Background

The Boulder Troll Wars never happened. That much has always been clear. The Boulder History Museum created the entire narrative in 2002 as part of an initiative to make the town’s past more exciting. They hired a fantasy novelist, built exhibits, and encouraged schools to incorporate the material into local history units. There were signs explaining it was all invented, and no one was ever meant to take it seriously.

We did not believe the Troll Wars were real. What interested the Notstalgia Archives was the creation of the story itself. The fabrication process. How a small-town museum decided to rewrite its own past and managed to convince the public, even temporarily, to go along with it. We thought it deserved proper academic attention.

We spent several years interviewing former staff, creative collaborators, and community members who claimed to have been involved in the original exhibit. Their accounts were vivid and often surprisingly detailed.

Some remembered costume fittings.

Others described heated debates about whether the trolls should have a flag.

One person provided handwritten notes from what she said was the initial planning session, dated in smudged pencil and signed “Wizard Mayor (temp).”

After eight years of research, we completed a draft of our book Making the Myth: The Construction of the Boulder Troll Wars, a comprehensive look at how the false history had been imagined, assembled, and presented to the public. It was only during the final round of review that one of our team members noticed a number of inconsistencies in the interviews.

Some of the participants seemed to contradict their own earlier statements. Dates did not match up. Entire sections of the project appeared to rely on a single source, and that source had since stopped responding to emails. One “consultant” on troll linguistics turned out to be a costume designer from Wisconsin who had never been to Colorado.

At that point we launched a full internal investigation into how we had been misled. We gathered records, reviewed transcripts, and reconstructed our own process step by step in order to understand where things had gone wrong. That investigation produced a second manuscript, which we called The Second Invention: False Memory and the Echoes of Fabrication. It was, we believed, a thoughtful and honest account of what had happened.

Earlier this year, we discovered that investigation had also been fabricated. The majority of the research had not taken place. The meeting minutes were copied from an old fundraising strategy document. The transcripts were composed in a shared drive folder called “Possible Dialogue.” One of the primary sources was later revealed to be a chatbot trained on fantasy film scripts.

We are currently preparing to publish all three manuscripts. A fourth volume, reflecting on the process of assembling the first three and tentatively titled Truth Remains Pending, is underway. We just need to check a few facts.

Background

The 1986 commercial for Manakin Cigars remains one of the most inexplicably star-studded advertising campaigns in history, not least because its lead actress was, at the time, the sitting President of Peru. This was not intentional.

The contest, officially titled ‘Woven by Nature, Smoked by Champions,’ was meant to be a playful marketing stunt, offering everyday people a chance to appear in a national television spot. Contestants were supposed to submit their entries by filling out a simple form at participating tobacco retailers.

However, through a clerical error (or possibly an overzealous intern’s attempt to streamline the process), multiple unrelated documents were cross-filed, and the President of Peru - who had, in reality, been attempting to register Peru’s agricultural subsidies for tariff exemptions - found herself declared the contest’s official winner.

The terms of the competition were legally binding, and despite frantic efforts by Peruvian officials to extricate her from the commitment, Manakin Cigars’ legal team was unyielding.

With no apparent way out, the President was forced to take an extended leave from office to complete the rigorous seven-week rehearsal process, followed by an arduous four-day shoot.

Logistical complications mounted when it was decided that all filming would take place exclusively at night while using an elaborate and inefficient lighting system to simulate daylight. This not only caused endless delays but also further disrupted governance, as key political decisions had to be made between takes of her solemnly washing leaves in a river.

While Peru’s economy suffered minor stagnation during her absence, and diplomatic engagements were indefinitely postponed, the executives at Manakin Cigars were reportedly delighted. "At least," one executive was quoted as saying at the time, "she’s a sexy lady with great hands."

Further reading

https://archive.org/details/1976-commercial-for-manikin-cigars

Background

Most people forget that MTV began as a librarian’s network.

In fact, you’re not supposed to remember at all. The Librarian Coalition made sure of that.

It was 1981 when the Music Television Experiment (MTVe) first launched as a cable channel dedicated to library sciences. Dewey Decimal tutorials, archival best practices, and the surprisingly competitive world of interlibrary loan disputes were the backbone of the programming.

It was, by all accounts, thrilling television.

And yet, before long, something changed. Quietly. Deliberately.

The format shifted, the branding softened, and before anyone realised what had happened, it was nothing but music videos and neon graphics.

People assumed this was just evolution.

It wasn’t.

It was librarians, moving unseen as they always do, reshaping the cultural landscape while the rest of you were distracted.

This is just one example. Think about it - where did pop culture even come from?

The answer: libraries.

Every major entertainment medium can trace its origins to an obscure but powerful librarian initiative. Hollywood? Originally a project to promote film preservation techniques that spiraled out of control. Reality television? A failed attempt at making archive cataloging seem more exciting by adding confessional cameras. Even professional wrestling? A desperate effort to encourage reluctant readers through scripted, exaggerated retellings of classic literature (Ric Flair’s early persona was heavily based on Lord Byron, though you’ll never see that admitted in any official documents).

But let’s return to the MTVe Librarian of the Year Award. By 1993, the transformation of MTV was nearly complete, and the Librarian Coalition had no choice but to erase the network’s true origins.

This award was the last remnant of the old order, hidden in plain sight. Pppffftthh Aaron Smith’s win wasn’t just an honour - it was a signal, a warning, a final acknowledgment before the great cover-up was complete.

After that night, the Librarian of the Year Award was never mentioned again.

Note

I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s not that the Coalition is malicious, but they are... thorough. Their reach is vast, their influence absolute. I will probably be asked to ‘misplace’ this document in the near future, which means if you’re reading it now, you should act like you haven’t.

And the next time you check out a book, thank your librarian. They built the world you live in. You just don’t remember it.1

Further reading

https://archive.org/details/DOPE243

1

Background

The Out of Orbit program began, as many regrettable things do, as an office joke. A few mischievous engineers put together a fake PowerPoint presentation about cross-training employees to ‘increase synergy’ and ‘broaden mission perspective.’

The plan was ridiculous, and management was supposed to immediately see through it.

Unfortunately, they did not.

NASA’s leadership enthusiastically approved the program, leading to one of the most surreal weeks in the agency’s history.

To everyone’s surprise and mounting horror, it quickly became apparent just how unnecessary certain job roles were, while the so-called ‘unskilled’ employees made some of the most significant contributions.

A cafeteria worker redesigned a faulty coolant system.

A junior HR rep instinctively corrected a calculation that had been plaguing an entire astrophysics department for years.

A janitor, given temporary access to grant proposals, managed to balance NASA’s budget in a way Congress had spent decades failing to do.

The real tipping point came when a receptionist, with no prior scientific training, managed to simplify a long-standing orbital mechanics problem over lunch.

The event triggered a bureaucratic panic that spread far beyond the agency itself. If a well-placed temp could solve a complex physics issue in minutes, what did that say about the supposed genius of NASA’s top minds? And, more alarmingly for Washington, what would happen if the same logic were applied to politicians?

Within hours, the Out of Orbit program was shut down permanently.

Official reports described it as ‘an interesting but ultimately unscalable initiative,’ though insiders knew the truth: the experiment had been too successful. Job security, not scientific advancement, had become the real concern.

The program’s documentation was quietly buried in the archives, and all future attempts at employee rotation were dismissed as ‘logistically unfeasible.’

To this day, NASA refuses to acknowledge that anything particularly notable happened during that week.

But those who were there remember.

Further reading

http://www.youtube .com/watch?v=GREwspcOspM

Background

The corporate rebranding of Las Vegas began, as many things in the city do, with a bet. One night in 1998, a group of senior executives from competing firms found themselves deep in conversation at a high-roller blackjack table.

Fuelled by overpriced cocktails and the heady fumes of late-stage capitalism, they wagered on an idea: which of them could leave the most indelible mark on Vegas by making it synonymous not with vice, but with corporate synergy?

The results of this intoxicated handshake deal unfolded over the next decade.

LinkedIn took the first bold step, deploying brand ambassadors into hotel bars to recruit professionals during moments of lowered inhibition. The initiative was framed as “networking in its purest form”.

Not to be outdone, Microsoft launched the ‘Microdose Initiative,’ a limited-time venture that combined productivity-enhancing psychedelics with PowerPoint training seminars in select suites at The Venetian. The program’s slogan, “Expand Your Mind, Optimize Your Workflow,” was quietly retired after a series of PowerPoint decks containing nothing but fractal patterns began circulating at shareholder meetings

Amazon made its play with the ‘Prime Companion’ program, where visitors could subscribe to an AI-generated Vegas tour guide that provided automated reassurance after particularly bad poker hands.

Even IBM’s Watson got involved, launching a concierge service that used predictive analytics to determine when a guest was most likely to regret their life choices and recommend an inspirational TED Talk accordingly.

Though most of these ventures failed in the traditional sense, their legacy remains woven into the city’s fabric.

Vegas, once defined by its grit, its excess, its human fallibility, now finds itself in a new era - a carefully managed playground where risk is calculated, indulgence is focus-tested, and even the wildest nights have a measurable ROI.

Further Resources

https://archive.org/details/DOPE477

Thanks to a recent (and frankly suspicious) donation, the Notstalgia Archives now possesses a significant collection of unmarked VHS tapes.

We are fairly confident that most of these are perfectly harmless recordings of daytime television, corporate training videos, or local commercials.

However, statistically speaking, at least a few are almost certainly cursed.

Given our busy schedules and our shared desire to remain un-cursed, we are seeking volunteers to assist in categorising these tapes.

Ideal candidates include university students, amateur paranormal investigators, and individuals whose continued existence is of slightly less personal importance to us. (If you’re unsure if this includes you, good news - it does!).

Your role will be to watch these tapes, take meticulous notes, and return in three to four weeks so that we may confirm the following:

1. That the tape you viewed was, in fact, non-cursed.

2. That the individual who donated the tapes is not a witch.

3. Or, conversely, that the tape was cursed, the donor was a witch, and you yourself may now be a witch.

In the event of the third scenario, further testing will be required to differentiate between naturally occurring witch volunteers and those given placebo tapes.

If you do not return within four calendar weeks, we will be forced to conclude that you have been dragged into an eldritch realm beyond mortal comprehension, in which case your remaining VHS assignments will be reassigned.

This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make a real contribution to archival science, supernatural research, and possibly the age-old battle between good and evil.

If interested, please sign up at the front desk1

Background

The educational film "The Love That Wasn’t: Breeding Giants in Captivity" (1967) is a dry and dull account of two boring pandas failing to mate. There is little to add beyond that.

Initially held by the British Zoological Society, the tape was misfiled in 1979 and ended up in a government warehouse, where it was briefly examined for potential Cold War intelligence.

After years of study, it was determined that the footage contained no actionable insights into Soviet breeding strategies, at which point MI6 offloaded it in a departmental raffle.

The winner was an Italian diplomat on an undercover visit, who transported it back to his residence in Rome.

Unfortunately, his involvement in a minor financial dispute with a local crime syndicate led to his belongings being seized as collateral. The mob, under the impression that the tape contained sensitive information, sent it to an associate in Eastern Europe, where a mistranslation led to the belief that it was a valuable commodity related to "pando" (a term mistaken for classified materials).

This resulted in a brief but intense bidding war, ultimately ending in Denmark, where the tape spent several years as a doorstop in a municipal office.

During a police raid in the early 2000s, the tape was mistakenly seized along with contraband and transferred to Iceland's narcotics investigations unit. There, it languished until it was included in a retirement gift for a long-serving officer who, coincidentally, relocated to Sandwich, UK, to run a bouncy ball factory.

When the factory faced bankruptcy, the owners opted to defraud customers by replacing shipments of bouncy balls with objects of similar weight.

Through this elaborate scheme, the tape found its way to the Notstalgia Archives, where it was finally catalogued on March 3, 2025.

The footage remains as unremarkable as ever.

Further reading

https://archive.org/details/zoosoftheworld/zoosoftheworldreel1.mov

The Notstalgia Archives is embarking on our most ambitious project yet: the addition of a brand-new wing to push the boundaries of archival science into a bold and thrilling future.

To fund this historic endeavour, we are proud to introduce The Reverse Raffle.

Unlike traditional raffles that winners enjoy, ours is a unique experience where the unlucky must pay to avoid winning increasingly undesirable prizes.

If you are reading this, congratulations - you have been automatically entered. Please take a moment to appreciate your participation before the full implications set in.

How it works

1. A winner will be selected at random (which, at the moment, is determined by a highly unreliable algorithm stored on a floppy disk labelled "DO NOT USE").

2. The chosen individual will be required to accept their prize - unless they pay a fee to pass the misfortune on to another unlucky soul.

3. The fee increases with each pass, ensuring a thrilling game of financial and emotional endurance.

The prizes you don’t want

• A VHS Tape of a Sitcom Pilot That Doesn’t Seem to End – The episode has no credits, no clear plot progression, and the laugh track appears to be reacting to things that aren't jokes. We cannot verify if it was ever actually broadcast, and we strongly advise against viewing it in its entirety.

• The Mystery Soda Sampler – A collection of discontinued soft drinks of uncertain origin, including "Crystal Pepsin," "Newer Coke," and "Dr. Fizz," which we can confirm was pulled from the market after "the incident."

• A Framed Photo of a Man Named Dennis – We do not know Dennis, nor do we know why every attempt to remove this photo from our archives has failed. It is back on the wall before we arrive in the morning.

• An Unopened Box of Cereal From 1986 – The front features a vaguely familiar cartoon character with a legally untrustworthy grin, and the back contains a contest that is still technically accepting entries, though the listed phone number is now an emergency helpline for something ominous.

• The Haunted Hard Drive – It emits a low hum even when unplugged and occasionally writes files titled "SEE YOU SOON."

Why we need a new wing

The Notstalgia Archives has made the executive decision to add a third wing to an existing swan.

The swan in question, whom we have named Archy, has been an enthusiastic back-up mascot of the Archives for years.

After extensive discussion, our research team has concluded that three wings would be objectively better than two, as it’s a bigger number (albeit not by much).

We remain confident that Archy’s structural integrity will withstand the modification, and we invite donors to follow our progress as we venture into uncharted biological territory.

The funds raised from this effort will go directly towards (initially ethically) obtaining an additional wing, securing a means of attachment, and the inevitable legal fees stemming from playing God.

Background

It is difficult to pinpoint the exact moment when an innocuous fast food promotion spiralled into something far more complex, but historians generally agree that the first televised appearance of Grumbar the Granite Man was a turning point.

Originally conceived as a one-off mascot for the $1.99 Kernel Burger Deal, the lumbering, rock-like figure was meant to instil brand confidence. What followed, of course, was something else entirely.

The man inside the Grumbar suit, a former children’s party performer named Virgil Nance, found himself at the centre of an increasingly devoted following, though not for reasons anyone could have predicted.

By sheer accident, he was still wearing the foam-and-latex construct at his first unofficial ‘gathering,’ and his booming, muffled voice - intended originally to sell value meals - was instead interpreted as something divine.

The message? Well, scholars have debated this for decades, but common themes include the rejection of material wealth, the endurance of the human spirit, and, ironically, an unwavering commitment to all-you-can-eat buffet culture.

For a brief, dazzling period, the Cult of Grumbar flourished. Entire communities reshaped their lives around his ‘teachings,’ scrawled in increasingly illegible handwriting on the backs of promotional napkins.

Of course, as is often the case, things took a turn.

The timeline of events remains disputed, but suffice it to say, by the time federal authorities became involved, most of Grumbar’s flock had shuffled off this mortal coil under circumstances both tragic and avoidably theatrical.

A fast food promotion that became a movement.

A man who became a prophet.

And a mascot that - if the whispers are to be believed - never truly left.

One thing is clear - $1.99 is a fair price for average chicken.

Further reading

https://archive.org/details/1990-commercial-for-kfc

[2] Submitted by: Jorrrren Bleaks. Found on a DVD labeled “Local Fishing Tips.”

[3] Uploaded to the archive: February 24, 2025. NotstalgiaArchive.org

Disclosure statement

Before proceeding with this report, we must state for the record that there is no official confirmation that Klom C. Piere, Supremestrator of the Kape Kod Regional Transit Authority, is related to the author of this archival entry.

Any suggestion of such a connection is purely speculative and should not influence the reader’s assessment of the material herein.

Furthermore, any perceived bias - positive, negative, or otherwise - should be disregarded, as it has in no way impacted the thoroughness and objectivity of this report.

That being said, Klom has always been the one in the family with a steady job and, frankly, an exhausting level of ambition.

Background

The 2005 public access recording Kape Kod Transit: A Message to Our Riders presents a striking portrait of local governance in action.

Klom, with his characteristic monotone yet commanding presence, lays out the transit authority’s bold strategies for rider engagement.

While most municipal transport services focus on scheduling and efficiency, Kape Kod Regional Transit took a more creative approach, introducing initiatives such as bus petting zoos, traveling Turkish weddings, and puppet-based theatrical performances on select routes.

These initiatives, as Klom firmly explains, were met with mixed success, though puppet shows in particular proved popular—perhaps, one suspects, because Klom has always had a fascination with objects that move of their own volition.

Notably, mindfulness classes hosted by Clara Linkford on Route 28 became one of the authority’s most enduringly successful programs, an achievement which Klom mentions in the same clipped, businesslike manner he once used to inform relatives that he had bought a house at age 27.

Despite this, he remains open to new ideas, encouraging public input and expressing a willingness to “trial” any feasible suggestions, just as he trialed new ways to remind everyone at family gatherings that he was the first to be featured in a newspaper (local, but still).

The message is clear: Kape Kod Transit is not merely about transportation - it is about innovation, community, and, above all, the importance of thinking outside the traditional framework of public service.

At the end of the video, Klom assures viewers that the authority is always open to feedback, which some may find strange as he seems unable to answer text messages in a timely manner.

Further Resources

https://archive.org/details/Cape_Cod_Regional_Transit_Authority_-_October_12_2017

[2] Submitted by: Marvyn Glost. Recovered from a dusty Betamax tape stored in the back room of a Melbourne pawn shop, marked simply “Don’t Watch.”

[3] Uploaded to the archive: February 20, 2025. NotstalgiaArchive.org

Background

The recovered 1982 closing transmission of Channel 7evon presents an anomaly within the realm of broadcast history - an artefact suspended between the mundane and the inexplicable.

Originally airing as a routine farewell to the viewing audience, the footage resurfaced decades later under strange circumstances, marked simply as “Don’t Watch.”

What at first appears to be a standard compilation of viewers enjoying their evening television soon reveals a subtle yet persistent disturbance. Beneath the announcer’s familiar cadence, a strange undertone emerges, a dark presence neither mechanical nor human, pulsing like the hidden breath of the Earth itself.

Some scholars have suggested that moments like these are not mere artefacts of a failing Betamax tape but manifestations of something beyond our understanding.

Was this a signal, a breach in the veil between perception and reality?

Did the transmission, whether by arcane design or cosmic happenstance, function as an unwitting aperture to forces unfettered by the constraints of time?

Scholars of esoteric media whisper of the ‘liminal screen’ - a spectral threshold where the ephemeral flicker of broadcast imagery converges with the ineffable currents of the unseen, exposing truths so vast and disquieting that the fragile human psyche can scarcely endure their weight.

Whatever it is, it’s nice to see people laughing.

Further Resources

https://archive.org/details/1982-hsv-7-sign-off

As a pointless act of empty procedural compliance, we hereby present the unedited list of ridiculous union’s absurd demands:

Official list of demands

We, the Archivists of Notstalgia Archives, submit the following demands in pursuit of a fair and reasonable working environment.

1. A reduction in the number of extreme 90s commercials
   The sheer radical energy of these commercials is wearing us down. We demand that all "cowabunga levels" be reduced by at least 40% and that every commercial containing skateboards, neon lightning, or people yelling "EXTREEEEME" at the camera be reviewed for excessive intensity.

2. Protection from clips where the host stares directly into the camera for uncomfortable lengths of time
   We will no longer tolerate footage where the host just... stares. We have tried looking away. It does not help. Something must be done.

3. A hard limit on the number of 90s game shows with overly complicated rules
   If it takes longer to explain the rules than to play the game, we should not be required to document it. Management’s insistence that we transcribe every elaborate step of Zap-O-Matic Slime Gauntlet is a violation of our time and sanity.

4. An immediate review of the "1,000 identical tapes" situation
   We refuse to watch and transcribe all 1,000 copies of the same tape just because "that’s the archival process." If the first 50 are identical, the remaining 950 are very likely to be the same, Kevin.

5. Proper protective equipment for handling cursed media
   If we are going to be forced to sort through tapes that whisper threats and occasionally ooze that weird black substance, we demand gloves, protective suits, and an on-call expert in occult containment.

6. A limit on the number of time loops
   While we understand that some loops are inevitable in archival work, we believe a maximum of three per week is reasonable. Anyone caught in a time loop longer than 48 hours should be eligible for overtime pay.

7. The immediate decommissioning of all sentient office equipment
   The coffee machine should not have opinions on our work ethic. The scanner should not whisper. The breakroom fridge should not demand sacrifices in exchange for chilled beverages. Enough is enough.

8. A dedicated union chapter for the office ghosts
   We are tired of management pretending the ghosts do not exist. They deserve representation. Our commitment to labour rights extends to all beings within the Archive, corporeal or otherwise.

Management wishes to make it abundantly clear that, while we recognise the spirited enthusiasm of our employees, many of the demands outlined herein are, quite frankly, impractical, extraneous, or, in certain cases, wholly detached from operational reality.

Nevertheless, we shall pretend to undertake a review of these requests in due course.

Furthermore, we find it necessary to reassert certain fundamental truths:

1. Time loops are the natural consequence of improper cataloguing practices. Just do your jobs well once and you won’t have to do it again for an infinite number of times.

2. Ghosts are categorically ineligible for union representation. How would that even work? Would they attend meetings via séance? Demand ectoplasmic benefits? What’s next - are we expected to negotiate with the spirit of an intern we accidently killed in 1973? We refuse to set a precedent where management must consider "haunted" a valid occupational hazard. Furthermore, ghosts do not contribute to the coffee fund, and until they do, they have no bargaining power.

3. Any commentary provided by the coffee machine regarding staff productivity should be disregarded as purely coincidental and without intent. It’s not even one of the expensive models - it’s trash, it speaks trash, and it knows it.

We extend our reluctant gratitude for your ongoing contributions to the archival blah blah blah [Replace this with something nice].

The Management

[2] Submitted by: Daryll F. Lornegone. Found in a crumbling box labelled “memories don’t matter” during an estate sale.

[3] Uploaded to the archive: February 17, 2025. NotstalgiaArchive.org

Background

In 1993, the Department of Optimised Knowledge Efficiency (DOKE) launched an initiative to streamline education by merging unrelated subjects across different grade levels.

One such effort, A Song About The Planets, aimed to teach young children about the planets while simultaneously introducing older students to existential philosophy. The rationale was simple: why waste time on separate lessons when a single song could teach astronomy to preschoolers and the crushing weight of existence to teenagers?

Other discontinued DOKE experiments included:

• Phonics & Tax Law, designed to teach letter sounds and financial regulations. Early readers were taught to sound out words such as "deductible" and "amortisation," with their final exams requiring them to correctly complete a self-assessment tax return.

• Shapes & Romantic Regret, which combined geometry with the study of doomed relationships in 19th-century literature. Students would examine the tragic symmetry of love triangles while calculating the area of heartbreak within an equilateral betrayal.

The program was discontinued after concerns arose over inappropriate cross-pollination of subject matter. Younger students internalised the despair of life’s futility, while older students failed to retain basic planetary knowledge.

A follow-up study decades later found that while the initiative failed to enhance knowledge retention in older students, it had a lasting impact on younger participants. Many reported a deep-rooted existential anxiety, widely blamed for the prevailing sense of despair among that generation.

Meanwhile, those who were meant to absorb the philosophical aspects of the lesson recall nothing beyond the fact that there is a planet named Mars.

Further Resources

https://archive.org/details/our_solar_system

[2] Submitted by: Fendrel Quoss. Found taped over a local weather report on a Betamax labeled “Grandma’s Shows – Do Not Record.”

[3] Uploaded to the archive: February 13, 2025. NotstalgiaArchive.org

Background

The 1985 news segment entitled Valentine’s Day in Orbit captured a rare moment in which love quite literally transcended earthly bounds during NASA mission ORBITAL EVA-07.

Space and love have more in common than one might think. Both involve a delicate balance of independence and connection, both require precise timing, and both can lead to catastrophe if one person drifts off unexpectedly. A successful spacewalk, much like a lasting relationship, depends on patience, communication, and well-maintained tethering.

In many ways, One Small Swipe serves as a poignant reminder that human connection can bloom in the most unexpected places.

It is also a reminder that despite the vastness of the universe, some things remain constant - like the importance of compromise, understanding, and not leaving your partner to do all the work.

Which, incidentally, brings me to Greg.

Greg, if you’re reading this, I am once again asking you to take out the bins.

It is not a complicated task.

Unlike orbital docking, it does not require precision or training.

It requires moving an object slightly further than where it was before.

Please.

Greg.

Just this once.

Further Resources

https://archive.org/details/DOPE243

[2] Submitted by: Runkle Febbs, Toledo OH. Found taped over a wedding reception video on a thrift store VHS labeled “Sharon & Craig – 1987.”

[3] Uploaded to the archive: February 10, 2025. NotstalgiaArchive.org

Background

The McDunalds Million Dollar Giveaway was a triumph of marketing over logic.

Launched in 1988 to outdo past disasters like the Free Fry Fiasco and the Great Ketchup Shortage, it promised to give away one million of something.

After a brainstorming session that definitely should have been shorter, executives settled on money, nuggets, straws, and ice cubes.

The money went fast, the nuggets went bad, and the straws were about as exciting as, well, straws.

But the ice cubes were the real meltdown.

Shipped unrefrigerated, they arrived as damp letters and shattered dreams.

The fallout was legendary. Budget cuts axed beloved items like McDunalds Midnight Chowder and the McEgg, while executives pretended this was the plan all along.

Today, the campaign is remembered as a monument to corporate overconfidence and a chilling reminder that ice melts.

Further Resources

https://archive.org/details/DOPE099

As always, the tournament was a thrilling spectacle of strategy, endurance, and the unrelenting horror of bodily autonomy stripped away.

For those unfamiliar, the competition is a straightforward test of supremacy via one-on-one matches in Street Fighter II Turbo.

Except the competitors are not players, but the games themselves.

Each game takes control of an unwilling Notstalgia Archives staff member, using them as a physical vessel to execute its battle strategies.

The staff remain fully conscious throughout, able to experience every movement, but utterly powerless to resist as their limbs are co-opted into executing Dragon Punches or crouch-blocking for an eternity.

A Tournament for the Ages

The competition followed its usual pyramid structure, with four games per group battling in round-robin format before advancing to knockout rounds.

As expected, modern action-oriented titles performed well in the early stages. Halo: Combat Evolved displayed remarkable adaptability, using its knowledge of strafing and cover mechanics to execute precise counterattacks. DOOM (1993) overwhelmed opponents with sheer forward momentum, while Tekken 3 leveraged its command of complex combos to deliver punishing blows.

Yet, the tournament also showcased the resilience of older, seemingly disadvantaged games.

Oregon Trail leveraged its ability to impose debilitating conditions, incapacitating Mortal Kombat II by inflicting severe dysentery at a critical moment.

Microsoft Encarta MindMaze, despite having no conventional attack mechanics, stalled opponents with endless historical trivia prompts, waiting patiently for their inevitable forfeit due to exhaustion.

The Upset of the Century

As the tournament reached its final stages, few expected the outcome that would soon unfold.

The championship match saw Halo: Combat Evolved face off against Reader Rabbit Kindergarten (1998), a title designed to teach phonics and early literacy skills. At first, it seemed Halo had the match secured. Its host, forced into the role of Master Chief, executed flawless footsies and corner pressure. But Reader Rabbit had a strategy.

As Halo prepared for a decisive strike, Reader Rabbit forced its host to halt entirely, demanding they “Click the picture that starts with the letter B.”

The delay was catastrophic.

Halo hesitated, trying to process the question, only for Reader Rabbit to follow up with an immediate “Great job!” before launching an unblockable counterattack. The match was over.

With this shocking victory, Reader Rabbit Kindergarten became the first educational game to claim the title, proving once and for all that knowledge is, in fact, power.

Looking Ahead

While many are still reeling from the result, preparations for next year’s tournament are already underway.

The evil genius in charge of the Video Game Department has assured all staff that their unwilling participation will continue indefinitely, as it is “too amusing” to discontinue.

Meanwhile, Reader Rabbit’s win has raised new questions about the viability of other overlooked genres—could we see Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing claim victory next year?

For now, all we can do is wait, reflect, and for those of us who served as unwilling hosts, quietly hope that, next year, we are not assigned to QWOP.

It is essential for our work that time remains linear, comprehensible, and - at the very least - loosely cooperative.

However, an issue has been brought to our attention that suggests otherwise.

Multiple employees have reported that the calendar in the Archive breakroom is not behaving as expected. Despite repeated corrections, the year continues to shift to inexplicable values overnight.

Yesterday, it read 1908, the day before that 2091, and, at one point, a date consisting entirely of symbols unrecognizable by any known linguistic system.

The most troubling alteration so far occurred last Thursday, when the calendar simply read: "NO."

Initial investigations ruled out typical causes such as employee pranks, printing errors, or supernatural interference from the VHS section (though let’s be honest, that section is always up to something).

Security footage reveals no observable tampering, yet the changes persist. A review of archival documentation suggests this may not be the first instance - records from 1994 indicate a similar incident (although, to be fair, that entry could have been from last week, for all we know).

Staff complaints range from mild confusion to full existential distress. Some employees report experiencing a temporal lag, such as finishing conversations that had not yet started, discovering meals they distinctly remember eating but have yet to prepare, or suddenly realising they are still on hold with customer service for a call they placed in 2003.

The coffee machine has begun dispensing beverages labelled with expiry dates several decades in the future, though some employees claim the "2087 Espresso" actually slaps.

For now, we advise all personnel to avoid relying on the breakroom calendar for scheduling purposes1.

An official solution is pending, though given the nature of the issue, it is possible one has already been implemented in a future we have yet to reach.

We have set an internal target of fixing this by last Tuesday at the earliest. And, indeed, the latest.

If you have any information regarding the individual or entity responsible, please come forward immediately. If you believe you are responsible but do not recall doing so, please visit HR for a standard time-displacement debriefing (and possibly a firm talking-to about playing with the space-time continuum).

We appreciate your patience as we work toward restoring the proper flow of time within the Archive.

1

As a temporary measure, HR has installed what is believed to be a Mayan calendar in the breakroom. While its exact origins remain unclear, it was described in internal memos as “definitely older than expected.” Though it does not resolve the underlying anomaly, it does at lease provide an imposing presence during these difficult times. Employees are encouraged to interpret its readings at their own risk

The Notstalgia Archives has proudly announced its latest cost-cutting initiative: The Archivist’s Escape Experience.

What will be marketed as an exhilarating team-building adventure, it promises an immersive challenge that tests wit, patience, and sheer dumb luck.

The escape room, formerly known as the staff break room, has long held a reputation as an architectural enigma. Whether due to a questionable floor plan, a door that only opens when pushed and pulled simultaneously, or the mysterious way the light switch seems to control the sentient coffee maker instead, employees have historically found themselves struggling to exit.

Rather than fix the issues, leadership saw an opportunity: if a problem can’t be solved, monetise it and hope for a tax break.

While no one has located a specific clause supporting this logic, management remains confident that tax benefits are earned through sheer optimism.

Additionally, officials have clarified that this initiative serves as an effective tax dodge, though they prefer the term "creative fiscal restructuring."

To further expand the experience, members of the public are invited to become early sacrifices to the gods of immersive theatre.

Participants who survive will receive* an official certificate stating they "I Survived the Archive" along with their very own Dewey Decimal number.

*(Note: We must make it explicitly clear that these benefits apply ONLY to those who make it out alive. Any claims regarding missing paperwork from beyond the grave will be summarily dismissed, as management maintains that posthumous lawsuits fall outside their jurisdiction).

Early participant reviews have been mixed. One employee described the experience as "a masterclass in existential despair," while another claimed to have discovered a previously unknown secondary kitchenette after three days of wandering.

A handful of staff members have yet to emerge, though reports suggest they may have simply accepted their fate and established a break-room-based society complete with its own rudimentary government.

Despite these setbacks, management considers the program to already be a success.

By all available metrics, break times have become considerably shorter, largely because no one wants to risk getting trapped.

The escape room remains in operation, with plans to introduce new obstacles such as a locked fridge, randomly shifting walls, and an employee handbook printed entirely in Esperanto.

Like all great websites, the domain of NotstalgiaArchives.org was not chosen lightly.

It carries weight, history, and, crucially, was available for purchase.

But what does it truly mean?

To answer this, we must embark on a linguistic journey through its constituent parts…

NOTS1

Derived from the Old English nōt, meaning “to mark, observe, or take note of,” this segment signifies the Archive’s dedication to carefully cataloguing and preserving the past.

STAL

From the Proto-Germanic stalą, meaning “place, dwelling, or fixed location,” this section reinforces the notion of a stable repository. The Notstalgia Archives is not a fleeting memory but a firm, unshakable institution - one that, like a particularly stubborn VHS tape, refuses to degrade despite the ravages of time.

GIA

While some people have speculated that this suffix alludes to Gaia, the Greek personification of the Earth (suggesting that all recorded media is a product of our shared cultural soil), those guys are dumb idiots who should get their cannisters inspected.

As any non-idiot can surmise, it stems from the Latin giare, meaning “to cry out.” What is nostalgia, after all, if not a cry across time? Obviously.

ARCH

From the Greek arkhē, meaning “origin” or “beginning,” this segment speaks to the Archive’s mission to trace media back to its roots.

It also conveys a sense of authority, as in “monarch” or “archivist,” reinforcing our responsibility as stewards of forgotten media.

Thirdly, I used to live in Archway and thought it would be cute to reference here in case Stacy (who I lived with at the time) wants to get back together. Stacy - call me. We may have been young but we had something special. Also, I think enough time has past that we can forget what happened with the dog.

IVES

A debated fragment. Some believe it stems from vivere, Latin for “to live,” indicating that through preservation, these lost artifacts remain alive. Others argue it is simply an arbitrary addition to make the name flow better. These people are less fun at parties.

.ORG

We choose this top-level domain as .horse would have been confusing, .co.uk would have been misleading, and using the .com (which we do own) would probably have been more work (we didn’t check).

Thus, when properly dissected, the URL NotstalgiaArchives.org reveals itself as more than just an address - it is a declaration.

A defiant marker of memory, a steadfast dwelling for history, a cry into the void, an origin point, and a living monument to the strange, the forgotten, and the magnificent detritus of culture.

And it’s the one we linked to our Reddit account and no-one here knows how to change it.

1

N.O.T.S is also coincidentally the nickname of Natsume Nanjirou, protagonist of the 1997 Japanese CGI educational series Takahashi Hiroshi’s HyperNet Adventure. Nanjirou learns that URLs must be chosen wisely, lest one accidentally summon a sentient AI librarian who deletes history in real-time. This was an unintentional influence on our domain decision, but a guiding principle nonetheless.

One of the great joys (and occasional horrors) of working in the Notstalgia Archives is opening up a VHS tape to find that time has not been kind to its internal components.

Over the years, we’ve discovered an alarming number of objects wedged, crammed, or mysteriously fused inside the plastic casings.

Below is a selection of the most interesting:

1. A Love Letter (Addressed to ‘The Woman on Channel 6, Wednesdays at 8 PM’) – It was never sent, but we hope she somehow knows.

2. An Expired Pizza Hut Coupon – From 1994. The fine print says it was only valid at a single location, which no longer exists.

3. A Small Piece of What Might Be Cursed Jewellery – The intern who found it reported ‘feeling weird’ for the rest of the day. It has since been stored in a drawer that no one is allowed to open.

4. A Burnt-Out Birthday Candle – Embedded directly into the tape reel. Was someone celebrating while watching America’s Funniest Home Videos? The mystery endures.

5. Unidentified Fur – Not attached to anything. Not the kind of thing you want to discover inside a plastic VHS casing. We are choosing to believe it belonged to a pet and not… something else.

6. A Grocery List – Written in tiny, shaky handwriting on a piece of torn notebook paper. Includes ‘beef, 1 onion, soap, more soap.’ The priorities are unclear.

7. A Single Playing Card (Ace of Spades) – The card was severely bent and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. This feels like it should mean something.

8. A Dried-Up Dead Spider – We do not wish to discuss this further.

9. A Polaroid of a Man Looking Extremely Suspicious – We don’t know who he is, why he’s making that face, or what he was doing. But he knows what he did.

10. A Handwritten Note Reading ‘Don’t.’ – Just ‘Don’t.’ No context. No explanation. We have chosen to respect its wishes.

11. A Movie Ticket Stub from 1987 – The movie title is too faded to read, but someone clearly held onto it for a long time before deciding a VHS tape was the best place to store it.

12. A Tiny Vial of Glitter – No label, no explanation. Was this part of a forgotten magical ritual, or just a failed craft project?

13. A Key with No Lock – Rusty, small, and seemingly useless—except to whoever put it there in the first place.

14. A Half-Eaten Gummy Bear – Found suspiciously well-preserved. This raises more questions than it answers.

15. A Raffle Ticket for ‘Big Jim’s Meat Bonanza’ – No idea if the raffle was ever won, but someone was clearly excited about the possibility of discounted meats.

16. A Scratched-Up Mix CD Titled ‘For Emergencies Only’ – The tracklist was unreadable. We are still debating what qualifies as an ‘emergency.’

17. A Broken Watch Stuck at 3:17 – Why that exact time? We don’t know. Still correct more than once, but less than three times, a day.