Propaganda Unlimited

January 4th, 1994: Volume One, Issue Nine

"More Fun Than Karaoke TV Evangelism!"


1) Introduction, or How To Perform A Peaceful Coup de'tat
by Midget Caesar

2) Loving the Other End of the Computer Screen
by Newt

3) Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, pt. 9
by Constantine

4) The Black Plague pt. 2,
by Malakai

5) Baby Blue Shuffle in D# Minor
poetry by Dr. Fig and Zaphod

6) Dystropia, pt. 839,999,999.99999999 / 2,000,000 = 420
by Midget Caesar

7) Serve Your Country or Die: A Plea For Help
by Midget Caesar

8) Marketing Pleas, Coming Attractions, and Distribution


Constantine...........Brother of Mercy, Head Writer

Midget Caesar.........Learning to Fly, Head Editor

Oregano...............Crazy Diamond, Evanston Correspondant

Newt..................Will Be A Woman Soon, Staff Writer

Dr. Fig...............Doesn't Fear The Reaper, Staff Writer

Malakai...............Master And Servant, Staff Writer

Psychotic Ambition....Doesn't Smell Much Like Teen Spirit, Staff Poet

Zaphod................Space Oddity, Staff Writer

Conrad................Pushing The Little Daisies, Multimedia Projects

Nyarlathotep..........Won't Get Fooled Again, Mobile Correspondant

Comrade Slash.........Driven Like The Snow, Espionage Staff

Aquarius..............Madcap Laughs, Staff Writer (and M.I.A.)

and, of course:

Two Fish..............Arbiter of All That Is Cool, of All That Is True, and Crowd Control.


Weirder things have happened, you know. The Berlin Wall came down, the Great Wall Of China stayed up, a man named Newt came to be in a position of power: if they can happen, it's not all THAT odd that an issue of Propaganda Unlimited be released on time, is it?

Okay, so maybe it is. Sue us.

As of this issue, I, Midget Caesar, have assumed editing duties of PU. Whether this means we'll actually be on a schedule, only time will tell. Things generally get messy if you leave them alone long enough: such are the woes of cyberspace. While we were on extended vacation (again), The Ice Palace went all-warez, Aquarius disappeared (again) and with him his BBS, the Dark Globe, Strangeways was bought out and taken over by a shady group of men in cloaks, we generally lost contact with California, and our parakeet's head fell off (trendy little bugger). And to top it all off, I still can't speak English. On the positive side, Zaphod and his BBS, Munden's Bar, are now with us, as well as a shiny new HQ, Club Evermore. And the reign of the Republicans in Congress promises to provide endless material.....

Well, with no (or at least very little) further ado, I give you: the new PU.

Newt's Handy Dandy Guide to Modem Relationships

"Cyberspace" has gotten to be a trendy topic in the media lately. You can't read Time magazine without hearing about pornography on Internet or seeing new and groovy smiley faces. Hell, I half expect PU to be featured in a Newsweek story one of these days. One aspect that has been particulary capitalized by the meda is on-line romances. I can't pick up a magazine without hearing how Joe (aka Cyberdeath) in Toledo fell in love, proposed, and married Jane (aka SweetyPi) of Spokane all over the modem. Everything seems so hunky dory and romantic, and I just want to scream. The media has overlooked one simple fact.

Modem relationships do not work.

I do not know one that has. They sicken and disgust me. I know all too well how easy it is to create a feeling of closeness and intimacy when you're writing/typing to someone, I also know all too well how false that feeling is. For those of you who have been lucky enough to avoid this perverse form of socialization, I have written the following so you will have an idea of what you are getting into, or perhaps even heed my advice and avoid them like you'd avoid Pea Paradise Snapple.

There are two types of modem relationships (MRs.) Those that began over the modem and switched over completely into real life, and those that began over the modem and continue to exist there (communication over the telephone does not count). The first type of MR is so rare that in all my modeming days, I have found but one. It is the second type of MR I will be discussing.

To actually be a participant in this form of socialization, one must be addicted to the modem. I am not talking about spending a little too much time chatting with people or playing MUDs on Internet. One must spend every free second s/he has on the modem or with modem people (in which case they must say outloud terms like "re!" or say (hugs!) instead of actually touching someone.) Air typing while speaking is another common symptom. When one has achieved this state, one is ready for an MR.

Stage One: It all begins by innocent flirting. Perhaps a discussion about religion or the occult prompts them to e-mail each other, and soon the two participants are best buddies. Of course, since they don't actually see each other and can edit and plan anything they say to one another, each person seems perfect.

Stage Two: They decide to go out (a question almost always asked online) and spend even more time on the modem talking to one another. Of course, to create a sense of reality, the phone is also used, but the modem is still the primary mode of communication. They might meet irregularly (distance is often used as an explanation for why they rarely see one another) and soon, when the relationship moves too far into real life, annoying tendencies and habits are noticed for the first time.

Stage Three: At this point, a public, noisy break-up occurs and one member leaves the BBS where the relationship flourished. If for some strange reason they both remain, they completely ignore one another and use any opportunity they can get to ridicule the other. In which case a sympathetic member of the opposite sex steps in and listens to their side of the story, and soon, the cycle has begun again.

That's it. No real affection, just little dots on a screen. People usually aren't what they seem, and once their true self is revealed, the relationship is over.

I'm sure once people read this, letters will come pouring in from people in Stage Two criticizing my ignorance and using their relationship as an example of MRs that work. I really would like someone to prove me wrong... but so far, I haven't found anyone who can.

[DISCLAIMER: Our Newt has no connection to Mr. Gingrich, and the obviously biased Supreme Court blatantly ignored our lawsuits against him for copyright infringement. Not only is she much better looking, she'd also make a much better Speaker of the House than he would. But then, wouldn't any of us?]

Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Nine:
Ooh, eee, ooh, so I look like Buddy Holly.
by Constantine

It was past midnight when Constantine got back to his part of the Net, still reeling from the events of the day prior. He had piloted the fastest modem in the universe, breached the interdimensional barrier beyond time and space, explored a strange world beyond imagination, helped to save reality from destruction, and seen Jim Morrison inaugurated as the Guardian of the Universal Order, all in less than 24 hours.

"And", he thought bitterly as he walked along a lonely telephone line, soaked to the bone by the static storm that raged overhead, "they didn't even pay me. I'm never working for those damn Apathetics again. Even the modem's back in Dystropia, and I'm not headed back THERE anytime soon."

Finally, he reached his office building or, as he suddenly remembered, the smoking crater that had been his office building before [PeNiS!] blew it up. Constantine sat down in the middle of the crater, hip-deep in mud with the rain pouring down from above, and pouted.

He had never been very good at pouting, but tonight he found a bottomless well of self-pity, dredging up such expanses of pity and self-loathing that he pouted like a pro. He pouted so well, in fact, that a passing van of nuns on their way to a charity mud-wrestling match burst into tears as they looked on. The van, in turn, careened off the road and struck a light pole, which plummetted down and smashed into the side of the local mental hospital with a thunderous boom, right outside the room of a man who had been narcoleptic for fifty years, known only to mutter "Ia, Ia, Shub-Niggurath" in his fitful sleep. The man awoke and told an Eldritch Secret to the head nurse, who went mad and killed half of the staff with a large axe before a swat team was called in to dispatch both her and the oozing abomination from beyond space and time which appeared shortly afterward in a cloud of stinking sulphur.

Constantine was too wrapped up in self-pity to notice, which is a pity because normally he would have gotten a really good laugh out of the whole thing.

"I'll never crack this case," he sighed, "I'm all washed up. Nobody will hire me after this. Just a simple missing-persons job, and I'm all out of leads. Unless a miracle happens, I might as well pack it in right now."

As if in response, a beefy, dark hand clasped firmly over his shoulder. A rich barotone voice said from behind him, "Hello, friend. I understand you are a private investigator?"

Constantine turned, irritably, and said, "Look, pal, I don't do freeb-- oh, my Gods. It's YOU!!"

To be continued in our next episode...
So utterly shocking, we can't even tell you what it's called...
Or maybe we just didn't have time to make up a title.

The Black Plague (by Malakai)

The men parted to make an open path to Mikoun, so Mikoun came at a ready stance, from behind he heard his friends coming, and Saychen called out, "Mikoun! We're coming!" in a loud scream. At this, the skeleton-helmed man heaved his sword up and over his head and charged, screaming what Mikoun assumed as a battle cry, and Mikoun stood ready as he neared striking distance. As soon as the giant was close enough the man swung down his sword at a tremendous speed which literally whistled in the air, Mikoun brought his swords up in an X to block this mighty blow. The swords clanged loudly as the heavy sword slammed into the cross, and the force of the blow threw Mikoun to the ground. Mikoun, on the ground, kicked upwards into the man's chest, but the man did not even show any stress about it. Never had Mikoun such strength in a human! The giant man heaved up the sword with pointing down for a killing blow, but as it was heaved, an arrow flew straight into the man's left arm and a few more whizzed around the crowd, striking random targets. The man screamed in pain and dropped his sword, Mikoun promptly rolled out of the way and the sword dropped at least a foot into the ground. The man ran back to his horse and shouted something that sounded like, "Kill"

Mikoun rolled back and kicked his legs out and landed on his feet, rapiers at hand, and begun spinning them around in his hands, striking out randomly, hoping to gain the intimidation advantage over these obviously hideously evil people, but thier smiles only grew wider. His friends fired arrows which flew into the hands, arms, legs, and other various places where it's generally not good to get hit with arrows. Two men managed to avoid the arrows and make it to Mikoun, they swung immediately and both blows were deflected with a swinging block manuever, Mikoun round house kicked one across the jaw. That one fell to the ground, clutching his mouth, while the other one fell to the ground and grabbed his head, screaming out in a language unfamiliar to Mikoun. Mikoun glanced behind only to see a man ready to kill him standing behind... Mikoun pulled the rapier back over his head in time to block a swinging sword which would've surely ended his life. Mikoun then spun around and lunged out from the turn and stabbed the man in his hand, right in the center. The bandit screamed and grabbed his hand, letting his sword fall to the ground. Behind him, the other he kicked was getting back up. Mikoun simply spun around and said, "Leave, murderer, tell those like you that innocent people are not to be attacked here anymore," Mikoun said, pointing a single rapier at the man's neck, who then pissed his pants, nodded, and got up and ran off. The one Mikoun stabbed in the hand had now just kicked him in the back of the knee, and Mikoun tripped, but regained his balance and spun with the flat of the blade out, as it knocked the other man unconscious.

The rest of the party came forward, and Nym and Feinam finally caught up. Nym looked around and then approached Mikoun, "We should take this man to Nalevin and have him hung! Stupid bandits!" Nym said in a spiteful tone, and kicked the unconscious man in the chest. Mikoun stopped him from doing it again. "No, no, no... that is now what we do, we repay evil with good, not evil with evil, we must send him back so we can uproot the entire source, and you, Nym, shall follow him to the root of the problem," Mikoun smiled and stopped to see if Nym understood, Nym smiled back at the obvious logic his hate for murderers and bandits caused him to overlook, Mikoun then turned to Amber and said, "Amber, have you learned anything today?" Amber, looking rather tired as well as speaking that way, said, "Yessir! I learned that if you want to be good, you have to be good..." she stopped at the stupidness of that statement to rephrase, "Er... what I meant is, good for evil and good for good," she smiled at this. Mikoun patted her on the back, "Good, Amber, you will be quite knowledgable when you grow older," Mikoun stopped talking when he heard the bandit awaken and attempt to sneak off, Nym proceeded to follow.

After waiting around for a couple hours, Nym returned to the camp site. He walked into Mikoun's tent and said, "Mikoun, I have found where they all are, or where they all probably are, I memorized the location." Mikoun got up and exclaimed in happiness, "Great!" he toned down a bit and spoke again, "Now, get some sleep, we will continue on to Nalevin and buy supplies, then go to the location of this evil band and put them out for the gods to judge," and with that, Mikoun lay back down and drifted back off into sleep, and they slept all night, watched by Saychen's ever alert mind.

"Beautiful Beginnings" by Zaphod

The beginning is always beautiful,
Until all the facts are known.
The start of anything is wonderful
Until that moment.
The moment
When everything is seen,
Seen clearly and in perspective.
Then all becomes strange
And incomprehensible.
The only beauty then,
Is waiting for the end.

"Inferno of Death" by Zaphod

I am consumed
By the inferno called Death,
As others hide
In hopeless sanctuary.
Death does not strike the same fear in me,
For I have realized that it is inevitable.
And when you gaze into the shallow eyes
Of the being known as the Reaper
You will see what I have seen...
That all will be burnt
Into eternal sleep.

Satan's Little Hiding Game, by Dr. Fig and Funky Mahatma

Where does Satan keep his cheese?
Where does Satan keep his cheese?
Where does Satan keep his cheese?
Oh, where does Satan keep his cheese?
There is no refrigerator in Hell,
as anyone who's been there can easily tell.
So, where does Satan keep his cheese?

Where does Satan keep his cheese?
Where does Satan keep his cheeeeese?
Oh, where does Satan keep his cheese?

Now don't you go and tell me that Satan has no cheese,
'cause it's just assumed that Satan has cheese.
So where does Satan keep his cheese?
Where does Satan keep his cheese,
where does Satan keep his cheese?
Oh where does Satan keep his cheese?

Satan has no pockets,
Satan has no lockets,
so where does the demon keep his cheese?
Where does Satan keep his cheese?
Is it in between his knobby knees?
Is there cheddar on the pitchfork?
Is there Swiss on the horns?
Where does Satan keep his cheese,
Where the Hell does he keep his cheese?
I wanna know where he keeps his cheese!
I wanna know where he keeps his cheese!
Someone tell me where I can find that cheese!
Oh, where does Satan keep his cheese?
Where does Satan keep his cheese?
Oh, will someone tell me please:
Where does Satan keep his cheese?
Oh, where does Satan keep his cheese?
Where does Satan keep his cheeeeessse?

"Wave of Peace" by Zaphod

A skull rests on the beach
Watching the foam.
Watching with empty eyes
As it flows in and out.
Waiting to be carried out to sea,
And to finally find tranquility.
The waves crashing near the empty head,
Never quite consuming it.
Until the final wave comes
And carries it to happiness.

"Erosion" by Zaphod

Every day of existence
The mountain called life crumbles
Bit by bit.
Warn away
By the winds of other lives.
The acid rain of love
Attacks its heart
Slowly destroying it.
Beaten upon by life's winds
Until no more than a pebble remains.

Dead Men (a pretentiously serious thing)
by Dr. Fig

A stranger comes and he asks me
"What on earth is so wrong?"
How can I answer,
but in my little song?
They are dead men.
They are dead men.
Then the stranger asks again about these poor, lost dead men.
"Now what were these men's crimes,
that they were martyred in their own times?"
They are dead men.
They are dead men.
All they asked for was our love,
hate was all that we were thinking of.
They spoke of their desire to end pain,
their own ideals were their bane.
They are dead men.
They are dead men.
To noble causes did they give their lives,
they had little fear of guns and knives.
They are dead men.
They are dead men.
They tried to save lives by the score,
they fought a world rotten to the core.
They are dead men.
They are dead men.
Not a soul did they wish to harm,
they weren't meant to hunt, but to farm.
They are dead men.
They are dead men.
They wished to free all from slavery,
to urge all men to fraternity.
They are dead men.
They are dead men.
They stood for peace and liberty,
they were treated with cruelty.
They are dead men.
They are dead men.
They never wished to hurt anyone,
they met their fates at the barrel of a gun.
They are dead men.
They are dead men.
They were prophets of a better age.
They were targets of a bitter rage.
They are dead men.
They are dead men.
They tried to show us to a better way.
They bravely marched into death's doorway.
They are dead men.
They are dead men.
All they came to do was help us,
and we turned them into so much dust.
They are dead men.
They are dead men.
And now do we repent their fate?
For them it is now far too late.
Torn apart by a world of lies!
I hear their cries,
oh yes, I hear their cries.
They are dead men.
They are dead men.
Now we must heed their warning,
or soon we all shall be in mourning.

"Mirage" by Zaphod

A stone is thrown,
Ripples move through the water.
A thirsty man dips his hand
And drinks.
Sand cuts his throat
As he swallows,
Nothing is what it seems.

"Sex With a Baby Dinosaur"
by Zaphod

Who would imagine
Sex with a baby dino?
The squeal,
Or the roar,
The passion,
The innocent oddity.

The things he could do
Would shock most of you
And make some women cry
More, more, MORE!

Who could imagine
Sex with a baby dino?
The squeal,
The howl,
The passion,
The innocent oddity.

The things they would say
As they turned minds away
From the thoughts
And the mysteries
Of sex,
With a baby dinosaur.

Could you,
Would youv Imagine sex
With a baby dinosaur?
The squeal,
The moans,
The passion,
The innocent oddity
Of sex with a baby dinosaur?

[Editor's Note: Eat your heart out, Lord Byron.]

Cry Havoc, And Let Slip The Small Woodland Creatures of War! (part one)
(chapter six of the dystropian chronicles)

It wasn't a dark and stormy night. It was snowing, in fact, and it was fairly bright out. Some would call these blizzard conditions, some would call it a desolate landscape, covered with white as far as the eyes could see. And some would call the first two groups of people melodramatic, and hit them with a snowball.

In the distance lie a mansion. It radiated darkness and evil, and was summarily shut down for high radiation levels. Next door was another mansion whose exterior evoked feelings of mystery and solitude (and a little darkness, too, but not really enough to be a problem). No one was ever seen coming in or going out of the mansion, and it was thought to be deserted. Rumours ran among the children of the area that it was a haunted mansion, or that its sole occupant was a raving lunatic, and it was commonly whispered that strange noises and lights could be observed in the mansion late at night. But these children were still working at being potty-trained, and if one cannot take care of one's own poopies, one is hardly capable of testifying reliably about strange noises and lights, so we'll ignore them.

However, destiny lay within this mansion (actually, a little off to the left of it, closer to the E-Z Pantry, see?), but in this kind of weather, maps were a bit off anyways. It was time.....for a gathering.

Percy trudged through the arctic tundra, alone in the snow-covered wilderness, excepting of course the millions of microscopic organisms that are everywhere anyways. Having accomplished Point One of the Great Peace (which was dinner - see chapter one), Percy wandered towards Point Two, which was getting to sleep. He had two choices: a Holiday Inn was a couple miles to the right, or the aforementioned mansion was straight ahead. Percy, of course, went for the Holiday Inn, but before he got much further his Good-Vision [tm] goggles alerted him to a wickedly grinning group of tacos waiting for him at the Percy made his way towards the mansion.

Darius still felt empty inside, his soul wracked with guilt for having been partially responsible for the departure of Reality. (see chapter three/prelude chapter five) He wouldn't allow himself back in a courtroom after the damage he had caused. Nothing poor Darius did could fill the aching void of angst within him, not even the 40 pounds of adamantium steel he had swallowed. Darius could not stand to stay long in one place (nomad, vagabond, call him what you will), and lived on a prayer and the gigantic jars of pennies he had been collecting for years (and you thought those never came in useful!) Having nowhere much to go, Darius had circled the globe a couple times, and had eventually accumulated a rather large group of bored people with nothing better to do than to follow a bearded stranger. This was all considered perfectly rational, of course. Disagreements flew within the group as to the true nature of their leader's mission, and no one could quite agree. At the moment, the majority were leaning towards Darius as an activist against male pattern baldness, hence the beard. Others simply liked his shoelaces. The gathering eventually reached a crossroads, where Darius abruptly stopped. Emotion was coming across his wind-beaten face for the first time in quite awhile, and the group was equally stunned to witness him note out loud that the mansion smelled of chicken - and to watch him take off running towards it. After a moment of hesitation, the group followed.

Vernon could detect and track prey from miles away. Said to be the world's 8th deadliest hunter (how they rank these things is anyone's guess), he had primarily made his living as a recoverer of stolen cars. But no more! There was real prey on the loose.....well, the real prey's pants were stuck in a fence that it had attempted to climb, but soon it would be loose again. Vernon was a force to be reckoned with. Using precise principles of physics, geometry, and home economics, it was only a matter of time before Vernon's fierce vengeance fell upon an unsuspecting victim. Vernon zipped up his pants and strolled confidently into his boss's office at Hide And We Seek Auto Recovery, and told his boss in an only slightly wavering tone that Vernon was going to be requiring some of his vacation time now. His boss glanced up and told him no, the Holiday Seasoning was still in full effect, that Vernon wasn't going anywhere.

Vernon could detect and track prey from miles away, and planned to, the moment he got a day off of work.

(Stay tuned for Part Two, in which:
- The doors of the Mansion are finally opened!
- The plumbing of the Mansion is found to be faulty!v - More faces from the past as well as a couple new ones arrive!
- Percy has a bad hair day!)

A Plea For Help.
(from Midget Caesar)

Once was bad enough. Actually the first time wasn't very bad at all. It was a simple phone call, not placed by me of course, but by the Marines. A cheerful sounding man called me at 10:30 am one fine Wendesday, waking me up. I didn't mind too much, it was summer, everything is golden then anyways. The caller identified himself as holding some sort of rank with the Army, and I took his word for it. He asked me what I planned on doing with my future, which would have been a great opener for a recruiting speech if I hadn't informed him that I didn't plan on having a future, and goodbye. A chapter in my life closed, hopefully yes?

No, the day would come when I would yearn for the simple innocence of that summer phone call. By late November, I had forgotten about the initial phone call completely, and having just finished the production of "42nd Street" I was in, was ready for some peace - but all it came to was pieces. This time the phone call hit at 10:45 am on a Saturday, and having already been awakened by other early callers, I was at least awake as I wandered out of bed mostly naked to answer the phone. Sergeant Weikert was on the other end of the phone, did I remember him? No, sir, I didn't. Sergeant Weikert informed me of his purpose, to get me into the Marines, and wouldn't give me time to express a lack of interest. He just kept going, pausing only to ask me where I was planning to go to college, and sadly I didn't know yet - a mistake rather similar to slitting your wrists in the middle of an ocean. He launched in upon me, and I was only able to stop him by blurting out that I have a severe authority problem. He was confused for a moment, and asked me if I wouldn't have to learn to deal with that at some point in my life? I said that I was going to wait until I grew up to worry about such things. I hoped this was enough - but no, he kept going. Finally, I told him that I was a pacifist in all forms, abhorred violence, and morally could not support an institution dedicated to the murder of other human beings, and just overlooked his pleas to my absent patriotism. This threw Sergeant Weikert off a bit, thankfully, and I thought that I was free - until he found a new leg to chew on. I had mentioned earlier that I wanted to go into broadcasting (why? it's more fun that engineering, I'd guess), and the Sergeant, now gaining momentum, asked me if I had heard of Dan Rather, and yes, though I don't have a TV, yes, I have I guess. Sergeant Weikert drew parallels between Dan Rather and I, and told me how Dan Rather had served overseas as a Marine Radio DJ, and that's something I could do too! After all, our servicemen need music as they're being good soldiers, right? I wearily acknowledged that they probably did, and could I go now? No, Sergeant Weikert wanted to see me in his office, and discuss these options further. Was Tuesday good for me? No, sir, I have a dentists appointment. Well, was the next week at all good for me? No, sir, I planned on being busy for the next year or so doing, um, oh, right, a musical called "42nd Street", yeah, that's it! I should have realized, however, that I was dealing with a bloodhunting professional. Sergeant Weikert decided that he'd like to come SEE the play I was in. So I told him the high school it was at, and I sincerely hope he was busy, because the theatre was quite empty at that point. Sergeant Weikert promised to call me soon, and finally, I was off the phone and back to bed.

I thought it was over. I kept my phone line busy as much as possible. But one December afternoon, he got me. It was 11:45 am, and I was asleep, on Christmas break from school. Hello, did I remember him? This was my old pal Sergeant Weikert! yea, i remmber i think. Hey, there, did he wake me up? Gee golly gosh, what was I doing sleeping? It was almost noon! yeah, i KNOW that. i was up late last night. leamme alone. Well, was this a bad time for me? yeah, it was. Okay, well, he'd be sure to call me back a little later. So I went on alert again, and kept the phone busy for the next few days......and so far I'm safe.

So far.

It could happen to you, don't forget. Be vigilant, learn from my mistakes, and don't talk to strangers. Me, I'm not home right now, sorry, may I take a message?


- More Fear, More Loathing, More of those Dystropian Rhythms.

- Rancor: a new sci-fi series by Nyarlathotep!

- Dr. Fig gets MEDIEVAL on yo, your theatre.

- More Zaphod poetry, the continued search for Aquarius, and:

- The Propaganda Unlimited FAQ (Frequently Asked Questions) File! All you ever wanted to know about PU's staff that's printable!

The Ever-Changing Distribution List:

To pick up the latest PU or to submit material for use in PU, call any one of these fine BBSes:

Club Evermore (312) 476-1508
Dimensional HQ

MicroInformation Systems (805) 251-0564
West Coast HQ

The Legion of the Unduck (708) 546-4605
A Nice Place To Visit

Frontal Lobotomy (312) 588-4231
Renovated and Open

The Obloid Sphere (708) 965-3098
Oregano = CoSysop!


Munden's Bar (815) 455-9783
Where Somebody Knows Your Name


And, as always, PU Internet:
(Official PU Mailbox!)

(Midget Caesar direct)

Thank you, and Good Night.

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