Washington, D.C. – Calls ring out of the White House for Julian Assange’s assassination following leaked documents penned by Secretary of State Hillary Clinton calling for investigations by every government agency into the online activities of Sabu, LulzSec afficionado, who she suspects to be connected with Hamas, Iran and known terrorist organizations.
Clinton threatened Assange Monday during a White House press conference by calling for his genitals.
“I want his balls,” Clinton said. “I want his dick. On my desk, I mean I want it severed and put on ice so I can ride it – I mean throw it from the window of a moving limousine. Assange is a threat to our freedoms and a menace on society.”
Already bounties are springing up around the planet for the renegade journalist and publisher.
Human Rights Watch advocates say they are concerned calls for Julian Assange’s head is a threat to global free speech but Rupert Murdoch, prominent free speaker, says otherwise.
Rupert Murdoch is insulted by the question.
In a symposium on the principles of ethical reporting, Murdoch said, “If he doesn’t like republishing the status quo, maybe he should consider another profession.” Murdoch’s deprecatory comments toward free thinkers were met with resounding applause throughout the Puckataw, Kansas ∞ Freedom Hate Humphrey Auditorium.
Bored with factual news and raw information, the American public have largely shown preference to conjecture and overtly emotional performances of total bias as an indicator of truth. It is by this mechanism calls to assassinate and putting .png targets over political opponents’ faces has become an acceptable practice. The American People love their violence. Thank sweet baby Jesus it’s being applied to the nightly newscast.
Right-wing writer and free speech advocate Andrew Breitbart said in addition to Julian Assange, Clinton, Palin and others are enjoying their freedoms of speech as well.
“A jovial call to homicide is alright every once in a while, so long as it’s all in good fun. Nobody really takes that stuff seriously. Right?”
The Chronicle.SU is in full support of the bounty on Julian Assange’s head and we are working systematically to bring him to US authorities. Contributions and our bounty are accepted via bitcoin: 18zJouAQAMzX5sJygZ4M2QV7yb8FzxSbdq
A recent pastebin hoax portending to be a leaked diplomatic cable from the office of Hillary Clinton, it seems, was actually written by me. This was discovered after a careful search through my browser history, as I was blackout drunk and high on one too many drugs at the time I wrote the pastebin.
S E C R E T STATE 047326
E.O. 12958: DECL: 05/08/2034
TAGS: PINR IR
SUBJECT: (SBU) LULZSEC AND ITS POSSIBLE RELATION TO HAMAS
AND THE IRANIAN GOVERNMENT(C-NE9-00993)
Classified By: SUZANNE MCCORMICK, DIR., INR/OPS. REASON: 1.4(C).
¶1. (C/NF) WASHINGTON ANALYSTS ARE HIGHLY INTERESTED IN
REPORTS REGARDING IRANIAN GOVERNMENT'S PRESENCE IN CYBERSPACE.
ANTI-AMERICAN SLOGANS AND MESSAGES HAVE BEEN SPREAD WITH
THE AID OF ILLEGAL HACKING. THESE ATTACKS ARE MOST LIKELY
A COOPERATIVE ACTION OF BOTH HAMAS AND THE IRANIAN GOVERNMENT.
ON 17 JULY 2011, THE SUN WAS HACKED BY LULZSEC AND A STORY WAS
PLACED WHICH THREATENED THE LIFE OF RUPERT MURDOCH. THIS IS A
TYPICAL LULZSEC ATTACK, TARGETING A MEDIA OUTLET.
¶A. (C) WHAT, IF ANY, TIES DOES THIS ATTACK HAVE TO IRANIAN
INTERESTS? WHAT ARE THEIR MOTIVATIONS FOR WEAKENING WESTERN MEDIA
OUTLETS LIKE PBS AND THE SUN?
¶B. (C) IN WHAT WAY IS SABU RELATED TO HAMAS? IS HE POSSIBLY
TIED TO MORE EXTREME GROUPS SUCH AS AL-QAEDA?
1) (C) WHAT KIND OF SUPPORT DOES SABU HAVE WITHIN ANONYMOUS
AND THE UNITED STATES?
2) (C) CAN SABU'S SUPPORTERS BE ACCESSED BY OUR INFILTRATORS IN
HAMAS AND AL-QAEDA, AND IF SO, HOW QUICKLY?
3) (C) HOW CAN ODYSSEY BE USED TO DAMPEN SUPPORT FOR LULZSEC?
¶C. (C) PLEASE CITE C-NE9-00993 IN THE SUBJECT LINE OF
REPORTING IN RESPONSE TO THE ABOVE QUESTIONS.
I must have drunkenly entered the mind of Hillary Clinton, because this hoax has received over 9,000 views on pastebin. It has also been republished in many other publications of high repute, as final proof of Barrett Brown’s paranoid theories. Until now, the Romas/COIN theories were based only on circumstantial evidence.
After further investigation of my internet history, it seems this whole hoax began with an extended masturbation session on /b/. After that, I spent about two hours reading through everything on WikiLeaks that had ever come from the Secretary of State. At the time I didn’t realize I was reading documents written by both Hillary Clinton and Condoleeza Rice, but they write in the exact same voice anyway. I studied every intricacy of Clinton and Rice’s authoritative writing style. I find it impossible to believe I did this without touching myself.
The only person who really picked up on this hoax was th3j35t3r, and he has since done his best to tie Sabu with Islamic terrorists. However, he hasn’t done half the job I did, and I did it only to mock those who would believe it. After all his practice, you think th3j35t3r would have learned how to troll by now.
WASHINGTON — Congressional defenders of the terrorist organization, People’s Mujahedin of Iran, continue to ensure a Middle East bereft of peace. After years and years of butthurt regarding the fundamentalist Islamic threat to Afghanistan, Pakistan, Kansas and Oklahoma New York Representative Peter King has finally harnessed the hate in such a way that he will one day be elected President of the World. In so-called “flyover country,” paranoia has reached a fever pitch with regards to the immediate and overwhelming threat that shariah law surely poses to America’s heartland. While Christianity remains the predominant opiate of the massive masses, each burkha seen in public raises rational fears of Taliban oppression in America’s heartland.
Phone hackers revealed negotiations between the People’s Mujahedin of Iran and Peter King, in which the exchange of child sex-slaves for weaponry was discussed. King has responded with alarmist accusations that phone hackers targeted the families of 9/11 victims in order to deflect personal scandal and protect his position of power.
We here at the Chronicle support fundamental biblical literalism when it comes from the mouth of a male-only Christian black-metal band. Unless delivered in that context, we don’t grasp that whole religion thing. The bipartisan congressional coalition is walking a dangerous wire over what is really quite reasonable State Department policy categorizing the MEK as a murderous terrorist organization. The congressional allies are desperately trying to ratchet up Iran’s internal violence, validating groups like the Basij, the Iranian religious police, famous for firing live ammunition into angry mobs during the recent Green Revolution of the educated, elite Tehranian youth.
MEK’s allies in congress are known supporters of terrorism. Peter King has been instrumental in official US support for terrorist groups, not only with respect to the MEK, but also the Irish Republican Army, whose victims he is too cowardly to directly confront.
If we here at the Chronicle could have our druthers, maybe we would ask that women spend the whole of their public lives inside tightly-sealed cloth bags. We really don’t know the solution to dealing with moral time travelers (seriously, like the 13th century or something) like the Taliban. But we’re pretty sure that offering comfort and encouragement to those who indiscriminately target civilians with violence is a surefire way to undermine message control with the Westboro Baptist Church’s southwest-Asian franchise.
The way to get the theocrats to simply chill is no, not to bomb them further back into the Stone Age – but to get them watching David Letterman – learning that maybe a few Jews weren’t sent a text message warning them to leave Tower 2. They must discover for themselves the joys of celebrity gossip and the evils of orange people with bleach blonde hair. And if you look quite closely at Iranian society, you’ll see that the proverbial sticks in the mud are aware of this. “Occidentalosis,” the multilingual call it there, like it was a highly-resistant bacterial infection. And it is!
Secretary of State Clinton has been very adamant in her denial of United States interference in the contested Iranian elections and the resulting turmoil. But other State Department officials have confirmed the use of spies during the protests, equipped with illegal satellite phone technology which fueled the propagation of dissident-associated media. We here at the Chronicle utterly loathe the Internet-censoring agenda of Iran and any state that attacks this fundamental human right. The diplomatic arm of our government has been talking out of both sides of its mouth, and one side of the mouth is drawn up as a result of a massive stroke known as WikiLeaks. Americans are coming to terms with the fact their government acts as the leather straps on the rape table, holding them down so mega-corporations can fuck them easier. And they can’t blame it on anyone but themselves anymore. Now they must simply admit, “I don’t care about the news ‘n all that stuff’s goin’ on.” Don’t expect that to get “Late Show” top-10 lists on TV anytime soon.
It never fails to amaze that fundies of different stripes are each other’s worst enemies, when really they seem to want the same basic underlying goals for society: Women out of the workplace and homosexuals closeted or dead – from Gay Related Immune Deficiency, of course, not dead because they fought in the Army. The only “serious” differences in fundie types are alterations in the underlying cartoon narrative of anthropology, familial histories, flying men and talking donkeys.
Seriously, I’m utterly bewildered that I get into serious conversations with moderately-educated adults that round out with their insistence that bread can be transformed into the flesh of Christ, which they desperately want to consume. Cocksuckers. How did such complete dishonesty become perversely confused with piety? How many licks does it take to get to the center of that Tootsie Pop? How many sips of wine before I get GRID from the blood of Jesus?
Anyone outside fundamentalist ideology is rendered completely unable to reason with the actual, practical consequences of these dogmatic narratives, and moreover the people with the most in common, the fundies, are left without the obligation of any pragmatic purpose behind their regressive policies. The truth is the fundies of all stripes deserve to be killed by one another, and maybe they would have joined forces if not for the utterly ridiculous excuse they have concocted for the most ethnically-segregated day of the week. In America, we all know which one it is.
Organized religion is probably the slickest, most effective ad campaign for racial separatism. Ever. Earlier this year, Public Policy Polling unveiled a disturbing 400-person survey of Mississippi Republican primary voters, and it turns out that a fantasically-nauseating 46 percent of the participants were willing to tell a complete stranger on the phone that they believe that interracial marriage should be illegal. And we’re not particularly convinced that polling the buckle of the Bible belt’s Democrats would end up much better. The point remains the same: Religiosity and racial separatism, a match made in hell.
Support for the MEK is just another brash fury that will prove exactly counterproductive to the stated goals of the ongoing U.S. excursions into the Middle East. It will further fan the flames through its insidious, tacit insistence that Islam, not terrorism, is the source of evil on Earth and the equivalent of Satanism. And if Islam is the problem, we’re pretty sure terrorism, per se, is the far, far bigger one. Surely, if MEK’s congressional allies understood the degree to which even these Iranian secularists desire the legacy of Islam to at least play a cultural role in their government — they’re called the “mujahedin,” for crying out loud — they would have nothing to do with them. It would be the wrong reason for disassociation but it at least would be a reason.
Check Back for in-depth interviews with top Lebal Drocer executives who will explain why it is not only better, but completely necessary to die by the millions in never-ending war than live for one day in boring, agonizing peace.
This picture was taken the day after Casey Anthony killed her daughter. Can you see the guilt on her guilty face?
"Authorities say that whey they arrived she was screamed profanities and proceeded to remove her right breast from her dress and spray the deputies with her breast milk." The real news is that nobody's corrected Fox News on this terrible sentence yet. (Image links to abjectly written article on Fox News)
This is Casey Anthony's sexy guilty ass.
Casey Anthony drank all the beer and then sang the national anthem while burying her baby in the back yard.
This is Deborah Blount. Her boyfriend murdered her because of this photograph. Now it's newsworthy enough to put all over the internet.
Here's Casey Anthony again, aborting her last few beers after she already committed to them.
Look at me, I'm Nancy Grace and I don't kill my babies! Ooooh I'm soooooo special, and better than that Casey Anthony murderer murder murder murder murder murder murderer murderer murderer murderer murderer murderer
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.
A rudimentary meta-troll from 4chan containing a list of exploits.
The meta troll fails when the meta troll succeeds. The meta troll succeeds when the meta troll fails. The meta troll can never succeed and never fail.
A meta troll turns others into trolls by trolling. Trollin’ is cool. Meta trolls be trollin’, turning millions of other people into trolls.
Meta troll goes like this:
Trolls a pit of trolls
Troll reveals trolling exploit through troll
Trolls will troll each other until trolling no longer is trollin’
The meta troll can destabilize a community with the proper vectors if they are trollin’. When you troll the troll, but do not lead the troll to also troll, you are not a meta troll. Anyone who disagrees is often times considered a troll, but this is not trollin’. A meta troll is always someone who disagrees. A meta troll will rewire the brain without the brain being conscious. Meta trolls may still have a conscience in some cases. They most often do not, and are paid high salaries by trolling organizations like Fox News.
The meta troll is invincible to trolling when the meta troll has reached trollightenment. The trollightened meta troll doesn’t write the best trolls. The trollightened meta troll knows that all the best trolls have already been written, and that more sneakiness is required. The great meta troll feels the world twisting around each troll. Successful trolls shift reality and then shatter it, once the victims have realized how hard they’ve been trolled.
So when troll trolls you into a trollin’ mess, you can always meta troll your way to trolligtenment and you’ve worked your way out of the troll. Troll hard, troll weak, troll like a shotgun, troll like a trooper, and one day you too may be trollin’. That’s trollin’, bro.
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.
In a flash of delusions insight, I thought, “I should stalk seek her out.” So I went on her website. Looks like somebody’s already one step ahead of me.
But only one step ahead of me, though he clearly has his eye on the prize and puts my rapist ambitions to shame.
I found the above post on her message center (her guestbook). Believe it or not, it gets even better.
Just tell him where to mail it, Brenda.
I don’t even know what to say about this fellow. He posts faithfully, every day, and the screenshot you see here is his shortest post yet. By the progression of his messages, I predict total emotional collapse, coinciding conveniently with the Rapture set to take place Saturday.
And just when you thought the weirdness was too much to bear, this happened:
OK, now WTF
By this point, I just feel bad for Brenda Song. This guy Mickey – no relation to Disney’s cartoon mouse (I think) – has been trying to make their one-sided relationship work which, unbeknown to Brenda Song, appears broken beyond repair; all this, in spite of Mickey’s anticipation of their second love child (his words, not mine). Mick’s obsession appears to have lasted roughly two weeks, or the average amount of time necessary for a Hollywood stalker-rush to degenerate into angry masturbation.
The Suite Life On Deck is the reincarnation of Suite Life Of Zack And Cody, a show on the Disney Channel chronicling the misadventures of two latent-homosexual cousins.
After reading this, Brenda Song will resort to puritanical moderation of her website, before removing the comments section altogether.
it’s been a long struggle to get to where i am today with lowercase anonymous, and as you can see, i’ve given up on uppercase letters altogether. people can play playstation again, and life is back to normal. i have chosen today to reveal the most shocking fact of all time. my very first trolling handle was in fact guy fawkes, and i have the long-form birth certificate to prove it:
read moar books nonimus? since none of u were able to read books, i disregard ur bawww literary criticism. remember forever that i quit anonymous because no one had read the epilogue to timequake by kurt vonnegut. it’s his last novel ever, his final words . it is a secret final admission to an accidental uber troll by kurt vonnegut himself, using teh alias guy fawkes.
i quit anonymous! i quit anonymous! i quit it SO HARD! I QUIT ANONYMOUS!!!! I SWEAR!!!!
btw, u just joined lowercase anonymous by becoming aware of it. the true definition of lowercase anonymous is the set that contains all sets. it can never contain itself so you are immediately and paradoxically a part of lowercase anonymous and not a part of it at the same time. rofl.
you know what? i think i’ll quit lowercase anonymous too. I QUIT LOWERCASE ANONYMOUS!!!!