This month a brilliant artist at The Wall Street Journal has broken new ground in the flourishing investigative journalism market by going where cameras could not. You can click here to see these images in their original context, alongside a breathtaking column by Laura Saunders. Witness the pain of these Americans’ faces, as the fruits of their brow sweat are ripped away by the useless, degenerate masses and their fanatical, usurper ringleader.
‘Retired couple’ – Tim Foley, WSJ
First in Tim Foley’s slideshow of unbridled pain is a retired couple, who is just breaking even as socialist fascists have taken over their country. Social Security income is capped at roughly $40,000 annually for each of them — presuming each of them made only a meager $120,000 per annum since the age of 18 — and so in order to get by on $180,000 with their deductions in investment income in tow, their aging bodies will have to scrap together $23,000 this year. And what incentive do they have to even do that in the Nancy Pelosi/Barack Hussein Obama II economy? In the crossed arms of the man — whom we will call “Carlton” — and “Carlton’s” world-weary stare, we see a bold entrepreneur degraded into being a simple welfare slave on the Democrat retirement plantation. He has just told his partner in Christ they will face the belt-tightening prospect of having to switch from Perrier to the utter swill San Pellegrino. We can see from his lean that the heat of South Carolina’s merciless golf courses have caused spinal degeneration. His wife has a raised eyebrow, characteristic of these stark sketches of the toil and misery of 21st century America. We can sense she knows that “Carlton’s” days to be numbered. And without his brave, beating heart, the Social Security Administration will be cutting off a hefty $40,000 a year.
‘Married couple, four children’ – Tim Foley, WSJ
Mr. Foley’s next portrait of insurmountable anguish shows a nuclear family taxed nearly $22,000 more in 2013 by a society thankless for the parents’ willingness to put up with each other after 40. Clinging like a Ritalin addiction to the father’s body is two of the children, the one in front of him cowering into his shoulder, staring upwards at a towering, dream-crushing IRS. At $650,000 a year, these surely above-average children face a dark future, one in which they may have to take on some degree of debt for every single one of them to attend Kenyon, Amherst, or some other liberal arts institution that may by and large be bought into. The married, upstanding professional “businessess” faces forward more than her righteous husband to symbolize how liberals have electorally plotted to divide his Godly household. She like “Carlton’s” wife raises a single eyebrow. But the pre-menopausal woman’s eyebrow raises as if to say: “Should I really have to pay this much more this year to stave off my de facto execution for having to carry an ectopic pregnancy?”
‘Single person’ – Tim Foley, WSJ
‘Single person’ features yet another pearl-clad responsibility-ite, her face tilted slightly to her left in cynicism, her hair diligently parted, her arms crossed in indignation. As yet unbruised by years of toil and her holy, as yet unfulfilled, duty of childbirth, one eyebrow is not raised more than another, as with the retired woman and married mother. She still possesses the idealism of youth, and so is surprised to see our newly totalitarian government demanding so much of her, three years out of Wharton. She has purchased fine pearls to attract a suitable mate. She uses a watch, despite its being old-fashioned; checking her smartphone’s email app every five minutes to look out for any possible, more lucrative opportunities from one of her firm’s ruthlessly job-creating competitors. But now that she will be paying so much more on her taxes in 2013, what’s the point? she says to herself. Any more income will just mean moving into a higher tax bracket. And this is the way that in the New World Order’s America, a job creator is effectively murdered in public by a raging lynch mob. The mob, she understands well, is just jealous of the superior productivity genes that the American Enterprise Institute’s own Charles Murray has proven with science her to have.
‘Single parent, two children’ – Tim Foley, WSJ
The most heartbreaking of Mr. Foley’s portraits is that of the ‘Single parent,’ a subject with whom The Wall Street Journal’s editorials have famously long sympathized. The subscriber can immediately derive additional sympathy because her children look sufficiently alike to allay any suspicion that she might be single by a decadent choice. In the foreground, we see that she must console her child about her peasant family’s additional 2013 tax liability of just over $3,000. She places a loving hand over his shoulder, as she has probably just told him that — upon hearing the results of the treasonous fiscal-cliff congressional package — they will not be able to purchase for him a Hanson Robotics “Zeno.” The boy has his mother’s job-creator genes, but he knows with this year’s inability to afford that multithousand-dollar toy, his hopes of becoming an undergraduate in MIT’s robotics labs may very well be crushed. As with any of the parents or married people in this sketch essay, in his signature Foley-ian style, the woman’s eyebrow is raised at a new, decadent culture so willing to punish any American unworthy of the very gutter. This final, masterful sketch is the single greatest representation of economic repression since (original, lesser) Depression documentarian Dorothea Lange’s “Migrant Mother,” below.
In the Shadows of Tim Foley: ‘Migrant Mother’ – Dorothea Lange
LANGLEY, VA. — Little bras and bra-lets are, like, psyched about the birth of the little God dude. In response Lebal Drocer and Tyco corporate representatives are proud to announce the 20th anniversary of Spy Tech toys with the addition of the Polonium Neutralization Set™, perfect for trimming all the loose ends on your Christmas tree.
This set’s got everything little bras need to take care of all that flim-flab and jibba-jabba very potentially flowing from the mouths of the opposition. An eight-year-old Spy Tech focus group tester, speaking at a press conference outside of CIA headquarters, said, “That’s one thing I hate! All the noise, noise, noise, noise!”
The neutralization set is really quite simple. The first step is, bras take the polonium rock (included) produced in a reactor at the Mattel Factory in Foshan, China. They then take the rock file and get some shavings off of that beast. The best part is even little hands can manage the file. All you need is a grain-of-sand-sized particle of that polonium-210 and you’ve got some major “SSHHHH” . . . major “SSHHH” power.
Best of all, little spy bras and bra-lets can enjoy all of the greed and incompetence that define the world of modern espionage without any personal risk. The Spy Tech 20th anniversary Polonium Neutralization Set™ acts slowly, leaving the time of spiking — and maybe even its very happening — in total question, bro.
The Spy Tech 20th anniversary Polonium Neutralization Set™, from Mattel. Then you can just slip away. Pick up yours today with just a couple of bitcoins through Lebal Drocer, the only authorized reseller.
Mob rule is everything in the Hyper Revolutionary Social Networking device.
This message comes from the Public Relations desk of your very own chronicle.su:
While on its way to chronicle.su’s chief war correspondent Viet Zam, a message from Lillian King was intercepted early October, establishing a multi-tiered dialog around the coming “Social Network Revolution.” After several rounds of negotiation, [CHRONICLE EDITORS] have decided to release her video with the unspoken understanding there will be no further harassment from herself or the plethora of Illuminati-centered agencies she is believed to represent – both governmental and nongovernmental.
“A New Medium”
From the unsolicited email:
The Hyper Revolution video was created to show the strength of our new medium the Social Network.
Far from status updates and the latest instagram photos, social media is shifting the balance of social and political power back to the people and not a lot of individuals know this.
The new Social Network political party line is determined by upvoting. Its ideology is driven totally by cat videos and reposted television gaffes of celebrity politicians. There is no room for dissent once the most strongly worded opinions bob to the top – a sign that the Hyper Social Revolutionary Network has served its full purpose.
Sensationalism dominates the Hyper Revolutionary Social Network while marginalizing those willing to ask questions unanswerable by witty retorts that, no matter what, fail to reach into the humor box of the 98% who still don’t get it, ALL of whom carry the power of a downvote, and MANY of whom want YOU to shut up.
By the time you read this message, over 800 million people will believe they changed the world by clicking on Revolutionary status updates such as “Click Like if you are the 99%!”
We’re all leaders now. Join the Anti-Leaders for Change network and start posting today. Don’t forget to subscribe now and share this with your friends… You could start a revolution!
SMALL CHILDREN EVERYWHERE HAVE BRISTLED AT THE BARK OF GUNFIRE. EACH DAY, YOUR SONS AND DAUGHTERS REMORSELESSLY ANNOUNCE THE BOMBINGS OF VILLAGES, AND THEY HAVE HEARD THE CRIES OF DYING MEN THEY MUST IGNORE.
But are they ready for the EXPANSION PACK?
Snap into RAGEMODE with anonymous rednecks everywhere through five channel full virtual surround sound and ORDER YOURSELF A MURDER.
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DO YOUR DUTY, PEPSI-CHILDREN, AND GET ON THAT FUCKING BATTLEFIELD.
SEASIDE HEIGHTS, N.J. — The bloated corpse of Snooki was allegedly recovered and then dumped back into the sea Tuesday after the MTV star went missing early Monday evening.
When whaling experts off the Atlantic Coast noticed a disturbance in their dragnets, they claim to have pulled up the bloated, lifeless carcass of Jersey Shore starlette Nicole Elizabeth Polizzi the reality television “actress” widely known as Snooki.
Coast Guard Captain Jacob Funkhouser, who found the body, said he could not believe his eyes. And since this particular whaling expedition was a capitalist venture, Funkhouser said, there was just not enough space in the hold of the S.S. Bismarck and jettisoned her stinking, lifeless body.
It was definitely her.
Captain Jacob Funkhouser, S.S. Bismarck
Internet Chronicle reporters interviewed Funkhouser on the deck of the S.S. Bismarck. “It was definitely her,” Funkhouser told reporters, slamming a defiant fist down on the platform where he sat. “Even though it was all purple and puffy, I’d recognize that face anywhere. Now that I look back on it, we could’ve made more money selling the corpse back to her filthy rich guido family than I’d get from a big, juicy Sperm whale.”
Though he lamented losing the chance to capitalize on her fame, Funkhouser said he does not regret the decision to jettison Snooki’s body, saying “America dumped Bin Laden, so I did the same for Snooki.”
Snooki leaves behind an infant child whose birth raised controversy after critics labeled her a “negligent monster . . . incapable of motherhood.” (NY Times, 2011)
Known for drinking and getting punched in the face by better people, Snooki capitalized on a baffling book deal that was displayed prominently in bookstores alongside, or ahead of, the works of sociologist Cornell West, popular scientist Niel DeGrasse Tyson and satirist David Sedaris.
It is unknown how Snooki was initially blown out to sea. Sources close to the reality TV star said she was drinking profusely during a Hurricane Sandy welcoming party, and disappeared in her Scion Monday night, a car known to float in less than six inches of water. Authorities have declared her a missing person but are currently occupied with more important recovery efforts.
Boy Band ‘N Sync has arranged a tour of the United States and South America to kick off in the summer of 2013
INTERNET — ‘N Sync, famed “Boy Band” heart-throbs of the ’90s, have signed on for a Summer 2013 tour to span the whole Western Hemisphere. J.C. Chasez denied rumors of such a reunion tour earlier this year, and other members have made similar statements to the media in the past. It is not immediately clear what changed the musicians’ minds, but some industry specialists speculate the explosive interest in second-hand copies of their albums in developing countries may be a reason for the reunion.
Especially under the repressive dictatorships of Rafael Correa and Hugo Chavez, ‘N Sync is finding thousands of new South American fans every day. “It’s like the ’90s just hit Venezuela, and the kids there can’t get enough of ‘N Sync. Perhaps the lighthearted bubblegum R&B gives the downtrodden and oppressed a vision of greener pastures,” said Ursula Fulton, pop culture expert at New York University’s Steinhardt School of Culture, Education and Human Development.
Members of ‘N Sync are yet to comment on the upcoming tour, but the aged fans at home in America are absolutely excited at the prospect of a nostalgic reliving of the halcyon days of the ’90s, when all was right with the world.
Here is a rare photo of “Violent J” without his carcinogenic face-paint.
DETROIT, MICH. — Joseph Bruce, aka Violent J, founding member of the Insane Clown Posse, released a statement to fans Friday canceling further tour dates pending his recovery from skin cancer. Doctors say the cancer was caused by carcinogens in the oil-based “dark carnival” style face paint, which Bruce wore at home and for all public appearances.
Oncologist Dr. Angstrom H. Troubadour said, “Sadly, the face paint not only caused the skin cancer but it also hid the tell-tale signs of growth before the tumor became deadly. Violent J is putting up a strong fight, but at this stage his chances of survival are slim.”
Over the course of a year, the survival rate for skin cancer that has progressed to this stage on the face is estimated at about 10 percent. “We’re hoping for a magical miracle,” said Michelle “Sugar Slam” Rapp, Bruce’s babies’ momma.
Shaggy 2 Dope, another member of the Insane Clown Posse rap group, stated “I’m switchin’ to motherfuckin’ safe face paints from now on. All you other juggalos out there, spray-paintin’ yourselves ‘n shit, y’all need to get real. Clown makeup ain’t no joke no more. Woop woop!”
Fans of the Insane Clown Posse were recently declared a gang by the FBI, and crimes by so-called “Juggalos” now carry extra sentences in some urban areas.
EARTH – Gangnam Style has finally reached the eyes and ears of every living human being.
Gangnam Style is pouring from every orifice of the Internet and daytime television. Gangnam Style permeated American culture faster than you could hook a USB stick up to it via Ellen, Shoenice, local weather guys all across morning news and YouTube user holy-fuck-let’s-not-get-carried-away-with-ourselves-oh-what-the-hell-the-faster-you-can-make-them-the-better.
Gangnam Style took the world by storm.
Indonesian day laborers, Thai sweatshop workers, the American homeless, people in South and Central Africa have come into close personal contact of some form with Gangnam Style. Even Eritrean refugees, once forced by the government to spend their entire lives face down on a bed of sand, are now allowed two provisions: the continuation of life in a sand prison, and enjoyment of Gangnam Style in as many different configurations of which they can think.
Played in every bar across the planet, individuals who once chose to suffocate themselves with alcohol to escape from the very reality Gangnam Style satirizes, are now caught up in the number one PSY’Sssick beats of self-awareness-pumping Gangnam Style. Get all in that decadence InFiltrator style, and pump, pump, pump it up. And blow it down.
Gangnam Style is more than a style.
Gangnam Style has so fractured the spiritual world, cult voids that once insulated us from the vacuum of transhuman insanity are bleeding onto the pages of human history because they’re allowing Gangnam Style in schools. For some, Gangnam Style has replaced God. More literal translations of Gangnam Proverbs differentiate Gangnam Style from PSY, its creator. Fundamentalist Gangnam Style has solidified in the brittle cracks of the fractured cult plane and begun to infect the consciousness of world leaders.
The United Kingdom Parliament, for example, has been replaced by a mathematically perfect array of beautiful young women on all fours, poking their asses toward the sky. Prime Minister David Cameron’s new role is to stand over them, fixated on the boundless sexual potential of iPhone-hungry children just starving for exploitation, and to celebrate this bounty with caricatured renditions of Gangnam Style.
No one can really say what’s next for PSY, or if the Gangnam Style worldview is versatile enough to adapt to the shifting cult plane.
Dozens of Gangnam Temples have already sprung up across the East Coast. There is even debate whether to allow a controversial Gangnam Temple to be built near Ground Zero in New York City, for fear it could spark waves of ironic self-protest against the Capitalist agenda that control-demolished Towers 1 and 2.
TL;DR Those towers were meant to fall, and Gangnam Style took them down.
ATLANTA, GA. – “Hey, she’s a dame. What do ya say, Hermie? We pick her up and show her a good time, give her the presidential treatment?”
Two pairs of eyes met in agreement on the rearview mirror. As it slowed to a stop, the campaign van brakes cried out in protest.
“I’ll introduce myself.”
The man in the backseat watched through tinted windows. “Yes, what is it?” the woman inquired of the driver, who approached her on foot now. He was a stocky white gentleman wearing a sportcoat, stylish prescription glasses, and a stained yellow mustache that matched his teeth.
“You want to meet a celebrity?”
“What are you doing?” she asked as he got closer. Her face changed, although an expression of politeness remained. “Now, wait just a second, what do you want? Back! Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The driver had grabbed her by the wrist, but when she pulled away, he slapped her across the face and took her by her curly brown hair, leading her into the side door of their idling press wagon. She noticed it now, out of the corner of her eye: 2012.
Perhaps you’ve seen him on TV. He’s bringing jobs back to America. He believes we can take this country back. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be here today. His marriage fell to ruin in the wake of a series of sexual harassment scandals that surfaced as researchers snuffled for anything that might drop him out of the running. The hours were getting short; the days, much darker. It was only a matter of time now.
With their fly in tow, our two spiders drove around back of a warehouse not far from where they acquired a thirst for young flesh. Once inside, they removed her blindfold. The building was stacked to the tits with beer koozies, picket signs, boxes labeled “flair,” cardboard figures and T-shirts in every color and size ranging from small to medium to large, extra large, extra extra large, and the unthinkable XXXL. With no small degree of confusion, she absorbed her surroundings, forgetting for a moment the two dark figures just ten feet behind her. She struggled for breath at the sheer immensity of wall-to-wall fascism, lights shining on American flags, and in her eyes, too. She squinted to ascertain the meanings of slogans and effigies. America never looked so cheap. That is, until a red crowbar wedged itself between her right eye and the inner socket, hooking itself on her temple. The pain was insurmountable. She could not scream, and collapsed instantaneously under shock. Dull sensations of otherness were shooting off at random locations around her body. The pain was unfathomable. Reality ceased. A voice gave instructions. She followed them, without question, without understanding, with no intellectual capacity whatsoever to guide her through this terrible nightmare. She was no longer human.
The young woman – a skinny waitress in her thirties – with her fist in her mouth, put the other hand down to her gingham skirt. Her broken hand was gnarled into a claw, but using that claw, she tugged upward at her skirt with pathetic incapability, in a bid to satiate the verbose bloodlust of her attacker, candidate for the U.S. Republican Party presidential nomination, Herman Cain – a Georgia Tea Party activist.
The hairs on Herman’s neck bristled with anticipation. In the dark, he could not see it, but a flash of recognition darted through the young lady’s body as she made out the face of a man she once knew. A man who, before, had told her what to do in a more professional setting. She worked in one of his restaurants. Her boss. The owner.
Your God is Power. You have no shame.
“Rape victims are sluts who produce their own birth control. But you’re no victim,” declared Mr. Cain, a former deputy chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank of Kansas City. “You like this. I’m going to teach you to like me.” As he pumped, and huffed, and breathed scotch into his victim’s mouth, his eyes glazed over and fixated on the corner of the room, where he imagined a younger, better looking rape victim. And briefly, he pictured his wife. “Now secrete it!”
Herman Cain crouched down over the woman, who was now bloody, disheveled and used, and he asked her politely if he might take her out to dinner sometime, and if he can get that phone number.
Black dots patterned across his vision, bubblewrapping the terrible scene beneath him, the product of his undoing. One last passenger aboard the Cain train. As he struggled to breathe with that thin, tobacco-stained breath of his, Herman’s blood flowed like sand.
“She’s done for, Herman. Now let’s be on our way.” Chief of Staff Mark Block, Herman’s driver, sucked the last trace of life from his cigarette. He could not take his eyes off the scene. Her ripped white underwear with blue trim, bloody at the crotch.
“I– I thought her body was supposed to shut down to keep this from happening.” Cain withdrew an unlabeled bottle of blood pressure medication and took four tiny white pills.
“If she gets pregnant, then it means she liked it. Who can blame her? We’ve run a campaign like nobody’s ever seen. But then, America’s never seen a candidate like Herman Cain.”
A smile bled from the open corners of Herman’s mouth, from which sprung twin puffs of gaseous hate that twisted up his thin, dark mustache, and moved in a vapor around his furrowed brows, tracing the restaurant manager’s gray, receding hairline. Sister demons danced a double helix in the midnight air, assuming the form of matching parallel negative impressions, shaped like dervishes with forked tongues slithering, their writhing agitations, spied ever so slightly amid the shifting breeze in Block’s polluted exhalation. Graciously, they pulled his mouth wide into a devilish smile.
The Innocence of Muslims has spread wildly throughout the Middle East and is one of the most critically-acclaimed popular films since The Passion of The Christ. A new landmark in American Cinematography, the wondrous shots of the barbaric setting for desert people transport audiences to a fantasy land where nothing makes sense and buildings are set on fire simply because they are inhabited by Christians.
Culturally speaking, this is a landmark for American film that could have only been shot by a highly-acclaimed pornographic filmmaker. Muhammed’s depiction as a bisexual who likes both submissive and dominant acts of sodomy had me laughing at all the sodomite homosexual submissive Muslims in the world. The poignant tale of Islam’s founder and his dynamic struggle for a sexual identity dropped a bomb on my misconceptions. No longer do I think of Muslims as serious practitioners of a religion, but now I see they are just innocent heathens led to destructive and violent acts by crazed Imams who follow in the tradition of Muhammed. No wonder they don’t like it when people depict him!
I have never seen a film which better facilitates masturbation. The sex scenes in this movie aroused me sensually and made me want to violate the Sweet Virgin Mary. I spilt my seed when Muhammed told his followers to rape the children of the conquered, because that has always been a dream of mine. Perhaps I will join the Army so I can get back at the Muslims for all their horrific war crimes through history. My only problem was that there were no graphic depictions of genitalia, and we did not actually get to see Muhammed having sex. That would have greatly improved my enjoyment of the furious masturbation.
It was hilarious how at certain points during the movie the actors lines were overdubbed with all the really incendiary lines about Muhammed, and that none of the actors were actually conscious they were participating in such a controversial movie. Not only has the entire Muslim world been fooled like the sad innocent child-like people they are, but the actors were also similarly fooled! The film all came together in the end, and the “Great Prophet” was depicted as a crazed sword-wielding maniac covered in blood, just as everyone in America has always imagined. Surely, this is the work of America’s greatest filmmaker. It was an intellectual tour-de-force that had me thinking, laughing, crying, and cumming in my pants all at the same time.
I’ve heard that its reception in the Middle East has been fairly negative, but that’s sad! If you can’t laugh at God, who can you laugh at?