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Propaganda Unlimited Volume 1 Issue 4
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Propaganda Unlimited
March 28, 1994 Volume One, Issue Four
"More Fun Than You Can Have Firebombing The Academy Awards!"
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STAFF
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Midget Caesar .............. Best Actor, Head Writer
Constantine .............. Best Director, Head Editor
Oregano .............. Best Performance in a Film Using the
Word "Rutabaga", Evanston Columnist.
Newt .............. Best Reason to Have Madly Romantic Dreams,
Staff Writer.
Nyarlathotep .............. Best Person in Indiana, Period. Indiana
Correspondent.
Aquarius .............. Best Aeon, Staff Writer.
Nex .............. Technical Award, Distribution Manager and
Staff Writer
Operatech .............. Special Effects, Distribution Staff
and...
Two Fish .............. The Arbiter of All That is Cool.
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CONTENTS
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1. Introduction to Issue #4
by Midget Caesar
2. Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Four
by Constantine
3. Bob
by Aquarius
4. Lucid Death, Part Two
by Nex
5. Meat More Midgets!
by Midget Caesar
6. Jury Duty Can Be FUN!
by Oregano
7. Dystropia, Part Something
by Midget Caesar
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Introduction to Propaganda #4
by Midget Caesar
Welcome to wherever you are, and if you ever figure out exactly where
that is, please let us know, for we haven't a clue where *we* are. Yes,
Propaganda Unlimited has returned. Yes, there is also panic in the streets
and mass hysteria, but that's pure coincidence, regardless of WHAT Billy
Graham says. <Our lawyers prevent us from commenting further>
Hey, don't look now, but the Berlin Wall just came down.
The walls are closing in, but we don't really have any idea what
they're made of. We had to undergo that time-honored ritual of taking the
SATs recently. SATs represent the pinnacle of education, yet with all
those ovals to fill in, all the computer scores, somehow the individual is
lost. We become just a number, and somehow the schools look upon this
kindly. We guess that says something.
Hope you enjoyed the Demo included with last issue.....send us some
mail letting us know what other kinds of freebies you'd like to see. The
Alternate version of issue #2 with "D000000M" will NOT be redistributed,
sorry, and the same policy applies to the Small Dachshund Named Ralph
being zipped up with certain versions of this issue <poor guy>. If you
don't get one now, you may never.
More appropriately, welcome to whoever or whatever you are. <Yes, we
here at Propaganda Unlimited HQ are clueless on that subject too> Music is
lots of fun, and predictably once again this year the official awards
shows have proven to be meaningless. Thus, we must toss out our own
awards:
Best Album: "Star", Belly Best Song: "Feed The Tree", Belly
Most Sadly Overplayed Song: "Feed The Tree", Belly
Best New Group: Belly
Best New Solo Artist: Bjork
Best Album Called "Debut": "Debut", Bjork
Most Profound Song Lyrics, No Matter What You Literate People Think:
Nirvana, "In Utero"
Coolest Thing To Yell In The Mosh Pits: "Don't Call Me Daughter!!!", Pearl
Jam
Best Group: Def Mangoe
Best Live Performance: Def Mangoe at Comic Relief Stadium
Grooviest Grin: Tori Amos
Best Jim Morrison Wanna-Be Performance: Kurt Cobain
Morons: Anyone who spells Kurt Cobain's name Kurdt.
Utterly Naked and Incoherent: Us, really.
Best Heavy Metal Performance, Solo Artist: Lawrence Welk
Most Blatantly Cheerful Man In Music: Trent Reznor <he's just kidding,
folks>
Hey, Shut Up And Go Away Already: Whitney Houston
If You Keep Encouraging Them, They Might Actually Reunite: The Village
People
Elvis In Disguise: Glenn Danzig
Whatever Happened To.....: INXS?
Goofiest Damn Video on MTV: Guns 'N Roses, "Estranged"
Thank You For Shutting Up And Going Away, Now Stay There: Madonna
"Why?" : Blind Melon Poses Nude on the cover of Rolling Stone
Worse: The Bee Girl Poses Nude on the cover of Rolling Stone
Best Haircut in Rock: Sinead o'Connor
Most Obnoxious Born-Again Catholic in Rock: Sinead o'Connor
Now We Get It! It Was The NAME That Made Us Failures: NKOTB
Heh. Hehehehe. Hehehehehehe. BWAH-HA-HA-HA!: Vanilla Ice's "Rasta"
Comeback!
Now let's all take a moment to worship Pink Floyd.
<whew> There.
There's our opinions. <Midget Caesars' picks are not necessarily
representative of the opinions of the rest of the Propaganda Unlimited
Staff, But They SHOULD be> They can be used to Wipe Out the Grammys! Yay!
<Note: The Above Opinions are Completely Unbiased, and Any Opinion to the
Contrary is a Blasphemous Rumour spread by Lawrence Welk cuz we
made him pay so much>
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Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace, Part Four:
Cthulhu Loves the Children of the World
by Constantine
"Last thing I remembered," Jim Morrison was droning as the jet-black
14.4 roared down the phone grid, "Was somebody telling me that if I stuck
my tongue in an electric socket, the buzz was INCREDIBLE... This was
after I faked my death and fled to South America with Elvis, of course."
I nodded, hands gripping the dashboard as we lurched over a pocket of
static and careened around a corner.
"Next thing I know, They brought me in here."
"They?"
He nodded gravely. "They."
"You mean... The Powers of Darkness? Satan? Baalezebub? Rush
Limbaugh?"
"I can't tell you. I can only tell you this: the day destroys the
night, but the night divides the day."
"That's profound."
"Thank you."
He dropped me off at the walkway to Evermore Keep. As I was getting out
of the modem, he grabbed my shoulder.
"Wait. I have one more thing to tell you. You must seek the Ascended
Masters."
"I'll do that."
"Good. That reminds me-- any idea where I could score some really good
acid?"
"Get high on life, Jim."
Swearing under his breath, he slammed the door and screeched off with a
shower of sparks. Shrugging, I hummed a happy tune as I walked up the
drive to...
...Nothing. Evermore Keep was gone, a huge void hovering in cyberspace
where the entire castle had been utterly eradicated. I sniffed the air,
catching the smell of ozone and faint magnetic traces whirling around me.
In the shallow, smoking crater where my garage once stood, a textfile laid
on the ground. I jumped down and picked it up, my eyes narrowing as I
read the scrawled, child-like handwriting.
"D00D!! This was a WaRnInG! Next time, youll be in the Keep when we
blow it up! No, wait, we blew it up already. We meen, next time youll be
in the Keep when we blow something ELSE up! YeAh! Ha Ha Ha! Stay oFf da
CaSe or DIE!! Yors truley, the Mastrs of Desaster, [PeNiS!]"
I gasped as I read the signature, extended ANSI text flashing like a
fire alarm. I thought that the Professional Elite Neuromancers in
Syberspace had been destroyed years ago, when the first BLaH Expeditionary
Task Force engaged them in battle and slew the Dark Nun... (Editor's
Note: see the Hefty Herb Saga, in classic BLaH). But now, this force
of utter evil, this diabolical organization, worse than SPECTRE, Fu
Manchu, and AT&T combined, had once again reared its ugly head. I could
sense the approach of a great battle, a globe-spanning epic of proportions
so great that the bards would sing of it for centuries to come, so utterly
earth-shaking that the world as we knew it would never, ever forget it. A
battle that would change lives, that would tear souls apart and reforge
them anew, a battle that could lead to the destruction of all life in the
universe!
"Well," I said, "Shit. Guess that blows my vacation."
At the bottom of the note, a postscript had been attached. I read on.
"Ps, D00D! We StOlE YeR CaR!! Ha hA Ha!"
Now they were going to die.
It was a long walk to 312, but I made it to my old hangout, the
Intelligent Shade of Blue. The place had been remodeled a few (hundred)
times over the years, but it was still the same old haunt I had come to
know and love-- any bar that serves adrenochrome cocktails is my kind of
place. As I approached the front door, my eyes flitted over to a sign in
a nearby window, an advertisement from the Mystic Wonderful New-Age
Healing Crystal Herbal Resource Bunnies n' Light Emporium (TM).
"Live at the Emporium, for a limited time-- meet MARVIN THE STUPEFYING!
This world-famous author, lecturer and psychic has been gifted with the
amazing power of CHANNELING... For just $20 for a five-minute session,
you can meet...
-- NOROM, the 25,000 year-old Atlantean War God who gives helpful
household advice!
-- Jimmy Hoffa!
-- Abraham Lincoln!
-- The New Kids on the Block! (Currently doing an extended tour in
Hell)
-- and... The Ascended Masters of 42 Galaxies!
Don't delay, as Marvin will only be with us for a limited time!"
With a sigh of resignation, I checked my wallet and started walking
towards the Emporium. Whatever the Ascended Masters wanted from me, they
had better be able to say it in five minutes or less.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Watch for Fear and Loathing in Cyberspace Part Five:
"James Earl Jones Has Sex with His Bathers!"
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"What Bob Did On A Miscellaneous Friday"
by Aquarius
As soon as Bob woke up, he knew someone was watching him.
It was strange. After he wiped the yucky sleep-crust from his eyes,
he glanced around his bedroom. Oh, it was only his dog, Chubbins.
"It's about time you woke up." said Chubbins.
"Aw, go eat your Alpo." Bob replied grumpily.
Yes. It was true. Bob's dog could talk. But Bob didn't
really care. In fact, it was quite a nuisance, especially when
the dog learned how to use the phone. But that's another story.
Bob walked into the bathroom and took a leak. He then
walked back into his bedroom to change his clothes. However,
when he opened his shirt drawer, he found a small note on top
of his shot-to-death-smiley-face shirt.
"Hmm. How odd." said Bob.
The note read: "Stop talking to yourself."
"Boy, now that is TOTALLY weird!" thought Bob as he realized
there was more writing on the back of the note.
The back of the note read: "That's much better."
Whoa! Twilight Zone city! Bob heard a noise and turned around.
It was Rod Serling! No, wait, it was only his dad.
"Hurry it up, Bob, we have to leave for the waffle convention
in 15 minutes!" Bob's dad reminded him.
"Sorry dad. I'm going to have to miss this one. My friends
and I are going to get together for some hopscotch."
"Oh, OK. Well, your mother's at the paint store, and she
won't be back until dinnertime. I should be back around then, too,
so try to be back before dinner."
"Will do, Dad. See ya."
"Bye."
Bob's dad walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Nailed to the back of the door was a scarecrow that looked eerily like
Bob with a nametag with Bob's name on it: Bob.
"Now how did that get there?", thought Bob.
"Great, I'll have to get all the nails out with a hammer.
I'll do it later."
Bob went downstairs and poured himself some tangerine juice.
As he was drinking it, he perused the Thursday paper. There was a
sale at his favorite store, Salt Central! He'd have to stop by
there sometime today. Bob tore the paper into tiny pieces and
put it in the garbage. He then picked up the phone and called
his best friend, Nimroy.
"Hello?", said the part of the phone by Bob's ear in a woman-type
voice.
"Hi, could I speak to Nimroy?", asked Bob.
"Sure, Nimroy's right here... Nimroy? Oh my god! Don't open
that! No, no, not th- AAAAHHHH! Get some bandages! My face! My face!"
"Hey Bob, what's up?", said Nimroy as he came on the line.
"Are we going to get a game of hopscotch going?"
"Probably not, I have to take my mom to the hospital."
"Oh. Well, I'll see you later then. Bye."
"Bye."
Bob hung up the phone and decided to head over to Salt Central.
He got into his mauve 1977 Plymouth Duster and cruised away at 73 mph.
On the way there he flipped through the radio stations, but turned it
off in disgust when he realized all the stations had the emergency
tone on. Bob didn't feel like waiting to see if instructions really
_did_ follow the tone. As he came into view of Salt Central, he
realized the place looked pretty packed. But of course, what did he
expect with a 3% off sale going on? He pulled into a handicapped space
and walked into the store. A sale on salt licks! Bob decided he
better pick up a couple. In fact, Bob also ended up buying a salt
shaker and a cool blown-up picture of salt under a microscope.
After Bob strangled the police officer giving him a ticket, he
got into his car and pulled away. Bob realized that a ninja was sitting
in his back seat.
"Hwaa suige sukarama soy sauce gstorana kawasaki!", said
the Ninja.
"Could you please speak English?", Bob asked politely.
"What is the 7th letter of the alphabet?"
"G."
"Oh."
"No, it's G, not O!"
"I see."
"How can it be TWO letters? It can't be I _and_ C!"
"What is this, Abbot and Costello? Just keep driving,
fat boy."
Bob was not fat. In fact, he was quite thin.
"We're going to take you to see Hwung Chou.", said the Ninja.
"Fine. I don't have anything else to do."
Bob drove to Hwung Chou's house.
A golf cart drove out to meet the car. An Atari 2600 seemed
to be driving. Bob and the Ninja got into the cart, and it skyrocketed
into outer space, all the way out to a bubble-dome on Neptune. Hwung
Chou was inside the bubble.
"We need you to solve a huge dilemma here, Bob." said Hwung
Chou.
"Fine, fine, whatever, just hurry up. My toenails need clipping."
Bob told Chou.
"We need you to tell us what the square root of three is."
"1.73, but that is not exact, of course.", said Bob.
"Hey! Yeah! Thanks Bob! I'll make sure we send you some
gift certificates to your house. Maybe some nice Macaroni samples?"
Bob got into the golf cart and drove home. The traffic
wasn't too bad.
He got back just in time for "The Young And The Restless".
He left his car at Hwung Chou's house. Oh well. It was a piece
of crap anyway.
THE END
(C) Aquarius, 1993
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ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
Lucid Death, Part Two
by Nex
ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
Some say that when you die in your dreams, you die in life.
Well, I died in a dream, and as you can see, I'm still around to type this
text file. However, although I did not physically die, it feels as
though a certain aspect of my mind is either no longer there or it has
been buried away for the time being. Anyway. What you are about to
read, if you have the interest, is a narrative account of a lucid dream,
or rather, a lucid nightmare, which I have recently had. For dramatic
purposes, I may edit a couple things here and there...
[Editor's Note: Narrative continued from last issue.]
The bullet struck Lou in the left eye and he fell backwards into his
store. My aim needed a little work. I strolled over to his store and
walked in. I looked down at Lou, who still had that look of pure terror
washed over his face. I spit in it. Then I grabbed the shotgun and
checked to see how much ammo was left. Shit, there was only one shot
left. I grabbed a Twinkie and stuck it in my mouth as I started to search
the place for money and more ammo for the shotgun. I found a couple of
shells that looked like duds, but I took em anyway. The bastard only had
3 bucks in his damn cash register!
I grabbed a bag and started piling in various things; HoHo's, cans of
Jolt!, Mountain Dew, cigarettes, bread, cheese, and various meats. When
the bag was full, I made my way out of the store, careful as to not trip
over Lou.
As I walked out, I noticed that bums and beggars were already start-
ing to gather around the store. Not because they wanted to see what the
gunshots were about, but because they were starving. The fuck had been
hording the damn food for himself. I casually walked back over to my
sleek black Yamaha Shredder. I punched in my security code on the keypad,
and the turbines came to life. I mounted it, and took off down the street
at about 60. I sped over to the abandoned church near California and
Fairfield. I got off and entered the church. The smell of urine and
human (non-human?) waste would normally sicken me, but I had gotten used
to it by now. I walked over to the altar.
"Hey Charlie," I said, "I got you some more grub."
"Tyler, you scum, where've you been?" Charlie asked.
"Nowhere. I've been nowhere. Now take the food, I've gotta run." I
left the church, primarily because I couldn't stand to see people living
like that, especially old people like Charlie. I had just started the
turbines on my bike again when I heard screams coming from the alley. I
quickly checked for my gun and darted for the alley behind the church. I
knew I was headed for trouble when I heard the metallic sounds. As I
turned the corner, I saw about five PCs and two kids. One kid was already
being mindwiped by one, and the other was held in the air by the arm by
another. I took my gun out and took a step forward.
"Hey, dumbfucks, come get me, not those kids!"
Boy, that was a really stupid mistake. There were FIVE damnit! The
other three not preoccupied turned around and I saw their red glowing eyes
adjust to my figure. They were probably looking me up in their library of
fugitives. I knew this for a fact when one said in a metallic voice,
"Tyler, Eric P. Rebel. Wanted Dead or Alive, preferably Dead."
The three started walking towards me, their metal limbs glinting in the
light from the streetlamp. I charged them at full speed. This was
obviously unexpected, as they stopped for a split second, adjusting to a
new combat routine. But in that split second, I did a flip over the
middle one and landed in front of the one holding the kid not being
mindwiped. The thing looked like it was smiling as it nailed me in the
sternum with its metal fist.
Damn, that hurt.
I flew back about 10 feet and hit the wall of the building behind me, my
breath leaving me and the blood trickling from the back of my head. My
sight grew hazy, but I had to fight it. I got up groggily, my gun
miraculously still in my hand. Simultaneously applying pressure to the
wound on the back of my head, I pulled the trigger of my gun which was now
aimed at the head of the PC holding the kid. It didn't do anything except
make a nice little spark, but it did make the PC focus its attention to me
instead of the kid. It dropped the kid and headed towards me.
I scaled the wall of the building I had slammed against, using various
protrusions as footholds. I got up onto the roof just as I lost my
balance from that damn wound on the back of my head.
The things were coming up after me. I looked around frantically, and
saw no escape...
(To Be Continued)
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Yes, It's Just What You Were Hoping Not To See Staring You In The
Face During Your Third Period Algebra Class:
Even MORE Midget Caesars! Whee!
<Let's Meet A Few Hundred Lunatics, Part Two>
Slurp Fishie Fish:
Wuz ripped off, bro, and he gonna jack the Dog whut dissed him!
Slurp is hip to the sounds of the Pacific ghetto, and is currently facing
a murder rap for trying to coerce we Caesars into eating some fish sticks.
"You Don' Luv Me, You Jus' Luz Mah Fishie Style."
Bob of Arc:
Joan's little-known older brother who served as a model for Joan, right
down to the pantyhose and bra he wore into battle.
Mack the Spoon:
The Knife's business partner, he was murdered by a roving gang of sporks.
Romeo:
Didn't realize what a wacky sense of humor Juliet had.
THEY:
The source of all rumors that originate with "Well, THEY say he was in he
closet with her....."
Ronald Reagan's Coherency:
Has been in here for several decades, but ol' Ronnie is doing fine without
it.
Mr. Jones, Mr. Smith, Mr. Brown, Mr. Garcia, Mr. Johnson, and Mr. Wang:
Collectively fathered over half of the world's population.
<boy, are they pooped>
Trent Reznor's Happy and Cheery Twin Brother:
Is still attempting a music career with songs like "Happiness In Everyday
Life", "March of the Happy People", and albums like "Fixed", and "Just
Plain Pretty Machine".
The Entire Population of Idaho:
<okay, so maybe not, but would you really notice if they were gone?>
All Of Your Mismatched, Lost Socks:
Would like us to tell you that they don't really miss you.
Abraham Lincoln:
Faked his death! It was a conspiracy, and he avoided it!
Vinnie Washington:
Second Cousin, Twice Removed of Our Country. <George never liked him much>
Milli Vanilli:
Okay, so they have nothing to do with us, we just like to type that name
and laugh about it for a while.
Shakespeare's Pet Gecko:
The TRUE author of Shakespeare's works.
The New Kids On The Block's Popularity:
Weren't we mean to steal it? They're still clueless where it went....
The Cheerful Reaper:
Hey, death isn't all that bad! Brighten up, it'll be FUN!
<Look for MORE Profiles of the Not-Especially Wealthy or Sane soon!>
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Jury Duty Can Be FUN!
by Oregano
Jury duty began a few weeks earlier with a letter. I was told
that I was one of the lucky ones who gets the honor of serving my
community, fulfilling the constitution of this great land. I had
to send in a form and then a few weeks later I was sent a summons
signed by an actual judge to appear at a certain courthouse at a
certain date and time. And to make things easier they sent me
instructions as to which buses to take to arrive at the appointed
courthouse.
For me this led to a phone call to a friend who is a big fan
of jury duty, in fact she gets into it so much that she often
becomes foreman (forewoman?) of her jury group and wears her
responsibility on her sleeve. First question she asked me was
where i would be serving. I told her 1340 S Michigan and she
told me that that was the courthouse that everyone dreads, its
in a bad neighborhood and there are more criminals outside the
courthouse than inside. But she gave me a few tips and a few
days later it was time to go.
Being a master of Chicago's public transportation I decided
to take the Chicago and Northwestern train to downtown Chicago.
The train is always a nice way to travel with its big
comfortable seats. In fact the only time the train is bad to
take is when its snowing or raining outside where you get
people's dripping feet from the second level. In Chicago the
entire train station was in the process of being torn up so it
was a challenge to snake my way through all the construction
(destruction?) to get out of the Atrium building.
It was then a nice mile walk to Michigan avenue, through the
heart of Chicago's financial district. The streets teemed with
people wearing gaudy colored jackets, bright green with yellow
collars. These people, i later found out, worked for the Chicago
Board of Trade and these odd jackets somehow signify where in the
trading pit they belong.
The cold was biting but I made it from Canal street to
Michigan Avenue without losing any appendages to frostbite.
First thing I did at Michigan Ave was to take out my guide to
buses and find what would take me south. A few of the buses
stopped at the corner where I was standing but others went by, I
had no idea of whether the bus I needed would stop at my corner,
until I noticed it drive by without stopping. I ran down the
street chasing it yet it would not stop. I then discovered that
buses only stop at places marked with a bus stop sign.
The bus made good progress, and I kept track of the
addresses as they drifted by, and since I couldn't see every
building I kept a mental note in my head of where I was, finally
it was up to the 1100 block (I was looking for the 1300 block)
and the bus suddenly turned off of Michigan Ave. Panic filled
my heart, I saw myself having to get off way by Soldier Field
and walk 2 1/2 miles to the court house in a not very favorable
part of the city. But as luck had it the bus turned south again
after a block; I yanked several times on the weird bell that
informs the driver that someone wishes to get off and after
going the length of the block the driver left me off. I walked
two blocks, easily found the courthouse and went inside.
As one might expect the entrance to the courthouse had metal
detectors and was swarming with police. Before I went through I
was asked to check my radio in a front room. It appears that
some people are fond of bringing in bombs concealed in portable
radios. This was rather reassuring. After checking my radio I
was asked to remove all metal from my pockets. So off went my
watch, my headphones, my keys, and then I took out about $12 in
change and put it all in a basket by the metal detector. The
officer looked at all my change and asked, "Did you rob a pay
phone?" I smiled weakly and walked through the metal detector
then collected all my metal.
Finding the meeting room for jurors was easy, I just followed
the signs. Just outside the door I was handed a sheet explaining
the rules for jurors and I was given a sticker that in big white
letters on a bright red background said I was a juror. Inside
the juror's room I gave my summons sheet and was asked to pick a
number from a little wastebasket on the counter. I was in group
17.
The loud noise in the room was a television in the far
corner that was tuned to the Home Show, seats were facing both
directions with each row containing seats with their backs to
each other. All the seats facing the television were taken, but
I had brought reading material, daytime TV turned me off. I
should probably mention at this time that I was about a half hour
late. Having some disregard for the law I decided to sleep in a
half hour rather than come in on time. It turns out that it
didn't matter that I was late except for not getting a seat
facing the TV.
The TV was loud, so loud that it could not be ignored, it
was hard to read, as the hosts discussed that the "in" color for
the spring was silver, or that El Paso, Texas has instituted a
new curfew policy. I finished one article in the magazine I
brought and found that I could not bring myself to start another,
my concentration had been destroyed. After about an hour the
TV went silent and a lady at the head of the room, holding a
remote control, told us that she had a little tape that she
wanted to show us. The lights in the room went dark and a second
TV facing towards me showed a tape explaining how the jury would
be selected. It went through how the lawyers might reject us for
whatever reason, and that we should not take this personally.
The tape told us that we should not talk about out case with
anyone, that bad people might try to influence us and that if we
talk we might be the ones going to jail. The tape lasted 7 or so
minutes and then on came the Home Show again and we were left
once again to sit.
To make our lives just a little more miserable, in some
nearby corridor some men did maintanance, drilling and pounding
with hammers. Meanwhile the Home Show ended and some soap opera
came on (I didn't catch the name) and for a half hour I had to
hear about how Egypt was running away after she commited a crime,
and she had to blackmail a pilot to take her to where she was
going. After this there was the news at 11:30, we were told that
a terrible blizzard was coming to snuff out all life in Chicago.
The lead story was this weather, everyone in the room, no matter
how much they had previously ignored the TV, now turned to
hear the awful news.
About halfway through the newscast we were set free to have
lunch. First, we had to remove the stickers that labeled us as
jurors.
As I have mentioned, the neighborhood around the courthouse
is not very good. We did have the option of eating in the
courthouse "cafeteria" but that consisted of a vending machine
dispensing candybars and potato chips. Instead I followed
everyone else outside and north, down the street. A few people
turned off to a corner diner, so rather than risking my life by
going a few blocks to the east to Burger King, I too went for
the diner. The diner was loaded to the rafters with people that
I had seen waiting for jury duty, I got a nice spot at the
counter right in front of a TV that hung high up on the wall.
The TV was tuned to the same station as in the courthouse, I
wondered whether that was done as a service to the jurors.
Anyway the show "All My Children" was on and half the show took
place in a courtroom.
I got a greasy hamburger with some bland imitation velveeta
cheese. It took about 15 minutes before anyone would give me a
7-up. The lettuce was rancid and the tines on my fork were bent
in various directions. Lunch produced a strange twist of
behavior in the jurors, as if suddenly being thrown together in a
different, less threatening situation made people start talking to
each other. I paid my bill and walked back to the courthouse,
admiring the burned out buildings that I passed, wondering
if this neighborhood was ever a thriving, lively part of the city.
The warmness to strangers continued inside, the air of
tension was broken and I found myself talking to a retired fellow
about his past experiences in jury duty. He had been on various
juries and said about how they can last for a few weeks
sometimes. One good thing is that the judges often don't start
things till noon, so you can get a chance to sleep in if you are
on one of those juries. His hope was to not get selected this
day, he wanted to serve out his time waiting in the jurors room
and then go home at 4:00 when the juror's day is done, he didn't
want to have to come back here, it was a long drive from Oak
Lawn. Plus he wanted to get out before the killer snow storm
came in and cut off all exits from Chicago.
The conversation turned to the street cars that used to run
up and down the street of Chicago, and how there was bitching
when the fares went up from 7 cents to 8 cents. Others joined in
the conversation and the subject turned to how small construction
firms cannot compete with the larger ones in this city and then
turned to health care. An hour and a half passed, and the TV --
which by now was being ignored by everyone who had broken up into
little discussion groups -- suddenly went silent. We were then
told that since no one was needed today and since we were going
to be hit by big snow, that we'd be allowed to leave.
No one at all was chosen this day, which seemed odd to me, My
friend the jury expert told me that she had often been to
courthouses where all the jurors were selected. I collected my
radio and took the bus and the train back home, but not before I
got gypped by a hot dog stand that gave me a jumbo hot dog when I
ordered a polish sausage, but that's another story.
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Truth, Justice <mostly>, and the Dystropian Way Part 2:
My Spam is Your Spam, But It Sure Isn't Elvis's.
<part two of chapter three of the dystropian chronicles by midget
caesar>
Tension was building like an ancient Egyptian pyramid, like graffiti
on the Great Wall of China. The prime movers were now in place. Each side
waited for some sign of weakness from the enemy. Everything was at stake
here. The fate of an entire ocean depended on this single decision, which
would in turn decide the winner of this epic conflict. They were each down
to their last defenses, and both knew that the brutal, intense war that
had consumed their lives had to be coming to an end soon, much to the
relief of the victorious side, and much to the anguish of the losing side.
Finally, neither could stand the anticipation. A brilliant but tired man
looked up, sipped his last drink, and spoke the words. The other man
looked up, shocked, in disbelief.
"DAMN YOU!", said the enraged loser.
The victor smirked, ad wiped away the last remnants of the force that had
opposed him so viciously, but had fought its last.
"YOU SUNK MY BATTLESHIP!"
Meanwhile, a congo dancer was born, and a bongo player died.
Darius seemed to have run into a brick wall with this case, so he
shrugged and turned to face the plaster wall on the other side of the
courtroom. Perhaps he'd have better luck with that wall. It wasn't easy
for poor Darius. The odds were overwhelmingly against him, and the
litigants in the case next door were making quite a bit of noise. Next
door, a group of farm machines had banded together to sue society for
being the Combine, and giving farm machines everywhere a bad name. One of
Darius's associates from Cuckoo's Nest Law Firm was handling the case, a
quiet young horse named America. The farm machines were unhappy, claiming
that their lawyer was exactly who they were suing.
Darius sighed, and looked again at the judge. How was he going to
prove that his client had been forced to pay a lot for that muffler? None
of his impassioned pleas seemed to be working. The judge, a former auto-
mechanic with a short fuse, yelled at Darius that he was throwing the case
out if Darius didn't speak up soon? All seemed lost, when.....
The noise from next door stopped. The horse had mollified the machines
with some wheat.
Darius glanced at the judges short fuse, grabbed the muffler, strapped
the fuse to the judge's head in one fluid motion, and lit the short fuse.
The judge blew up, and the muffler didn't help in the least.
Darius asked the jury if his point needed to be proven any further, and
they unanimously said no, partially because the muffler had failed to
quiet the blast, and partially because none of them wanted it tested on
them. Darius's client was awarded the third-world countries that she had
requested, and the courtroom cheered at yet another victory for Darius.
Meanwhile, the ruthless men stared at each other. The wrong move could
mean the end of everything that each had worked for. Big money was at
stake, as the car raced forward. The right turn could mean control of most
of the world, the wrong turn could mean disaster. The car moved.....
"Go Directly to Jail. Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect $200."
Milo grinned. He had won again.
While all this was happening, a lamp was lighted, and a sad melon
finally regained its sight.
The intense faces looked at each other, fury in the eyes of one, cool
calmness in the eyes of the other. The equipment was in place. Now, the
only question that remained was whether he would use it or not. He knew it
would really ruin his opponent's Saturday night if he used the equipment.
But something in his opponent's eyes urged him forward, and he pressed the
button.
Half of South America blew up. Milo had won again, just on a real game
board this time.
And Darius strolled out of the courtroom, trying to look casual even
though an angry scythe had tied his shoelaces together.
Don't Miss Part Three of Chapter Three of the Dystropian Chronicles:
"She Not Only Blinded Me With Science, She Shattered My Pancreas With It
Too!"
<well, actually, you could probably live without it, but go for it
anyways!>
<please?>
<pretty please?>
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COMING SOON...
--- Following their scandalous shut-out at the Grammy awards (which they
invented anyway), Def Mangoe has gone into seclusion. In other words,
they didn't show up for the interview again. Next issue, we send our
elite commando reporter unit out with a mission: track the band to
their Chicago hideaway and get the interview, or don't come back at
all.
--- Find out how you, too, can become a Propaganda Unlimited columnist!
(We need to replace all the ones that didn't come back.)
--- More mondo mirth and maximum mayhem!
--- Less alliteration!
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D I S T R I B U T I O N
If you don't call these boards, your friends will abandon you, your
pets will laugh at you, and you will be publicly reviled as an Eater
of Pancakes. You don't know what that euphemism means, do you? Well,
let's just say you don't want people calling you that. Especially not
that chick in third period math you've got your eye on.
Yes, you. We're watching, you know.
For letters, comments and rants, don't forget the Propaganda Mailbox
at Internet address PULETTERS@AOL.COM!
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