Old Brutus once told Sabu over IRC, "You'd better have a good-looking face because you're about to be associated with a movement." To which Sabu responded, "Indeed. I'm handsome methinks don't worry about that."
Sabu, outed this morning, faces the worst, or worse. He said he doesn’t fear extradition, but in 1908, Portugal signed the Portugal International Extradition Treaty with the United States, giving the FBI the ability to extradite a person.
Folks on Twitter have already compared Sabu to MLK, saying if he is taken out or extradited, there will be outcry. But because of extremely narrow avenues of information made possible by Twitter, Twitter users have a tendency to overestimate the education of the general public. That is to say, they think people give a damn about important issues like the freedom of information. Sadly, they don’t.
It was fun and games and Sabu did a great job covering his tracks, but he gave up some identifying information back in 2009 that have led people to what Sabu admits is his real name.
Sabu said he wanted to go out in style, wearing only a Chronicle.SU t-shirt, top hat and boxers before the media as he is pulled from his home and forced into a little prison on wheels before being carted away to a dark, isolated place from which he will never re-emerge.
Even if Sabu is not the true leader of LulzSec & AntiSec, which has been the subject of heavy speculation here at the Chronicle.SU, we believe Sabu is a leader you can follow. Because the undeniable truth is the combination of his actions and words has sparked a widespread movement toward hacking government and corporate websites – the likes of which we haven’t seen since 1989, when DOE, HEPNET and SPAN (NASA) connected VMS machines world wide were penetrated by the anti-nuclear WANK worm.WANK-penetrated machines had their login screens altered to:
W O R M S A G A I N S T N U C L E A R K I L L E R S
\__ ____________ _____ ________ ____ ____ __ _____/
\ \ \ /\ / / / /\ \ | \ \ | | | | / / /
\ \ \ / \ / / / /__\ \ | |\ \ | | | |/ / /
\ \ \/ /\ \/ / / ______ \ | | \ \| | | |\ \ /
\_\ /__\ /____/ /______\ \____| |__\ | |____| |_\ \_/
\ Your System Has Been Officially WANKed /
You talk of times of peace for all, and then prepare for war.
This just in: Monsanto hacked, 2,500 employees’ info released to the public.
CAPE CANAVERAL, Fla.–The United States of America celebrated her total commitment to all-out, Earth-only war Friday following the final launch of the NASA Space Shuttle.
The launch, regarded as “obligatory, ceremonial hoo-ha” by U.S. Army General and designate Director of the CIA General Patreus, went off without a hitch.
Over 1 million spectators uninterestedly watched the final launch of America’s space shuttle program.
“Finally, I can stop pretending to give a shit about space,” said Gunther Reed, 43, who witnessed the final lift-off a few hundred yards away. Reed rolled his eyes as he casually threw up his hands when his children screamed maniacally during lift-off.
Analysts predict Americans will soon be forced to disregard entirely new facets of reality, lest they appear over-informed, and thus, un-American.
“I think now that space is out of the picture, I can safely stop caring about more pressing matters such as global economics,” said Dean Shelton, 48, a plant worker in one of America’s last operating factories, located in Canton, N.C.
Thousands of workers will be laid off after the shuttle returns to earth, and will not return to work because an American space program is “just pointless,” as American President Barack Obama had this to say:
“What are we going to do in space, anyway? Discover new worlds – ancient planets with more fossil fuels and rare-earth minerals than we know what to do with? Possibly make contact with multi-celled organisms in nearby star-systems? This, I feel, is no longer America’s role. That’s China’s problem now. A new more glorious dawn awaits. Not a sunrise, like a nuclear blast, but a galaxy-rise. A morning filled with 400 billion guns – the rising of enlisted gays. Iran, we’re comin’ for you. We gon’ find you. We gon’ find you.”
As the President’s speech descended into an auto-tuned mockery of tree-hugging Nature lovers, astronomy enthusiasts and Iranian nationalists, he referenced YouTube cat videos he favorited in the past, as well as the Rebecca Black cover-up – and even prank-called Sabu, supposed leader of LulzSec, connecting him to a three-way conference call with incumbent Leader and Guide of the Revolution of Libya Muammar Gaddafi.
Obama reportedly facilitated the purchase of five Farmhouse Bread sandwiches from the mysterious hacker and arranged an exchange in the order of millions of bitcoins for rare access to Interpol’s collection of bomb recipes and child pornography to Gaddafi in a move political analysts described as “gut-wrenching, tactless and having absolutely nothing at all to do with the space launch.”
Gunther Reed, 43, waits impatiently for the final space shuttle to launch so he can get back to his buddy's place and smoke pot.
The Associated Press reported it will be at least three years – possibly five or more – before astronauts are launched again from U.S. soil. But only on the technicality that NASA’s funding is to be concentrated on turning people into projectile explosives which can be fired inconspicuously as fleshy missiles, undetectable by radar with the potential to inflict unprecedented destruction on important military targets in mainland China.
Former NASA Administrator Michael Griffin lamented the loss of America’s leadership in space. “For us to abandon that in favor of nothing is a mistake of strategic proportions,” he said.
But war is more important, which is why it has become USA’s number one export – because what impetus for space travel is there when we haven’t even poisoned Earth yet with global thermonuclear war?
“Space is for the elite,” said President Obama. “The American elite. And one fine day, we’ll take off again. The richest and the wealthiest people on Earth will someday board a glorious Generation Ship to Proxima Centauri, soon after we destroy this beautifully marbled rarity perched in the vast dark ocean of infinity. And we’ll leave your asses in the dust, conquering and destroying new worlds while you rot here, in this Hell we are creating for you each and every day, one war at a time.”
“I’m a little bit sad about it and a little bit wistful,” said Jennifer Cardwell, 38, who came with her husband, John, and two young sons from Fairhope, Ala. “I’ve grown up ignoring the space program, and now I have to find something new to stop giving a fuck about.”
The outlook is bleak, but with only war, low wages and receding global influence to think about, a random survey of Americans indicates citizens may feel obligated to double up on their reality TV shows and high fructose corn syrup products to remain as apathetic as they once were before the decline of NASA’s space shuttle program.
The next five years will see an influx of orange people with gelled hair and inferiority complexes, as well as phenomenons in the 24-hour news cycle in which viewership will become inversely proportional to the usefulness of CNN, Headline News and MSNBC.
Syria–President Bashar al-Assad told reporters Friday he feels that in spite of the crushing oppression of his dictatorial regime, the Syrian people are just not as empathetic as he would like them to be during this tumultuous time.
“I just wish those peasants could see what it’s like to be me before I order them to be mercilessly slaughtered at the hands of my death squads,” President al-Assad said.
Thousands of people have jumped on the Bashar al-Assad Hatewagon and now flow through the city streets like enraged water. “That is why it is so important that I must kill them all,” the leader said.
“How many rounds must I fire into vocalized women and dissenting children before they learn I am their best, if not only, option?” asked al-Assad.
“How many rounds must I fire into vocalized women and dissenting children before they learn I am their best, if not only, option?”
The troubled Syrian President said he is starting to think his people believe he has grown weak because he sends other people to do his dirty work for him.
“I even ordered my troops to shoot the troops who protested the shooting of the protesters. Is this not a sign of strength? Do I need to shoot them myself?”
Syrian state spokesperson Ahmed al-Kahardi said a new commercial paid for by The Al-Assad Campaign For Unending Control will broadcast amid damning footage of unsympathetic Syrian protesters being gunned down on the Al Jazeera news network.
The commercial is said to feature footage of the Syrian President killing dissenters with his own two gloved hands so as not to appear spineless. Assad is also reportedly seen choking a young man and crushing his windpipe on camera before he can even squeak out “Death to tyranny!”
Al-Assad said he hopes to kill enough protesters to “flip the ratio of haters,” until there are so few people left in his mean, dispirited state that all who remain in existence will represent none other than a majority of pure Syrian nationalists – good-natured folks who are willing to gladly accept all the abuses and indignity his oppressive regime has to offer, and who are so sympathetic to their ruler’s cause they are willing to starve to death and pay with their lives so their non-dissenting children may eat another day.
“If only they knew what I have to go through,” said al-Assad. The leader reported back pains that develop in the sixth hour of his sometimes day-long rape sessions upon women picked up by Syrian security forces.
“Sometimes I just want to lay down after that, but I can’t,” al-Assad complained. Occasionally the beleaguered President is even required to pick up the phone to order hot meals or tell reporters and UN diplomats to “fuck off” while he continues to ravage his unforgiving, unsympathetic nation.
Stay tuned as more details unfold around the President’s delicate emotional condition.
Tennessee artist Shaemarie Skaggs, cancer survivor, bites the filter off a Marlboro cigarette during a photo shoot at an industrial park in Clarksville.
Hoses dropped from a chemotherapy bag stretch around a rosary and into the blood-soaked needle-fed arm of Shaemarie Skaggs, whose hand clutches the withering flower of life.
It is just after sunset when I pull into the front yard of the budding Clarksville artist’s home. Clarksville, Tennessee is the worst town I’ve ever been to. The chance to interview an artist is a relief from the brown solitude that comes with living in a dry, burned-out military town. I wonder how creativity can flourish in a place like this. How can she?
As instructed, I call to inform Shaemarie that I have arrived and I approach her front door. It’s a beautiful McMansion nestled within a sloping subdivision. If I hadn’t seen the other homes driving in, I’d be inclined to believe it’s a real original piece of modern architecture. It is the same as the others if not slightly different. It is a floor plan. From up high, I can see the lights from Wal-Mart, Kroger and whatever else every town keeps along Commercial Avenue.
She says we can’t do the interview here – this is where she lives and takes care of her mother who recently suffered a stroke.
We drive around the neighborhood as I look for an exit out of Skaggs’ labyrinthine subdivision. Right away, she unfolds a picture of her arm with a rosary and chemotherapy supplies, and jumps right into explaining it to me.
“The bitch nurse fuckin' put a needle in my hand for painkillers – for morphine,” Shaemarie says, “And she didn't put it in my vein, so the morphine soaked in my hand and it would sting every time it pumped through. So I didn't have painkillers or I didn't feel right at all, and it hurt like a bitch.”
Pointing to her artwork, Skaggs tells the story as she’s told it countless times before. She says flatly during her chemotherapy treatments, this picture hung on her wall as an expression of her own humanity – but that she took joy from others’ reactions to it.
“The doctors would come in and freak out, and I thought it was really funny when they’d freak out and shit,” she says. “I like how I wrapped it around the cross because I just hate religion.”
Skaggs was diagnosed December 2009 with Hodgkin’s lymphoma, a cancer originating from white blood cells. Shortly thereafter she drew a relatively simplistic self-portrait featuring peeled-back skin and decay of a long-haired vixen – a living corpse aware of her own mortality.
The lips, rotted away into a grimace of a smile, represent Skaggs' morbid imagination of herself as chemotherapy took hold.
“It was really bothersome, but that was the point,” she says, looking out the window of my truck as we sit at a stop light. Then came a long silence.
We are headed toward a spot with free wi-fi where Shaemarie says we’ll access more of her artwork. She changes the subject to me and my work. I oblige but keep it ground-level, explaining that I’m a writer and editor. While booming down Clarksville’s main drag to the finer cuts of Led Zeppelin II, the sexy young artist asks more specifically what else I do besides interviewing her.
I explain how I write politics and local government articles for the newspaper, which gets her onto the subject of President Barack Obama and the superficial similarities between his efforts and those of Franklin D. Roosevelt. FDR’s New Deal may have gotten us out of the Great Depression, but Skaggs believes Obama is an actor.
“He’s trying to make it look good and doing this whole cover on it, like, ‘Oh, everything’s going to be fine,’ but really it’s starting to suck. It’s a fake aspect that he’s making everything look good but it’s not.”
-Skaggs, on President Barack Obama
“He’s trying to make it look good and doing this whole cover on it, like, ‘Oh, everything’s going to be fine,’ but really it’s starting to suck. It’s a fake aspect that he’s making everything look good but it’s not.”
She says her grandfather was a lawyer for a Philippine president while his daughter spied against him, causing controversy within her family and within the nation. She says her pursuit of liberal arts made her a black sheep when everyone else went into politics or has an “amazing job” as educators and government employees.
“It’s because we [Skaggs and her sister] are liberal and – ‘Fuck the government’,” says Skaggs, “And because we grew up in a stern family and we’re just like anti-everything.”
By now, we’ve reached our Internet source where Shaemarie discovers she can find specific Tumblr compositions through a simple Google search. She exclaims, “Google is a fucking creeper!”
Skaggs is exceptionally proud of one of her pieces of writing, which was reblogged by a website called The Whiskey Monologues and subsequently reviewed by its followers. The piece is about a drunken night of indiscriminate sex with an unnamed lover, notable for its sensual, emotive language and highly-revealing self-analysis midway through the exposé on passion itself.
While shooting at an abandoned industrial site, Skaggs informs me that she is in remission and healthy, in spite of a nasty cough acquired as a result of her smoking habit.
Shaemarie is forever affected by cancer, emotionally if not physically. Skaggs’ friend, Cara Roman, who she called “a fiesty little thing,” died July 2010 after a four-year battle with leukemia.
“She was my friend before I got cancer, I used to visit her all the time. And then one day I showed up to her hospital room and told her I have cancer. We both cried. I was the only one who spoke at her funeral. She was the closest person I had. She was so alive.”
Shaemarie says she will seek a liberal arts degree from Austin Peay State University but for the time being cares for her ailing mother at their shared home in suburban Clarksville.
Like a flash in a pan, the blinking of an eye, a star’s lifespan and all the time in the sky – Shaemarie Skaggs taught me that expression is only as beautiful as the time we have to appreciate it. That memories last as long as we can remember them, lest we mark them down.
On a long enough timeline, all things are finite, no matter what efforts we as human beings make to archive, categorize and chisel them into stone. On a short-enough timeline, all things last forever.
It’s not Kim Kardashian. It’s not Casey Anthony’s dead little baby. It’s not even Weiner’s dick. Nope. It’s another fucking WAR!
In April, the lying United States President Barack Obama said there are ”no boots on the ground” in Libya but we reported there certainly are ”shoes on the ground.” And boots. America continues its oil campaign through the desert as Obama prepares to declare war on Libya, who is currently already at war with itself.
Obama submitted a 34-page document to House Speaker John Boehner in support of all-out war on Libya. Lawsuits are being prepared against the administration which is currently engaged in illegal acts of war inside the oil-controlled nation of Libya, and Obama was required to justify his weird acts of war.
Many Americans will not even ask the question “Why not Syria?” where cold-blooded slayings of innocent, unarmed protesters take place as you read this – because Americans smart enough to ask that question are smart enough to know America’s role is not to spread Democracy, but to keep its own oil prices low.
The rest of the American public allow warmongering to continue because 98% of them are kept ignorant by corporate media and their own lazy, noninquisitive lifestyles; they probably just assume it’s all good in the ‘hood as long as their reality TV shows don’t exhibit signs of political polarization.
The U.S. State Department is considering lifting its ban on women in combat roles. This is likely less in the interest of women’s rights, and more because they don’t have enough meat in the field to sustain four simultaneous wars. Libya can expect a flood of women’s rights, where women will soon be found legally behind the gun pointed at your terrorist sand-nigger children.
Germany couldn’t warmonger on half the fronts we do but we’ll pull it off, because America’s number 1.
Chronicle.SU reporter Old Brutus called the CNN tipline to let them know Obama submitted to Congress what he said is a “legal basis for war” on Libya. Brutus assumed they had not yet learned of the development since they were broadcasting stories about Angelina Jolie and people having a hard time playing golf.
Old Brutus called the New York City CNN tip-line to make them aware of the news but could only speak to a machine. He left the following message:
Then, dissatisfied and wishing to speak with a human being, Old Brutus called the Atlanta, Ga. headquarters where computers have not yet assumed oppressive control over the flow of information. In Ga. it recently became legal for women to work, so a girl answered the phone.
She said she was not aware of the President’s justification for war on Libya to Congress, and forwarded him to the same tip-line he called to reach her. While holding, Brutus quickly plugged his voice recorder back into his hyper-encrypted landline handset and recorded the following conversation:
Elf Wax Media Ethics Analyst Billiam Falshe, who is glued constantly to CNN and supports their every move, was available for comment. Shortly before increasing the volume on his television, Falshe had this to say:
We like pretty dead babys with pretty mothers. We don’t like ugly sand-niggers blown to pieces by our political hate machine.
In the news today:
Someone injured during an angelina jolie visit to bumfuck nowhere
John Boehner plays golf “under pressure” [editor's note: Boehner is scheduled to play golf with the President, who Boehner asked to submit a proposal for his thus-far-illegal war on Libya. *Gasp!* I wonder what they will they talk about?]
A new battlefront! [oh, between republicans and democrats]
For at least 30 minutes, Casey Anthony’s trial dominated BOTH CNN channels
Child Protection Service “Not Doing Enough.”
Dancing at the Memorial of a Slave Owner
Washington Post Smears Avowed Socialists As Libertarians, “Pro-Family” Tourists Claim Threats of Child Protective Custody “Not Enough” To Deter Protesters
Saturday, around 50 people held a demonstration through dance at the Jefferson Memorial in southern Washington, D.C., which overlooks the Potomac River. Over 2,000 people had testified on Facebook that they would show up, but these testimonials apparently turned out to be the Internet’s letting off steam.
A week before, U.S. Park Police arrested five protesters for silently dancing in the memorial, which they did in response to the April 12, 2008 arrest of Mary Oberwetter, a 28-year-old D.C. resident, who was eventually charged with “interfering with agency functions.” The video of recent arrests received in its first 24 hours well over 100,00 views and, at the time of this writing, nearly 900,000.
Russia Today journalist and 2010 House Candidate Adam Kokesh, a self-described Ron Paul Republican, found himself thrown to the ground and, briefly, even choked, last weekend for dancing, as he said, in celebration of the principles of Thomas Jefferson.
Recently, The Washington Post ran a consensus editorial
claiming that by silently dancing in the memorial, the protesters had in fact justifiably invited their booking and whatever force shown to them. “If it goes anything like previous [protests], it will not be pretty,” wrote the Post’s editors, adding, “And that won’t be the fault of the U.S. Park Police.” However, Saturday’s protest did go a great deal better than the previous weekend’s. There was no resorting to direct violence, but in the face of protesters already backed off to the steps of the memorial, where the Post’s editors swore back and forth that “anyone is free to polka,” police were in fact brandishing automatic rifles.
Speaking on the steps of the memorial just minutes before the noon start of the demonstration, Medea Benjamin, co-founder of activist group Code Pink and one of the five arrested the previous week, lamented that the “pursuit of happiness” advertised in the Declaration of Independence, authored largely by Jefferson, was outside the prerogative of the defense by Park Police in the memorial. She cited the unobtrusive nature of listening to headphones and silently dancing in commemoration of the declaration’s author.
The popularity of the subsequent video footage on Kokesh’s blog, “Adam Vs The Man” – even as other nonviolent protesters in Bahrain and Syria faced permanent injury if not total execution – displayed the degree to which the treatment of the protesters was clearly outraging many domestically.
The heart of the matter is a view of whether celebration of Jefferson’s ideals can even be done by dancing inside the memorial . Dancing is “distracting from the atmosphere of solemn commemoration,” agreed an appellate court with the original lower-court decision Kokesh et al were initially protesting. There seems to be an at least popularly-enough held skepticism that in fact any sort of dance-based celebration can even earnestly be done in honor of Thomas Jefferson. However, in the face of Jefferson’s legacy that people of the majority of ethnicities should live free or die, the brandishing of automatic rifles and tear gas canisters in the face of harmless expression seems a more serious defiling of that spirit of “solemn commemoration.”
The point of Americans who genuinely believe that dancing in a public memorial warrants its closing to the public, daresay violence against dancers, is that disbelief that the dancing is even being done in sincere celebration of the ideals of the First Amendment, an high-minded ideal that in reality has always been subject in one way or another to restrictions of minor status, obscenity, sedition or national security restrictions, or the general popularity of one’s ideas.
During the exchange with Benjamin, Tighe Barry, who was also one of the five arrested last week for dancing, said, “I think Jefferson would have said a long time ago that it’s time for government to grow up. If he were to spring up alive right now, he wouldn’t know what to make of any of this. I do know from the words that he said he would have changed the laws that are antiquated and outdated. He doesn’t seem like the person that would ever want a memorial that would be solemn and you have to come and pray to a certain god.”
Jefferson, on record discouraging celebrations of his birthday and whose grave marker does not mention his highest office of the presidency, is the figurative “god” to which Barry is saying that the courts’ decisions have demanded reverence.
The Washington Post’s editors would blatantly participate in libel against the protesters, saying “a group of self-proclaimed libertarians who decided to defy the court on Memorial Day weekend.” Barry and his girlfriend, Code Pink co-founder Medea Benjamin, are obvious socialists, as indicated by, among many things, their not-so-subtle habit of wearing pink clothing.
Barry would also fire back at the editorial’s charge that the “dancers’ energy and presumably good intentions would be better channeled by addressing real injustices.”
“I was in Tahrir Square [in Cairo, Egypt], looking – I was there for the entire revolution. I was looking for someone from The Washington Post editorial board to come out and say something about what was going on. And they waited and waited until the very last minute, when they figured out who was going to win and then they editorialized. You know, this is the Washington [Post] editorial board. You know, they need to straighten it out.”
After approximately 10 minutes of silently dancing, which began roughly around noon, a few more protesters immediately joined, apparently without any requests that they stop dancing. After another 10 minutes, approximately 50 people had joined in and were making their way in a conga line around the statue of Jefferson himself. Clearly upping the ante from the previous complaint that they had not been allowed to silently dance, the emboldened crowd began yelling slogans and cheering jubilantly, several chanting the text of the First Amendment. As the circular marchers made passes by, Kokesh stopped, roughly in front of me, and made a point of accepting handshakes from generally admiring co-protesters.
Recording video on phone, it was apparent that the initial discussed tactic of the police was to walk up to protesters and simply ask them to leave, if they felt like dancing. I didn’t hear any of those initial conversations up close, but their occurrence was apparent because individuals began asking others to not leave, because that’s, as some protesters loudly suggested, when the police would begin their arrests. No matter one’s conclusions about the rights of Kokesh et al and those of the original demonstrator, Oberwetter, to silently dance, by the time the monument was shut down a week after the first Kokesh protest, activists had chosen to turn their new demonstration into a markedly less silent one.
Without announcement, the police had put up a metal barrier at the entrance to the memorial, without any sort of public announcement. This tactic was effective insofar that it made it so that police didn’t have to block people, with their own bodies, from coming back in once they had left. However the tactic was not so effective because it also made it difficult to comply with their orders, once requested to do so. Once asked to leave, this reporter attempted to make his way out of the meter-wide gap in the barrier, only to find it impossible to get out through the line of camera-bearers all too intent on capturing more salacious police brutality, if in fact it went down.
Unable to make my way out of the gap, which I was facing, trying to push my way through, and refusing no request, a Park Police officer shoved this reporter into the crowd of not-budging cameramen. It was unnecessary force, but their motivations were clear enough. If the police did not apply at least a little unnecessary force this time, they stood to lose even more face than they obviously did last weekend, when as Kokesh said to RT, they were inundated with angry phone calls, which, he suggested, could have expedited the release of the libertarian and socialist protesters.
You can see it in my footage after I’m shoved: My hand is shaking. Memories of last week’s footage came back to me. While I never feared for an instant that, on account of the dancers, foreign tourists would think less highly of Jefferson or America, I did fear, perhaps irrationally, that police would begin a disastrous power trip that could end with a lot of hurt people. In light of substantially more egregious civil rights abuses, it is easy to, as did The Washington Post, dismiss the cause of dancing in the Jefferson Memorial as trivial. The pretense of this solemnity enforcement is that it will stop ridicule of Jefferson or impress upon visitors an “appropriate” regard for the man, when the idea that a law can enforce such a genuine internal consideration is an illusion, a mirage.
for The Buffalo BEAST back at Glenn Beck’s “Restoring Honor” rally in front of the Lincoln Memorial, the naïve idealism of some American Revolutionary revivalists is really quite striking. It is the product of a grade-school indoctrination Americans receive, one not unlike that of many country’s citizens regarding still-vogue leaders past. It reminded me of being in the 4th grade in a school in Virginia hearing my teacher ask, sure, slavery was bad, but what were some of its benefits.
I caught this same tone repeatedly at the Jefferson Memorial dance-off, between the chants of “TJ, TJ” and blood-boiled, screeching testimonials to Jefferson’s beyond-reproach character.
Last weekend, I was at the Mount Vernon home of the first constitutional president of the United States, George Washington, and in a line of tourists on the veranda. The lawn was quite vast, and the general had ordered his chattel slaves to have it cut with a scythe. Mind you, this was not a farming operation for the production of food; this was a prurient and petty exercise in aesthetics.
A guide was stationed out on the porch, with arm’s length of me.
“How many human beings did George Washington own? Eight hundred? A thousand?” I inquired, not stuttering, but the guide appeared mildly repulsed by the question, her chin pulling backwards in a kind of micro-whiplash, and then she asked me if I were asking about the general’s land-holding acreage, before I made a clarification, and she told me he owned more than 300 people.
It seems pretty clear that Jefferson would have been outrageously offended that people were facing police action, quite possibly to the point of advocating lethal-force resistance to the officers on the scene. Of course, this would have been and would be an evil mistake, but it goes to show the weakness of appealing to Jefferson’s authority itself to justify this resistance.
Somewhere around the 12:20 p.m. peak of the dancing, Kokesh stopped to face the throng of journalists, bloggers or onlookers to proclaim how acts of disobedience of this type were cardinal to bringing down the state. It was a thought-provoking comment.
After the event, Kokesh said that, were he only allowed to not pay taxes, he would gladly give up his claim of access to the memorial.
It was then, after police had forced everyone willing to go out, Kokesh was on the steps bull-horning back at the stragglers in the sanctum and their onlookers, proclaiming that “the people had won” and requested that no one risk arrest at that point. The police’s granting 30 minutes from dancing’s starting until my being asked to leave, at least individually as a bystander, seemed tacit acknowledgment of wrongdoing.
A group of tourists told me that if the protesters inside had truly wished to fight for freedom, they should simply enlist, presumably to go fight in missions like that most tolling in Afghanistan, where some recent polling has shown that 80 percent or more of men believe that the NATO mission is bad
It was fascinating to see a conception that their own personal liberties were maintained through military operations in a country where soldiers are largely undesired, and whose actions are roundly condemned by the elected leadership in place.
By the refreshment stand near the Jefferson Memorial around 1 p.m., a mid-30s man was yelling at another at the top of his lungs, swearing upon “the altar of God” “eternal hostility” to that tourist, blaming him and his ilk, not the police, for the monument’s closing.
The tourist complained that foreign tourists, families, and his prepubescent son were not able to see the memorial they had traveled to view. He indicated that the dancer yelling at him believed that “his rights were more important than mine,” adding “[my family pays] the bills to keep that open. You got it closed. You people got it closed. Congratulations.”
“We families,” he would continue, “we get our rights violated because you insist on being a buffoon. That’s what happened. That’s what happened. My rights are more important because I have a right to go in there and enjoy the monument.” The tourist would personally charge that the law can enforce a “solemn atmosphere” in the monument.
The tourist’s blood still boiling, I attempted to get his consideration of the predicament of another protester’s, who had brought several of his young children. Police had told him that his children would be taken into protective custody if he stayed at the memorial. As that father stood far outside of the sanctum of the memorial, talking to his children, an officer approached them and said, “If you get caught up in the sweep, they go down also. It’s child services, just letting you know.”
The name of the man whose children were threatened is Abraham Wise.
I asked the tourist how exactly that officer’s request was in particular consideration of families. He did not answer the question, which encouraged me to ask him point-blank if indeed the protester’s children should have been placed into custody.
The frustrated tourist declined to answer this question directly but did indicate his sense that the police, who were carrying Armalite assault rifles in the face of dancing protesters, “didn’t do enough.”
As onlookers reacted belligerently to this claim, the tourist’s son said, “I’ve learned nothing from you.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t show proper respect to your slave owner.”
Stoned, drunk and with both hands on the grips of a full-throttled hog, Thompson leaned into the long wind of a Pacific Ocean straightaway doing 100 miles per hour. Knowing the next invisible divot in the asphalt could be his last, he held on tighter, accelerating to speeds he would never know, too careful to take his eyes off the road.
He was determined to live, or die trying.
Somewhere in the backwoods of America, Hunter S. Thompson is riding with the Hell’s Angels, wearing a gigantic .50 caliber revolver openly, and making smart-ass remarks to simple-minded townspeople. I know this because I have seen it with my own eyes. I talked to him. He told me he wanted to be the first celebrity to actually fake his own death.
“The news’ll write anything,” he said, shifting a cigarette around in his teeth. “Those fucking savages ran the story before anybody had a chance to call the cops. YOU DIRTY ANIMALS.”
I can’t say for sure if HST was the first famous person to fake his own death, but he’s definitely the last.
In 1965, members of the Hell’s Angels beat Hunter savagely for material found in his book Hell’s Angels. After all these years, he has finally decided to pay them back for their share of his writing. Thompson says each year, he and his motorcycle gang, of which he has become the “zombie” leader, drive by the Aspen Sheriff’s headquarters and take several rides around the block.
I know this because I met him. He had the shooting glasses and the cigarette, and was entirely out of his mind on Amyls. There was no way it couldn’t have been him.
This message is brought to you by Datura™
And Lebal Drocer Pharmaceuticals.
"Cut off the head, and the body will die!"
I was 18 years old when I agreed to meet up with a fat girl I met on the Internet. I think I met her on myspace. Up until that point, I’d never even hung out with fat girls, because I didn’t have many fat friends.
She was from my hometown, just three hours away, and apparently she’d seen my band play live while I was still in high school. Also, she read my website and followed the controversy behind how it went down. So she claimed to know me and, after a few phone calls, was very interested in seeing me.
‘What could it hurt?’ I thought. I said okay. She seemed nice, and her voice was cute. Besides, why be down on someone just because she’s heavy, right?
She arrived in town shortly after I gave her the okay to come out and John – my roommate and best friend at the time – offered to help us out by meeting her at her car and driving us back to the dorm together.
We parked and walked casually down the sidewalk toward the street where she was parked. Then, he spotted her about a second before I did and asked, “That’s her, isn’t it?”
I fought the urge to grimace and forced myself to continue smiling. “Yep, that’s her,” I replied through gnashing teeth.
And on that fateful February evening, as the girl lumbered toward me, wearing flip-flops and a light hoodie, I braced myself for what would turn out to be twelve laborious hours of tolerance. It was then I knew nothing about this night could be romantic.
On the car ride home, she told us how difficult it was to navigate through Richmond, because of all the one-way streets. John and I stared silently forward, but I knew it was important to keep the mood light so I pulled out a pipe, and some marijuana.
“Oh muh Gawd!” the fat girl exclaimed. “I only done this like once before, so don’t y’all laugh at me.”
‘She didn’t sound this southern on the phone,’ I remember thinking. ‘Why is it coming out now?’ And that is how I learned that some people – when put in unfamiliar situations – will revert to a simpler version of themselves, as a sort of defense mechanism.
And it works, because I realized even though she can talk like a regular person when she wants to, she is a bumpkin at heart and no matter what happens, I’d better just go easy on her – as in, no intense debates, no really deep conversations. She’s already in the “big city” and I wouldn’t want to rattle her cages.
We all got stoned and talked about our favorite bands. LSD came up during the conversation, too.
For security reasons, my dormitory required visitors to be signed in, and in order to do that you have to fill out a few lines in their binder and leave your identification at the desk. This gave the security guards plenty of time to look us up and down and make assumptions.
As I handed ID cards over to the security guard, I detected an air of superiority from him. I could feel him judging me. But I was also very stoned – and as John and I had only very recently discovered LSD, I had become overtly aware of every little vibration – or so it would seem. Or maybe I was.
The three of us got up to the dorm and listened to Kyuss, smoked some more weed and discussed our ambitions. Mine include fame; John wants money; the RA wants to know what that smell is; and the girl was so stoned she didn’t know her name.
On that note, I wish I could remember her name so I don’t keep referring to her as ‘the girl.’ It was something like Lynn, and Laura Lynn makes bread, which is food, which fat people love to eat, so from now on I’ll call her ‘Lynn.’
John left to meet our friends – and not wanting to be seen in public with my adoring bumbling behemoth, I offered to stay back at the dorm and just hang out for a while. Quickly shutting down was my naive open-mindedness I had going into the night.
Finally alone, I was afraid her eyes might fall hungrily upon me and I would have to fight off the bear. But I’d clearly suffocated Lynn’s ego with weed, an effect I had not foreseen but was eternally grateful for. Recognizing the benefits of intoxication, I offered her a beer; however, it was not beer that she wanted. Nay. What does the beast require? She squealed out in ecstasy when I offered her a Little Debbie cake from behind the mini-fridge.
“Ooooh eeeee! AHHH! OH my GOD!” Lynn shrieked, tearing into the packaging. I felt almost as sorry for the little snack treat as I did for her.
She gorged herself on junk food and flopped onto my bed, grinding her filthy black feet into the pillow, where I lay my face at night. I watched in disgust as she wallowed around on my bed like a dry manatee. The situation was worrisome but I still found it hard to hate someone willing to go in on a ten-strip of acid with me even though she’d never tried it. For that I figured there must be something to her, some insightful spirit that needs nurturing, as we all do, and at the very least I could be friends with someone like that.
I had a paper due the following morning so I told her I needed to get to work, and she passed out quickly. Over the course of the next three or four hours, I finished her beer, wrote my paper and smoked more dank marijuana.
Then she woke up again, hungrier than a hell-hound and quite vocal about it.
I had no real food, and I was hungry too, so we decided to walk down to the 7-eleven. I knew Lynn’s visit to Richmond was the most walking she’d done up until this point in her teenage life. Her flip-flops made an aggravating “suck-pop!” noise as she followed behind me and we strutted boldly down a frigid, windy Main Street. I felt bad for her. I would’ve offered her my jacket but it was too small to fit her.
And then all at once, within 18 minutes and 45 seconds, my sympathy for this person disappeared rapidly.
We walked in the front door of the convenience store and I headed straight for the back of the line, which is very long the closer you wait until midnight. Suddenly my hairs stood on end as I heard her squealing like an injured beast behind me. “Sweet Jesus,” I said aloud, and turned to look at her.
“Oh my gawd!” she screamed. “These Cheetohs turn your mouth blue!”
I got hot in the face, turning bright red and I tried to pretend like I didn’t know her.
After ravaging the Cheetohs display, Lynn cut ahead of a guy standing in line with a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, to stand beside me. He politely said nothing but I could sense his annoyance. We awaited our turn to order Taquitos from the bar and, seeing as how I am a gentlemen and the bitch had already cut in line, I let the lady order first.
She demanded cream cheese Taquitos. He said they weren’t ready, but all the others were. She rose her voice and used my name, saying, “James! Can you believe they don’t have my favorite Taquitos? What kind of fucking 7-eleven is this? Arright, gimme the taco kind.” My asshole tightened, forming diamonds.
“Would you like three Taquitos for $3.33?” the man asked her.
She shook her head irritably. “Oh yeah, I want that. James, tell ‘im what you want sugar. Maybe they got what you like.” She bent over, placing one hand on the counter and the other on her equator, “‘Cause they sure as shit ain’t got what I like.” As if crippled by grief, she stared over her little bags of chemically-enhanced Cheetohs strewn across the counter.
I looked to my right, where at least ten people stood watching and waiting. The man holding PBR was now amused. I looked back at the clerk as I gripped the counter with both hands, afraid that I might lose control at any moment. Suddenly the idea of even ordering Taquitos was embarrassing. ‘What’s in this shit?’ I thought. ‘It’s probably giving me cancer. Diabetes. I am a disgusting human being. What the fuck.’ I mumbled my order to the clerk, swiped my credit card and almost left before he gave me my food.
On the way back, Lynn ignored a homeless person. He asked her for change and she pretended not to hear him.
“Hey wassup man? Your girl can’t talk?” He demanded an answer while approaching me with haste.
“I guess she didn’t hear you,” I said, and gave him a dollar.
“You could’ve said something to that guy,” I prodded.
“Yeah I know, but I never had bums ask me for money,” she explained. “I don’t know how to respond to that.”
“You just say ‘I don’t have it.’” I was nearly in disbelief at this point.
“But I do have money, silly!”
I said nothing.
I suffered through the excruciating pain of signing her in once again, making fat jokes in my head.
‘Will I need to sign her in as more than one guest? Maybe there’s a weight limit since I’m on the top floor.’
While writing her name in the book, I heard her wolf down at least one whole Taquito. By this point, I didn’t even care anymore. I just wanted the night to end.
As I typed away on my paper, Lynn sprawled out on the bed, dirty feet on my pillow once again, eating Cheetohs and yawning her mouth at me. From her open maw slid an indigo-blue tongue, flecked with orange pieces of Cheetoh.
“Blaeegh! Is my tongue blue?” she asked gleefully.
“Yeah, it’s like you ate dye.”
“Nuh-uh!” She ran into the bathroom to see for herself. “It is! Oh m’god, it’s so blue!”
Historical evidence that fat girls like gimmicky Cheetohs
We smoked some more marijuana, had a few beers and I blew her away with some very basic political discussion. I took this opportunity to transition into the social revolution of the 1960s, and then got her talking about acid.
I told her $20 would get her two hits of acid, and I’d just mail it to her after I bought the ten-strip. She said alright and eventually fell asleep.
I kept her money and took all the acid myself.
Apart from the occasional, “Where are my drugs or money?” emails, which came in for a few weeks and then stopped, I never saw or heard from Lynn, ever again.
Corporate Rock sensation Redlight King was granted permission by Neil Young to sample [butcher] one of his finest works for the song.
The video features a skateboarder at the beginning, to rope in fans of Tony Hawk V or whatever’s next. It is cool.
Then, some undefinable hipster – wigger hybrids get in a fight, signifying the dissonance between the last generation’s ways and the pressures of today. So basically a confrontation between two irrelevant groups of people takes place, and you’re supposed to feel something. If your parents are white trash, then you can probably relate to what you see on-screen, maintaining the status quo.
Following this, a distraught-looking Weezer fan enters a bike shop and is confused by tires on the ceiling. The wheels in the sky keep on turning, maybe, but his life is obviously at a standstill – as signified by the fact he is in a Redlight King video. He thinks the motorcycle will take him places, perhaps now through his own bastardization of Easy Rider, minus the weed, because not only is marijuana for old fogies, but Redlight King tests for that stuff now.
The camera then pans across our straight-edge hipster biker-wigger moping in his Detroit squat of an apartment, while the words Old Man, look at my life shamelessly echo off the walls, washing over this embarrassment of a manchild you instantly identified with before realizing what a pussy he is; but it’s too late now.
He reviews disconnect notices for his iPhone and FiOs internet over a bowl of cereal, surrounded by pictures of a disappointed step-father.
Seeking fulfillment and quick cash, the antagonist enters a motorcycle race. He takes off and now you’re finally allowed to see a musical instrument, implying that Neil Young samples were not the only thing used for this song – that someone did in fact pick up a guitar, probably under duress, and most likely enveloped in anguish at the notion of having to resort to use of a talent. The lights are dim and we’re only shown the brief vibration of strings before the manchild reappears in a field after [losing] his motorcycle race.
The video ends on a disturbing note. Viewers discover that not only has the antagonist reproduced, he managed to score with a beautiful woman, ultimately creating this abomination:
Redlight King promotes unsustainable childbirth and theft of intellectual property. Neil Young is neither referenced nor apologized to throughout the course of the video, and you are dumber for watching it.
Redlight King is the trailer park hero of the modern South.
Redlight King is brought to you by Lebal Drocer, Incorporated.
Osama Bin Laden has been assassinated by the United States Government under the command of Nobel Peace Prize laureate Barack Hussein Obama. President Obama strategically timed this announcement in order to hurt the ratings of Donald Trump’s reality television show. Trump’s comb-over has recently forced the president of the United States to release his long-form birth certificate, riding a populist wave of racial hatred. Trump has used reality television to leverage his position as front runner for 2012 Republican candidacy. This announcement is a blow aimed directly at Donald Trump’s dick. A crowd was planted outside the White House with cameras at the ready, conditioned to maniacally chant their nationalist fervor. 2011 will be remembered as the year in which television replaced reality.
Talking heads repeat the phrase “Bin Laden is dead” as Americans everywhere get hard-ons in anticipation of the moment when Obama will utter the phrase himself. Speculation on Al-Qaeda’s reprisal is used to strike fear into our hearts, a dangling reminder of the horrific images from 9/11. The terror threat level has been raised for the first time in years, in preparation for this incredibly important news. Terror is back, and it’s here to stay. Break out the American flag, because the fight is on.
Osama bin Laden is a figure who became irrelevant at least four years ago. His death is not a national security issue, it is a publicity stunt. Many believe that Bin Laden has, in fact, been dead for years from natural causes. Obama’s policy of death in Libya has been met coldly by his supporters until now. The masses now cry out in celebration for death.
Obama has already submitted a new schematic for the Oval Office that will allow him to maximize enjoyment of his next five years in office. The Oval Office is being converted into a propaganda machine full of gearboxes, timing belts, and terror-alert graphical representations – surrounding a hollow core in which Obama sits, naked, issuing liquid ideology from his pores which evaporates into hot air and is then blown miles into the sky.
Obama’s rhetoric was little more than a base appeal to emotions that heartlessly described the imagery of 9/11. There is no doubt that this self-satisfied speech will be repeated on the campaign trail hundreds of times. Nearly a million Muslims have been killed in revenge for 9/11, but the death of Bin Laden has justified it all. Obama concluded his speech with an invocation to the Christian God of America. Tea Party members are still convinced that Hussein is a secret Muslim.
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