still present in my thoughts was that he would turn out to be a little too friendly in the movie theater. For some reason I have never been able to explain, those humans with a Y chromosome tend to find romance in groping a young lady while watching a steroid-pumped actor kill a hundred men single-handedly. However, I soon dismissed these fears, and we went to his car where he politely opened my door. I must admit, I was impressed.

We set off for the movie theater, making pleasant small talk that idly passed the time. In fact, I became so involved in a discussion about the evils of technology that I did not even notice myself the light was red until another car blocked our path and my knees were forced against the dash as the sound of scraping metal filled the air. Unable to believe it, Mark made the intelligent observation, "I hit him..."

I grimly smiled and suggested he look at the damage to his car. He looked shocked to hear my statement, but his head soon left thoughts of license revocation and entered the present. He asked if I was hurt, and I replied that though my hands were shaking and I had a mild case of whiplash, I would not be permanently disfigured. We slowly exited the car and grudgingly looked at the front of it. He was lucky, for though not insignificant, not much damage had been done. We entered the car again, and he stared at the steering wheel, saying "What do I do?" I politely suggested that he talk to the other driver. His quick reply was, "I don't want to do that," and he immediately started the car and quickly drove off.

My head was filled with headlines like "Local Girl Found To Be Accomplice For Hit And Run" and guest appearances on Geraldo for the "Men Who Were Sent to Jail on a First Date and the Women That Love Them" show. Shocked, I stared at him and suggested that he return. He refused and asked me to direct him to the nearest pay-phone. I did so, and as we were driving there, a police car with its lights flashing headed towards the scene of the accident. My heart sank, and I thought of how my parents would look when they had to pick me up from the station. I had never imagined that I would commit a crime worse than jaywalking or curfew violation, and now, here I was, aiding and abetting a criminal. I pleaded with him to return, and a look of fear crossed his face as again he refused. We pulled into the parking lot with the pay-phone.

I must admit, I found the conversation he had with his mother amusing as I heard her voice screeching "You did what?" over the phone. She demanded that he go home after immediately taking me to mine. I was thankful for his mother's order, and on the way home, after I had provided him with an alternate route to my house, my hands tightly clenched each as my confidence in his driving ability had been somewhat diminished. I apologized for what had happened, for even though I knew it was not my fault, I could not even begin to think of what to say. I also began to joke about the situation, and then apologized for that. Mark then, smiling, said, "Oh, don't be sorry. You have the prettiest smile I've ever seen." I inwardly groaned, waiting for him to ask me what my sign was. Police, alerted by an APB, were probably in hot pursuit of us, and he had chosen such an opportune moment to hit on me. I smiled and thanked him. By this time, we had arrived at my house, no more than twenty minutes after we had left, and he got out of the car to accompany me to the door. This time, I was not so impressed by his chivalry. His head lowered as if to kiss me, but apparently thoughts of police were still fresh in his mind, for he hugged me instead and quickly drove away. I embarrassedly answered the queries of my parents about my early return and was a bit annoyed by their laughter. Chuckling seemed appropriate, but I found their rolling on the floor a little too extreme. I then settled down, still shaking, to comfort myself with mindless Friday night TV. About an hour later, the phone rang, and I was surprised to hear Mark's voice. He asked nonchalantly for my full name, birthdate, address, telephone number, and other such information. I gave him the answers and asked if it were for an accident report. He affirmed my suspicion.

"Oh good," I sighed with relief, "you turned yourself in."
"Not exactly," he hesitated.
"You mean to tell me someone wrote down your license plate number so quickly?"
He cleared his throat. "Not exactly. You see, the license plate fell off when I hit the other man." I was silent for a moment in disbelief and started to laugh uncontrollably. He joined in after a pause, and all seemed well. I was about to say good-bye and hang up the phone when I heard him timidly say, "You had such a pretty smile...would you like to go try it again tomorrow night?"

I immediately thought of a thousand good reasons to become the first Protestant nun.

(Editor's note-- any similarity to bad dates living or dead is strictly coincidental)

Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Two:
The Inevitable Right to ::CENSORED::
by Constantine

I hit the floor as the broadsword whistled over my head, cutting through thin air where my neck had been a second before. I gave my assailant a quick jab to the ribs that doubled him over, giving me a precious second to regain my footing as another two thugs took his place. They were all the same, a pack of ten-year-olds wearing shining armor and waving medieval weapons like they were ginsu knives and I was a tomato. How the hell, I wondered as I sidestepped an axeblade, did I get into this?

It all started yesterday, with a gorgeous dame who hired me to find her missing brother. Yeah, it's a cliche, but she paid me well to ignore it. Now I was standing in the ruins of the Melting Point BBS, surrounded by a bunch of D&D rejects who wanted my head on a pike.

"Let me kill him!" one shouted, "I only need 2 billion experience points for next level!"
"I've got four attacks! I've got four attacks!" another chanted, waving a mace at me. Somewhere in the distance, a gong was chiming over and over again.

Looking around for an avenue of escape, I realized what had happened here; the architecture of the Melting Point, once a thriving 708 nightclub, had been overgrown, parasite-like, by some deep corruption that had altered the very reality of the system! Spotting an empty alley, I made a break for it, arrows chunking into the silicon walls as I ran for my life. Bootsteps thudded behind me as I turned the corner and raced for a temple across the street.

Goddamn Telearena junkies are everywhere, I thought. Where's the Melter? Did they cut his line, too?

I burst into the temple, slamming the heavy doors behind me and frantically searching for something to bar them with. There were a few rows of pews, a small altar, a giant poofy teddy bear, candles, lots of dust--

"I'm surprised," said the teddy bear, "I expected you to at least do a doubletake."
"You're real?" I said, "That's a relief. I thought I was just hallucinating under extreme stress. You wanna help me block this door before the Happy Fun Club busts in here and hacks us into teeny-tiny pieces?"

We leaned a pew against the doors just as something heavy slammed against them from outside, the doorframe buckling.

"Battering ram," the teddy bear remarked, "By the way, I'm--"
"You're Nex, I know. I'm having the most incredible feeling of deja vu right now. I think I'd be enjoying it a lot more if we weren't about to die."

The door shuddered again, splinters spraying. Outside, I could hear a twit screaming, "Heave-ho! Heave-ho! I get five attacks with the ram!"

Suddenly, all was silent. The door held. Not a sound from the street outside, as if all the twits had vanished into thin air.
"It's a trick," Nex said.
"No," I said, my ear to the door, "They're building something."

I could hear faint scraping sounds like something heavy and metallic dragging across the dust, the soft clicks of a tripod being erected...

"What is it?" Nex asked.
"Hmmm... There's an Infinity Complex game nearby, isn't there?"
"Yeah. Why? What are they building?"
A faint smell of gasoline wafted under the door. I stood back, looked at him, and shrugged.
"Rocket launcher."
The door exploded in a blossom of flame and debris, and the world went black.

******** To be continued in Part Three: The Second Coming of James Earl Jones! ********

Definition of pineal gland, reprinted without permission from World Book Encyclopedia 1989, with additional commentary from Jack Roberts, M.D.

Pineal Gland. PIHN ee uhl. also called pineal body, is the tiny organ in the brain of human beings and most other vertebrates (animals with a backbone). Scientists are uncertain of the function of the pineal gland in human beings. They believe it plays a role in certain reproductive processes. The pineal gland secretes a hormone called melatonin. In most amphibians, birds, fishes, and reptiles, the gland is located in the back of the head just beneath the skin. It responds directly to light that penetrates the skin. In mammals, including human beings, the pineal gland lies near the center of the brain. In general, light slows and darkness stimulates the pineal gland's production of melatonin. In most vertebrates, the pineal gland's secretion of melatonin keeps the animal "timed" to its environment. Most animals live under conditions where the daylength and the temperature of the environment change throughout the year. To survive, they must breed at certain times of the year, usually spring or early summer. The offspring will then have a chance to grow strong enough to survive the first winter. The pineal gland keeps track of the changing daylengths. By means of its melatonin, it sends this information to the body and appropriate reproductive responses are made. (pompous way of saying "making whoopee" - The Editors)

(picture omitted)

In human beings, melatonin has been linked to the onset of puberty. Studies have shown that the pineal gland's nightly secretion of melatonin decreases when a boy or girl reaches puberty. In addition, researchers have suggested a connection between melatonin levels and certain mental illnesses. (Good thing there are no mentally ill people on the propaganda unlimited staff - The Editors)


what a load of crap, the pineal gland is the thing that makes songs that you don't like stick in your head, especially when you are trying to sleep, so you can't get to sleep no matter how hard you try because that damn song keeps playing over and over and over again and just won't leave you alone, it's like it is trying to make you miserable. i think that they are probably implants by the government. (We apologize - The Editors)

Feature Review: Water Fountains!
by Oregano

I'll go anywhere at any time for a good drink of water. This past week I braved the elements to bring to you the scoop on two of Evanston's finest drinking fountains. I've always liked the idea of drinking fountains, nothing tastes so good as a nice cool drink from one. Most people see drinking fountains as dispensers only to be used during the hot summer months but for me the fascination is a year round event and I seldom pass up an opportunity to experience a new drinking fountain sensation.

Some of the worst drinking fountains are in schools, take Evanston High School, almost all their drinking fountains are foul smelling with warm water and the old fashioned knob that is full of germs and sweat, plus the basin of the fountains are full of puss, spit, gum, and other bodily excretions that are far from making the drinking experience a good time. The beach is another outpost of bad drinking fountains. Often they are weird stone monuments with handles well recessed under the basin, making it hard to both turn it on and drink at the same time.

But today I have laughed in the face of the weather to bring you two of the finest drinking fountains in all of Evanston. The first at Love's Yogurt located on Sherman Street and the second at Barnes and Nobel bookstore on the corner of Church Street and Sherman Avenue.

Let me set up the picture and give you a behind the scenes look at how one gathers information on drinking fountains and the perils faced. It was snowing when I set out to Love's Yogurt, I had no special snow boots when I left, only my time worn sneakers which have no traction on the slippery sidewalks. But these were not just snow covered sidewalks, freezing rain had fallen in the few days previous so now what we had was wet snow on top of ice --this just goes to show that the drinking fountain enthusiast sometimes risks his life (and possible embarrassment ) for cool water.

I needed a cover, I couldn't just walk into a frozen yogurt place and rush to the drinking fountain and start drinking and making notes, the owner might call the police thinking that someone was using the bathroom without buying anything. You see, drinking fountains are not thought of too highly in our society and they are often, if not always, put next to the bathrooms. They thus are often used by dirty hands of the people who refuse to wash their hands after using the rest room. So, had i gone to the back of the store where the owner could not see I'd be risking arrest; I had to buy a some frozen yogurt. The wind outside was 17 MPH and it was 20 degrees F with a windchill of -12, not exactly ice cream weather.

I decided to get the smallest cone possible, not wanting to delay the time I had to wait to finally get to the fountain. I ordered Dutch Chocolate, the owner asked whether I wanted it in a cup or a cone, I hadn't the heart to tell him that I wanted neither. $1.40 worth of yogurt is a small price to pay to get the wonderful water that I can get there. Imagine what his fury would be had I he knew that this was just a ruse to sample the drinking fountain, he might have chased me around with a Shinto Blade which he no doubt had hidden under the counter.

Another customer entered which surprised me since I had figured that nobody would be foolish enough to eat frozen yogurt on a night like this. This poor lost soul was probably not even aware, as he ordered Dutch Chocolate (no doubt basing his choice on mine before him,) that just 15 feet away from him was some of the best water in town. I hurried with my cone and as misfortune would have it I contract a head freeze, I turned away from the cone which was no doubt toying with me to slow me down.

I waited, taking more notes giving my head a chance to ease its pain, but I was in a big hurry, almost being able to taste the water on my lips. Finally I was done, the cone eaten in my particular pattern which has not failed me in my years of age. I wiped off my fingers and wrapped the napkin up and headed for the far side of the building, on the way I dropped the napkin in the trash and I kept going, past the owner into the back, It was like a golden ticket to dreamland, before me stood the drinking fountain, it had taken 15 minutes worth of nonsense but here it was, all mine. This is not a perfect fountain, In fact there are few fountains that come even close to perfect. This fountain, for example, was designed with handicapped people in mind and therefore is too low on the wall. Were I forced to drink water here all day as some Draconian form of punishment, my back would start to hurt after just an hour. The button to get the water flowing was a long bar that reaches almost the entire length of the front of the drinking fountain, this makes it easy to press it just by leaning against it. The water flowed all the way across the basin, actually hitting the drain, this was good. Sometimes the water just dribbles out making for horrible drinking, sometimes you cannot suck any water out of it, plus disgustingly you have to put your lips where other lips have been. Another horrible problem some fountains have is having the water go too far, off the edge of the basin, sometimes spraying on your hand, or shirt. When you try to drink from these the water ends up going all over, wetting your shirt, and making you look unprofessional.

The water here at Love's was great, lots of pressure but not too much, plus nice stream cross-section, not too thin and not thick as garden-hose water. One other drawback, and I'm not sure whether its from the lack of customers or the lack of people getting water, but the water was warm to start out with. This didn't pose a problem after I let it run for a few moments, but it was a shock, and the judges had to deduct points. Onward I went to Barnes and Nobel Bookstore, also known for good water. I didn't have to make up any excuse to use the fountain there, I just charged upstairs, pretended to look at books and made my way back to the bathroom area where the fountain lies. Classical music sets the tone of this bookstore and therefore of its drinking fountain experience. If one is the right mood then the music enhances the trip to the fountain, but this night I was tired from a long day and the soaring music just irritated me. Plus there was a family consisting only of kids, the mother child could have been no more then 9 and the children childs were in the 3-6 year age. The entire family of children decided that it would be a good idea to run around yelling, no doubt they did this to annoy me in particular, and it worked, but not enough to distract me from my work, being the professional that I am. The Bookstore was a new one and therefore the drinking fountain was a bit more modern than is usually encountered in Evanston. The way to get the water flowing was a bizarre bumper on the front of the fountain which runs the entire length of the front plus halfway on either side, then entire assembly is pressed down either on the front or the sides to get the water to flow. Like most fountains nowadays it was entirely made of stainless steel, except for a bit of white plastic on the spout guard.

The pressure was weak compared to Love's Yogurt, the stream went only half-way across the basin. But the temperature was good, very cold and with a nice taste, not metallic like found at the YMCA. If you are ever a visitor to the fair town of Evanston, I can highly recommend either of these two fountains to give you lots of enjoyment. Be it a steamy summer day, after 10 miles of bicycling or a cool winter's eve, I can guarantee good drinking, but be quick, once the secret is out people may be queueing up to get a sip of nature's finest drink.

Lunchtime In Dystropia, Chapter One, Part Two, Section 42, Particle 251: Go Ahead, Splatter Me Over The Windshield Of Life And See If *I* Care.
(part 4 of the dystropian chronicles, by midget caesar)

A man walked through the darkness, his trench coat wrapped over his battle-weary body like a damp bathrobe. Yes, he had it all now. There was nothing that could block his forward progression to the ultimate. He strode forth to use his powers to answer the important questions of life, like how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll pop. His way would not be blocked. Instead, a large rock fell from the sky, not stopping his forward progression but merely squishing him. Another man observed the spectacle from a distance. Also clothed in a dark trench coat, he was a man who refused to be obsessed. His only quest in life was to find out WHY he had been named Percy.
Percy was a truly apathetic person, and Percy knew better than to ask questions about Tootsie Roll pops, for there are certain things that are just not meant to be known. (This and other unanswerable questions had been compiled into a book, after which top scientists declared that should those questions ever be answered, the universe would have to end. When the second edition was released, a man bitter about his job included the question "Why?", thus setting off mass paranoia and fear that should any question be answered, the world would end. The crisis ended when a rogue army of fast food (see chapter 1 part 1) took over the publishing house and, trying to ensure their own safety, changed the question to "Why would anyone reasonable actually eat White Castle food?", which of course could not be answered, and inadvertently restored peace to the universe)

Percy was only looking for a restaurant, a sit-down one. One with games that you could play on the placemats. One without Mortal Kombat 42 in the lobby. One with singing fish performing as you eat. Percy searched long and hard, and found a restaurant with singing fish. One out of three wasn't too bad, he decided. The restaurant was called "Some Place With Stuff That You Put In Your Tummy", and it was a filthy diner indeed. The name was a result of yet another recent ordinance, pushed through by Morons Across America (they insisted it be pronounced "Moo", considering themselves clever for doing so). It all basically started when some moron entered Denny's expecting to be served real food, which is quite the dumb expectation indeed. A crusading young lawyer named Darius took the moron's case, and successfully sued reality for discriminating against stupid people everywhere. Thus, "restaurants" had to be more accurately labeled. A chirping "Hello" should have been issued by the door as Percy walked though it, but after the "food" itself and the seat cushions both gained sentience through the Equal Appliance Act, (see chapters 3 and/or 4, coming soon), the assorted inanimate objects began to fiercely hate each other. It took a brave spork named, not coincidentally, Mr. Spork to sacrifice itself as a martyr to keep the peace. Each inanimate object blamed all the other ones for the death (or de-pronging) of the utensil they had all known and loved, and therefore none of the objects were on speaking terms with any of the other ones. Percy, of course, wasn't distracted in the least, not even by the pamphlet titled "The Bondage And Pain Of Existence As A SpoonStraw" issued to him when he tried to stir his coffee. A waitress named Flo (to make things easier for Morons Across America, all waitresses were renamed Flo or Diane, since that's inevitably what they were called) brought out a Rib Special (Cherry Coke, no iCE), and placed it in front of Percy. There was, of course, one problem. Percy hadn't ordered yet, and though his membership in the Church Of Apathy ensured that he didn't really care, he didn't want a Rib Special (though ordering a Cherry Coke, no iCE was one of the great constants of the universe). Flo explained that she had traveled forward in time as Percy came in, taken his order, placed it, moved to the future when it was cooked, and brought it back to him, and all that without ruining her hairdo in the least, Percy observed. So Percy figured that the Rib Special was what he really truly wanted, deep down, and ate it. People in restaurants everywhere ran into the same problem (except for patrons of what used to be Denny's, who couldn't tell the difference between anything on the Denny's menu anyways), and all eventually accepted it, with the exception of one woman who refused to conform her own ideals, and eventually ended up driving herself sane, requiring that she be put in an institution for the Dangerously Sane. Percy had no such problems, however. He ate his food peacefully, accepting the future as he figured it was, and not really caring enough to care about it.

Somewhere in Idaho, where he'd never be found anyways, a man named Milo smiled, and reflected upon how much fun uploading a WHoRe virus to reality could be. And Percy went home, requiring nothing more for happiness than a content belly.

* T h e E n d *

Coming Soon:
Chapter Three Of The Dystropian Chronicles:
"I Couldn't Possibly Have Murdered Him, Sir. My Foot Was Asleep."
(As for chapters 2 and 4, who knows?)


-- A special spotlight on Def Mangoe, the world's hardest- self-promoting band! You've never heard of them, so you KNOW they're hip! We'll hang with the band and expose the sordid truths about groupies, agents, and what REALLY happens on tour buses...

-- More fiction, more fun, more paranoid rantings than ever!

-- Nex submits an article! (We mean it, folks-- you don't think we'd just keep stringing you along like this, do you?)

-- Specific Wackiness.


The Propaganda Unlimited Distribution Net is almost up! Next issue should bring a vastly expanded list of our supporters-- meanwhile, why not patronize THESE fine boards? (We know, we know, EVERYBODY patronizes us...)

Intelligent Shade of Blue (312) 588-4231 (Headquarters)
Entropy (708) 991-4277

back to the archives...