Propaganda Unlimited

April 26, 1994 Volume One, Issue Five

"More Fun Than You Can Have Being Flogged In Singapore!"


1. Introduction to Issue #5
by Constantine

2. Propaganda By Mail
(our new letters column)

3. Poetic Injustice
by Psychotic Ambition and Aquarius

4. ATT0541.TXT
by Comrade Slash

5. Dystropia, Part Banana
by Midget Caesar

6. Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Five
by Constantine

7. Mango Madness Abroad!
by Newt


Midget Caesar .......... Six Canings for Mental Vandalism, Head Writer

Constantine ............ Five Canings for Verbosity (and Seven More for Enjoying the First Five Too Much), Head Editor

Oregano ................ Five Canings for Possession of Explosive Substances, Evanston Columnist.

Newt ................... Ten Canings for Going to Europe and Leaving Us All Here, Staff Writer.

Nyarlathotep ........... Five Canings for Living in Indiana, Staff Writer.

Aquarius ............... Keel-Hauling, Staff Writer.

Psychotic Ambition ..... Six Canings for Impersonating Trent Reznor, Staff Writer.

Comrade Slash .......... One Caning for Conspiring to Overthrow the U.S. Government (okay, maybe that's a little harsh), Staff Writer.

Nex .................... Twenty Canings for Not Finishing His Tai Chi Article, Staff Writer and Distribution Manager.

Operatech .............. Four Canings 'Cause We Said So, Distribution Staff.


Two Fish ............... The Arbiter of All That is Cool.

Mangoe Talk
(with Constantine)

Biweekly? Okay, we lied. But in a world where you can get software to transform the giant minotaur demons in D00M into huggable, peace-loving (but nonetheless face-eating) Barney clones, you should learn to expect such things.

[And that particular add-on is a piece of Unlimited Propaganda if there ever was one. If the author is reading this, please contact us. We'd like to see about doing a Bill n' Hillary version.]

Our mission at PU is to inform, educate and entertain. Inform, educate and entertain. Keep repeating that, just like a mantra, and you'll soon believe it despite the puzzling evidence of Propaganda Unlimited's PLAN FOR WORLD DOMINATION!

It's true! If you take the first letter from the fourth word of each line in Issue Three and run them backwards through QabalahSoft's new encryption program, do they not give step-by-step directions for finding the Lost Ark of the Covenant? Hasn't Midget Caesar been seen giving advice to a certain Third World dictator known only as "El Tongue"? Isn't "Aquarius" just a code-name for a cabal of SPACE ALIENS?!

Well, maybe not, but it makes for a hell of a story.

And THAT is why we're really here.

Stick around-- we might just get through an issue without inadvertantly starting a one-sided "war" with WeEnIe, or [TEaTs!], or some other tfile group with an insecurity complex. We on the PU staff try to take such things in stride, remembering two things. The first is, when you're the fastest gun in the West, every punk with a peashooter (or in this case, a dick joke) wants to take you down. The second is, people at the top ain't got nothing to prove. It's YOU, our readers and friends, who make it worth putting this magazine out, and it's you who we're aiming to please. And as our founder has said in the past, the day this mag becomes a podium to slam some other poor pack of struggling writers is the day we shut down the presses, wipe all the hard drives and commit an act of mass autodefenestration that will be remembered for decades to come.

Hey-- before I sign off for this week and hand my car keys to the PU Staff, let me ask you this: is it just me, or is the media's practice of referring to every single piddling government scandal with a superfluous "-gate" suffix (i.e. Irangate, Travelgate, Whitewatergate) often more annoying than the scandal itself? Enough to make a man turn to Newspeak.

And now, more Propaganda Unlimited-- it's DoublePlusGood!

Propaganda by Mail!

[Upon opening our mailbox at PULETTERS@AOL.COM, we were astonished to find it clogged with well over 600 letters. Unfortunately, after sifting through it all, we were able to break it down to the following:

1) 419 complaint letters from Midget Caesar's alternate personalities about Issue Five being late, including one from Bhufu in digitized Crayola.
2) 78 letters from people who mistakenly thought our box was the signup point for the brand-new A. N. Roquelaure Fan Club Mailing List.
3) One letter from someone named "MILO@ENTROPY.MOC", the body of which read only, "Muhaha."
4) One letter of formal apology from Constantine, who had tried to start some sort of mailing list from the official address.
5) Twenty letters from members of the Internet Christian Koalition (ICK), wanting to know if we had been saved yet.
6) Thirty letters from Satan, wanting to know if we had been damned yet, and why haven't we been returning his calls lately.
7) Four thousand emails from morons participating in an Internet chain letter. We promptly addressed our own chain letter to THEM, then threw it away. Four days later, they all died.
8) And the following letter, from our Number One Fan (we think/hope/fear).

That's right, folks, we start a letters column and get one stinkin' missive. Come on, take a second and drop us a line-- we print love mail, hate mail, even other peoples' mail. Send it to PULETTERS@AOL.COM, sign it off with an alias (just like the professionals use), and do let us know if you want your email address reprinted-- hey, PU dating service, anyone...?]

--- Memo to: Propaganda Unlimited
From: OverKill, Professional Deviate at Large

Two pots of Turbo-Coffee and one pair of pissed pants later, I think I've pretty well laffed myself silly over Constantine's hella-crazed story, "Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace", the product of an obviously twisted mind....Jim Morrison showing up ("I am the Modem King. I can do anything."), and the racist gladiator dude before that ("Hitler says you gotta die!"). Nex' story, "Lucid Death", was pretty cool too. Can't wait to read the next installment of Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace.

How's this for the slogan of your next issue: "More fun than you can have gang-banging Jane Fonda!"

Pretty cool, eh? We think so. Keep up the good work, and remember:

"When the going gets weird, the Weird turn Pro!"


[Editor's Note: Thanks for the kind words, and keep writing! As far as the slogan goes, we liked it, but a quick call to Miss Fonda's lawyers confirmed that if we attempted to use it, Ted Turner would personally come over and colorize us. And you know what THAT means.

Uh-huh. Big honkin' ANSIs on every page.

We don't want that. However, maybe this could catch on-- if anyone out there has an idea for a great issue slogan, send it in! If we use it, we'll make sure you are ::ahem:: properly credited.]

[Editor's Note at Presstime: OverKill is our Friend. We are sorry that space prevents us from printing his latest letter in its entirety, but suffice it to say that our legal staff is currently attempting to negotiate with Newt on the bikini .GIF idea. Needless to say, she certainly will be holding a chainsaw. This is the sort of thing that could send our ratings through the basement ceiling.]

Poetic Injustice
(A Literary Roundup,
by Psychotic Ambition and Aquarius)

Cold Dark Night (by Psychotic Ambition)

Cold death night
I stare to the Heavens
Death looms over me
How far away I cannot see
But it's near
No sympathy
For he is only doing his job
My time is now
My life is sucked away
I lay here
My last moments await
Quickly they are taken away
Stolen away by the Cold Dark Night

Elbow Brain (by Aquarius)

There's a brain in my elbow,
It's crusty and dry.
Sometimes it's not there
And there's only arm hair.
When people make fun of it
I bite them 'till they cry.
The bad men had better not come
And give me those pills.

Drugs (by Psychotic Ambition)

The rush
The thrill

The feeling
The pill



I'm flying
I can feel it

I'm falling
I fear it

I'm dead
And I never saw it

Why (by Aquarius)

Why I am I here
In this thing called life?
Do I have a purpose
Or should I be free?
And why do armpits smell?

Untitled (by Psychotic Ambition)

In this madness
In this misery
Can one find happiness
Is there a fee?

At night I lay, with the moon in view
Pondering these questions as if I knew

I don't know what is driving me
I don't even care
But deep inside I feel pure agony
Why is life so unfair?

The pain is endless
My escape is hopeless

This is all just an endless cycle
No winners
No answers
Just pain

Bummer (by Aquarius)

Beautiful swans,
Dancing on the water,
So pure.
Nothing can stop them,
Nothing in their way
Except that loaded shotgun

[If there are any impressionable young people reading this, now contemplating going out to a park and making shotgun- suicide pacts after their sixteenth joint and third six-pack, would you please be kind enough to erase this file before sucking lead? We'd be much happier if your parents weren't siccing Tipper Gore on us when they have much more important things to do, like worrying if they are going to get caught for cheating on their income tax again this year. Thank you for your support. -- The Editors]

(by Comrade Slash)

[Note: While performing Spring cleaning on the computers in the PU Offices (largely, the sad but necessary deletion of our extensive naughty GIF collection from the Filthy Diner BBS), one of our staffers came across the following textfile fragment. Having no idea where it came from, we thought we'd put it up for public inspection; if anyone knows anything about this, or has located any more fragments of this narrative, please contact us... --The Editors]

Call me Ishmael.
I've been on this side two days, six hours and nine minutes. And fourteen seconds--no--fifteen--oh, fuck it. Seconds don't matter to anyone on that side anyway, unless you're running the 440.
I'm not entirely sure how it happened. One minute, I was sitting right there, tapping my little fingers on my keys and then there was a sharp pain, the world went sideways, and I ended up here. Never thought I'd be able to compare death to a dial queue, always waiting for the pulse tone, the ATDT-instant-out. But here I am. Online for eternity.

Or not. What if they unplug the computer when they discover the body? If they switch off the modem, will the last electronic vestiges of me disappear in a blip? Maybe I should head away from here....just to be safe. It's not like I can ge t out or anything--there's a glarescreen just the other side of the glass and I can't quite reach through it-- every time I try to touch it there's a spark and this angry buzzing sound that suggests it wouldn't be a good idea. Besides, that guy out there certainly doesn't need me.

I look better digitized than I thought I would--but hey, I'm still dead. Slumped back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. I look stupid. Scared and stupid and alone and dead in front of my computer. So, what kind of fuck would kill a gu y at his computer?

Damned if I know. Wonder if I can find out from this side....if I think hard enough, I can get into the screen and try and pick up the logs from the session.... Hope nobody walks in while I'm doing this.




***Welcome to the National Security Administration's main terminal DC69CX. Please enter your security code at the prompt given. This call will be monitored using the[[[[[ [[[[[[ [[[[[SECURITY BREACH DETECTED: Authorities have been alerted. You will not be allowed to sign off until this call has been traced. Unauthorized passwords are illegal under Section 6D of the International Geneva Convention, Vo

jfd;roei;nv id/lfosgufivgnv nh;hn io'/k3wr]]]]]



***Thank you for using the NSA main terminal, 242. Good to see you again. Signing off now.***


Oh, shit. What was I up to? Could I hanlfdnonioe

[Like we said, inquiring minds want to know. -- The Editors]

Truth [pretty much], Justice, and the Dystropian Way Part Three: Beware, Falling Plots in the Road Ahead
[part 3/3 of the dystropian chronicles by midget caesar]

Darius glanced at the figure sitting in his office. This was not just any figure; no, it was a figure with action-swivel Kung-Fu grip. Then he turned his attention back to the rabbit, a rather furious rabbit. After inhaling several Prozac-Freez Popsicles, the rabbit was ready to relate its story. It was a rabbit who had pulled a rough lot in life. The rabbit explained that, regardless of its best efforts, it was always going to be stereotyped as a romance writer, when the poor rabbit was only trying to write about the secret of life. [Darius had to admit that whenever he thought about the greater literary accomplishments of bunnies everywhere, romance novels were all that came to mind] As a result, nude pictures of Socrates were in high demand, Plato Printed Panties were everywhere, and Existential Aphrodesiacs had become the world's biggest turn-on. Pick-up lines like "Hey, baby, want to do the mind/body split with me?" and "Y'know, you've got the *largest* set of morals I've ever seen!" were circulating like crazy, and this bunny was hopping mad about it. As a result, the bunny had brought Darius his biggest challenge yet: Sue Reality For Failing To Live Up To Truth In Advertising.

And, after a quick case, the battle was over. The evidence against reality was overwhelming, and Darius had another victory. A man slipped quietly over to Reality, which was sitting angrily subdued in a corner. The man whispered a few words to Reality, and then left. As the judge began to pass judgement upon Reality, he was interrupted by a shout from the courtroom - Reality had thrown a temper tantrum and stormed out of the building. Reality was gone. Darius raced out of the building, but it was too late. Milo smirked at him. Even Milo had been surprised at how easily he had been able to manipulate Reality..... Suddenly, things began to change.


[Be Sure To Get All 42 Multiple Cover Versions (With Chromium Plating) of:
Fear And Apathy In CyberDystropia: Clash Of The Plaid..... Me0W!]

Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Five:
Making Love With His Ego,
Ziggy Sucked Up Into His Mind
(by Constantine)

Marvin the Stupefying was a balding man with bugged-out eyes and a button that read, "Atlanteans Do It Underwater". He gave me the eye as I sat down across from him, at a folding card table in the Mystic Wonderful New-Age Healing Crystal Herbal Resource Bunnies n' Light Emporium (TM). I gave it right back to him. As he popped the eye back into its socket, he asked in a squeeky voice, "Do you come forth seeking the Mystic Wisdom of NOROM?"

"I'm looking for Ascended Masters," I said, "You got any?" "I am the supreme channeler! The knowledge and thoughts of fourty galaxies are open to my command. I can reach any entity, any consciousness ever created in the cosmos as we know it!"

"That's nice, Sybil. How about I fork over a twenty and you let me have a sit-down with some Ascended folks so I can get out of here before rush hour? The incense is making my head hurt."

"Do you seek knowledge of love? Power? Money?"
I pressed the crisp bill into his hand. "If I had any knowledge of money, would I be here?"
"Good point," he said, stuffing the bill into his turban, "How about I summon up Jim Morrison?"
"He DROVE me here. Don't suppose Elvis is an Ascended Master?"
"Elvis is still alive," Marvin said, "Would you settle for G. G. Allin?"
"Not for twenty bucks."
"Karen Carpenter?"
"Just what I need, twenty bucks AND I have to buy you lunch. Can't you do any better than that?"

"I'll see," he said, drawing up his legs and shutting his eyes. He broke into a long, winding chant, something that sounded suspiciously like multiplication tables. He then made a fury of lightning-fast, mystical hand gestures. Moments later, a low-rider modem cruised past the front of the store, and I heard a voice shout "Death to Crips!" just before the window exploded in a hail of machine-gun fire. As I crawled out from under the table, I heard Marvin's murmured apology.

"Hey!" shouted the store owner, busy waving a crystal over a couple of shoppers with sucking chest wounds, "Watch the mystical hand gestures in this neighborhood!"

Marvin's eyes rolled back in his head as he chanted, "Cadillacs, Cadillacs, greenbacks, greenbacks, one Republican nation under God and MEGADITTOES!"

He slowly opened his eyes and gazed at me with a faraway look. When he spoke, his voice was that of a much larger man.
"Caller," he said, "You say what?"
"Ah... Are you an Ascended Master?"
"You know, people ask me that all the time! But what do you think about these darned feminazis?"
"Well, to be honest, I kinda like 'em--"

From the back room of the store someone called, "Hey! You guys have got to hear this! Some twit is asking Rush Limbaugh about Ascended Masters!"
"Tsk, tsk," Marvin clucked, deep in his trance, "Yet another liberal male, led astray by the pathetic, deluded excesses of the political-correctness movement."
"I'm more PU than PC, really--"
"And I bet you throw paint at women in fur coats!"
"No, I just bought Mom a nice lemming wrap for Yule--"
"And I bet you--" Marvin suddenly made a gagging noise and slumped onto the table. He looked up at me wearily. "That's... Never happened before..."
"Gods, I hope not. And I want my twenty back, damnit."
"Hey!" he said, suddenly refreshed, "No refunds!"

I was reaching for the virus in my trenchcoat pocket as the Himalayan chimes over the front door tinkled. I turned to face a pack of slovenly, pale young men and women in off-white terrycloth robes. They conversed amongst themselves, and at long last one stepped forward.

"Are you... Julius Caesar?"
"Um, no."
"Are you... Alexander the Great?"
"Are you General Patton?"
"Colin Powell?"
"James Bond?"
"Indiana Jones?"
"Seymour Krelbourne?"
"Joan of Arc?"
"Are you... Constantine?"
I stood up.
"Yes. Yes, I'm Constantine."
There was a murmur of surprise from the crowd. I heard one whisper, "Lucky guess."
The leader looked back at the others. "Well, we got number 47. Wanna break for lunch?"

After a few moments, it became apparent that they were incapable of agreeing whether "lunch" was a neccessary thing, or if they felt inclined to actually look for any. With a sigh, the leader turned back to face me.

"Hi. I'm Lou. With the Church of Apathy."
"Never heard of you. You folks new on the Net?"
"Well, we're not exactly FROM the Net..."
"If you're with the IRS, I can explain everything--"
"No, no, we just want to hire you for a job."
"What kind of job?"
"A little one. Nothing big. Can you come out to the alley with me?"
"Hey," I said, waving my hands, "I don't DO that kind of job, especially not with an audience."
"I have to show you something. Come."
He lethargically staggered out the door, the others following him. Shrugging, I did the same.
Sitting in the alley was a shiny, new, candy-apple red modem with a simple black designer's label. It read "28.8".
"Shite," I breathed, "Okay, I WILL do that kind of jo--"
"This is no ordinary conveyance, my friend. It is how we came here, a machine so advanced that it functions as a gateway between WORLDS."
"Hm. U.S. Robotics made this, right?"
"It was given to us by the Church Patriarch, He Whose Name Can Be Spoken, But Is Rarely Remembered. He sent us forth, well, actually, one of his secretaries sent us forth, to find a hero to come forth across the veil of worlds and save us all from the certain destruction of the universe."
"You bullshitting me?"
"No, to be honest, I don't have the creativity or the energy to bullshit you. What I really want right now is a nap."
At the suggestion, half of his followers collapsed in a snoring heap on the concrete. I ran a finger across the modem's contour, electric sparks flashing at my touch.
"Tell me more."
"Reality has Left. It began in our world, the realm of Dystropia. Things are already falling apart, and it is only a matter of time before the effect spreads across all of the parallel worlds. We need a bounty hunter, a warrior, to find Reality and return it to its rightful place. You were number 47 on the list. All has happened according to the prophecy."
"Twenty thousand years ago, one of the Most Apathetic Ones gave an oracle, forecasting that this would happen if steps were not taken to keep an eye on Reality."
"Then why the hell DIDN'T you?"
"Well... We just never got around to it..."

Ten seconds later I was sitting behind the wheel, eyes glazing over as I stared at the twelve-foot-long control panel lined with buttons, knobs and gauges labeled with strange, alien letters.
"What the hell," I said to myself, "My case can wait, and it's not like I had plans tonight or anything..."
With a flick of a switch the turbo boosters roared to life, catapulting me down the alley (and over five of the Apathetics, who were too slow to get out of the way), and up towards the stars. The world of the Net fell away below me as I blasted through an interdimensional vortex, the 28.8 carrying me to a destination unknown...

Watch for Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace Part Six:
"James Earl Jones Wets His Pants!"

Mango Madness Abroad
(by Newt)

All of us are painfully aware of the fact that Americans' passion for fruit is blindly swayed toward the common, dull, and ordinary. We show as much creativity in the produce aisle as George Bush at a costume party -- apples and oranges as far as the eyes can see. Lovers of exotic fruits in this country are a minority, and the day when the Cult of the Mango is prosecuted may not be far off.

However, I was lucky enough to go to Europe over spring vacation, and I discovered the world is not as ignorant in the matters of fruit as Americans seem to be. Some of you may know the wonders of fruits such as the mango have not yet seduced me, but I found the atmosphere in Europe to be so refreshing I may be straightened out yet. I first noticed this strange and wonderful way of life one morning as I foggily rubbed the sleep out of my eyes at breakfast one morning. The thought of eating cold cuts in the morning was about as appealing as John Candy in a Speedo, so I went to the jam section to make myself a nice piece of toast. The Austrians at my hotel had thoughtfully labeled each jar in English and German, and I received a surprise as I skimmed each title. Sure there was the ordinary grape, strawberry, and raspberry, but... there was marmalade, pear jelly, jelly. At least that's what I think it was -- the translation was not accurate, but it sure looked close to mango to me. Such a product would be revered by many here in the United States, but it didn't even receive a second glance by the natives around me. I cannot lie and say I sampled this concoction -I tried chocolate on my toast instead, but the fact remains that it was there.

I still may feel that Kiwi Strawberry Cocktail is the most disgusting concoction the wonderful folks at the Snapple Corporation make, but I am tired of being common. I am Newt, hear me roar, and this is what I have to say. [[insert patriotic music]] America, I do love you dearly, but we must face up to the fact that we are outclassed in the matter of exotic fruit. We must not fall further behind in this oh so crucial field. I just know I'll see the day when I can order a Hot Mango Pie at McDonald's, and until then, mango madness will have to continue thousands of miles away.


--- You saw it coming, it's the beginning of the incredible three-part Fear and Loathing/Dystropia crossover! Watch for the start of this spectacular miniseries, with certain archived issues coming autographed by the inker and artist! Can't tell that we hold all of our staff meetings at a comic-book store, can ya?

--- An official statement from Def Mangoe's publicist, explaining at length why the Hardest Snoring Band in Show Business is far, far too important to be interviewed by us!

--- Nex's Tai Chi Article! REALLY!

--- Even more wonderful things requiring lots and lots of exclamation points and hyperbole!


These boards are what BBSing is all about. As a hobby, as a lifestyle, as a calling, it's all right here. ::sniff:: They're swell. Call one today. Hell, call several.

And for letters, comments and rants, don't forget the Propaganda Mailbox at Internet address PULETTERS@AOL.COM!

Intelligent Shade of Blue (312) 588-4231 (Headquarters)
Temple of Pong (708) 268-1696
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