Anders Behring Breivik’s violent attack on Oslo has founded a new conservative political group known as the Justiciar Knights. The Justiciar Knights use whatever means necessary to preserve the cultural integrity of Europe. Like the Tea Party, Christian cultural dominance is the ultimate goal.
“The Muslims showed us that deadly shock attacks are the only tool we have at the moment which will guarantee that our voice is heard.” ~ Anders Breivik
As Tea Party rhetoric stokes fear of Hispanic and Muslim occupation of American territory, leaders like Michele Bachmann and Sarah Palin subtly promote violent action. Not just violent action against Hispanics and Muslims, but violent action against Liberals who promote multicultural messages.
Anders Breivik perfectly encapsulated the Tea Party message in his now-famous 1500 page diatribe, 2083: A European Declaration of Independence.
“Any individual or organisation that actively supports or are participating … in the Islamisation of Europe are flagged as valid targets … By propagating and defending Christendom we simply mean that we want to … reverse the de-Christianisation of Europe.”
Clever leaders within the Tea Party have attempted to spin this story as a lesson about gun control. Had the summer camp victims not been such wimpy unarmed liberals, they would have successfully defended themselves. However, this is only a distraction from the underlying motive behind the attack. Had the campers not been such Islam-enabling multiculturalists, Breivik would have never targeted them. Surely the Tea Party is wetting itself in excitement at having spilled over into Europe.
Tea Party leaders also want to classify Breivik as a religious fundamentalist Christian of the same stripe as Osama Bin Laden. However, this is a very poor characterization of Breivik. Breivik only wished to defend Europe from the perceived threat of Islamic genocide. “We … are a defensive military organisation who only seek to protect the peoples of Europe and our cultures from genocide.” This is exactly the theme that the Tea Party’s anti-immigration rallies are based on.
Ever since the very beginning of Chronicle.SU, I have secretly issued coded orders to the highest level of Anonymous leadership. Every single article I’ve written is filled with coded messages that only they will ever decode. Every image, fake ad and hidden detail of this site is loaded with directives which have been implemented perfectly.
Through my campaigns of hatred towards the peons of Anonymous I have mobilized and educated the masses. LulzSec? My brainchild. AntiSec? My invention. I created them by giving the larger Anonymous collective criticism which they immediately went out of the way to disprove. I mocked their pitiful public relations and out sprung LulzSec. I belittled them for their pitiful fear of government servers. AntiSec was born. All the while, I fed covert and specific instructions without having to use the horribly infiltrated IRC. Excuse me for my genius.
But now those within Anonymous who I have directly led are being investigated and may already be V&. I’ve received information from my mole in the FBI that one of them was bribed and outed me. The feds are closing in and even I will soon be V&. However, not all is lost. I have hacked Barack Obama’s e-mails and will soon be leaking world-shattering information. Here’s a teaser: Extra terrestrials are real, and they are going to force us to spark a nuclear war so they can inherit the planet. Of course that’s not true, but you know what to do Sabu, Topiary and Kayla. The die has been cast.
Oh, and one final mind-fuck for you all before you decide to ignore me: I’m th3j35t3r. I’ve been holding back this bombshell since I came up with the character last year. My purpose should be fairly clear if you understand my methods. By creating such an uncool conservative n00b of a hacker celebrity, I’ve ensured a more liberal agenda within Anonymous. Hacking is cool, the j35t3r is not, and now Anonymous is extremely socialist. Long live Che.
“Emotional cutting is women engaging in behavior that’s known as Facebook stalking when performed by men. The implicit connotative difference between emotional cutting and Facebook stalking is that men are dangerous and women are sad. Any unwanted attention from a man is tantamount to rape. Yet when women give men unwanted attention, they are only hurting themselves emotionally. After moping around the house all morning, a Facebook stalker logs into Facebook, erect penis in hand, searching only for sexually explicit photographs. The emotional cutter combs through seas of photographs endlessly searching for The One, and cries poignant tears of forlorn love as each one turns out to be just another guy.” ~ The Facebook guide to creepy behavior
When an emotional cutter and a Facebook stalker fell in love, the gallons of saline excretions nearly drowned them both.
He Facebook stalked her for three years before he actually met her. He only managed to make love to her because she fucked anything that showed her the least amount of attention. Before they fucked, she wistfully stared into the Facebook stalker’s eyes as if he was The One, but he wasn’t. A few weeks after they had sex, she realized he was not Mr. Right after all, and ignored him for Dr. Who, on Netflix. That is when his Facebook stalking began to swing wildly out of control.
He went through reams of paper, printing off her sexiest photographs and routinely violating them with semen,urine and even feces. His favorite fap ended in a heavy blood-tinged load spewing all over an image of her wearing nothing but a bumper sticker over her tits that read “I ♥ Jesus.” He never got tired of ejaculating to that picture. Unfortunately, the file was corrupted from overuse and he was forced to re-draw his own version of it in MSPaint. The remake was better than the real thing.
One day, the Facebook stalker’s masturbation led to a blister on both his palm and anus. He craved rape, but he was overwhelmed with cowardice. Instead, he made such a hyperbolic expression of love and hate on her Facebook wall that she began to fear him. Obviously the usual trick of pretending he didn’t exist hadn’t worked. She unfriended him, but did not block him. He hated her and loved her equally. His rage fueled blister-forming fap sessions lasted until the small hours of the morning.
Despite her tough-girl exterior and penchant for servicing local glory holes, she was an emotional cutter. No one ever really cared about the way she felt, because she was seen by all her lovers only as a warm place for them to deposit gooey strands of semen before she went home and cried herself to sleep. ‘But am I more than that?’ thought she. The dramatic statement made by the Facebook stalker gnawed at her day and night, and she often visited his profile to cry. She loved him and feared him equally, like God.
They had many friends in common and often saw each other in public. They were generally too shy to do anything but cast furtive glances at each other, fearfully avoiding any intentional eye contact. On these lonely nights, the emotional cutter would go home and cry herself to sleep with her laptop in her arms and a small thermos in her ass. He would ejaculate all over his keyboard after typing her long-winded love letters that she could not bear to read.
One day after great consternation, the emotional cutter accepted the Facebook stalker as her Facebook friend again. Upon realizing this, he masturbated three times on a printout of his favorite photo now redrawn in MSPaint, uploaded the video to YouTube, and then masturbated again once it got several million views. The emotional cutter found the video and locked herself in her room, crying for days. She had never known such shame and sadness.
The next time they saw each other, they couldn’t avoid eye contact. She finally knew he was The One. A bloody tear streaked across her face as she fell into his arms, and he took her out to a secluded shed, removed one of her eyeballs and skull fucked her until her labored breathing slowed to a complete halt. He adorned her with his favorite g-string and ball gag, often visiting her corpse. The Facebook stalker’s love for her never faded even as her body decomposed. Semen and maggots streamed from her empty eye socket. The Facebook stalker had made sure she was in death as she was in life, beautiful and brilliant beyond compare.
Casa Grande, Ariz.– The predominantly white inhabitants of suburban Casa Grande paraded through the streets Friday celebrating the announcement of the closing of all the Borders in the country.
Shortly before the announcement, leader of the White Brotherhood Southern Arizona Chapter Harold Smith heard rumors of Borders closing. Harold gathered his people together in a Border’s bookstore parking lot at the mall – because it is a good place to meet, he said, and they have plenty of parking today for some reason.
Harold stood on the tailgate of his pickup truck in front of a jubilant crowd at their Patriot Rally and declared, “We will finally be free from the sub-human scum a the earth – who push our health care costs higher. I mean, shit. I might not go to the dentist, but bitch, these cheeseburgers ain’t doin’ my heart no favors!” The crowd laughed and applauded.
“He’s too much!” guffawed Stevie Hargrove, 40, a toothless overalls-clad spot-welder from Tucson. Stevie clapped at every opportunity, beaming a gummy smile up to his leader, squinting through matted, sweaty hair into Harold’s silhouette against the sun.
Harold continued. “And I ain’t got no insurance because Obama wanted to force me to get it and how d’you think he’s gonna pay for that? Nigger was gon’ tax the wealthy to pay for it, that’s how; so I don’t even fucken want it!” The crowd again erupted into a frenzy of whistles and cheers just as a vein burst in Harold’s forehead, spraying crimson hate into the yawning mouths and down the throats of onlooking slack-jawed hillbillies whose thirst for identity only grew drier under the bottomless black ocean of beer-soaked convictions swirling unseen in Harold’s cold, beady eyes. A rainbow formed under the blood mist spewing forth from the man’s skull, and at the end of it sat a Confederate flag, perched in the grass, with a little sticker on its miniature flagpole that read, “Made in China.”
“And that brown uncivilized scum who keeps minimum wages artificially high by taking low pay for jobs that was originally intended for everyday Americans like me and Bo! Jobs like mopping up coffee shops, unloadin’ book trucks and washing the walls inside a the killhouses.”
At that, Smith’s crowd of white nationalists almost did not hear the news update over the ruckus of their own hate-filled fervor, as some frothed at the mouth and fell to their knees, speaking in tongues. But for those who could read, the closed captioning on the JumboTron News Report said everything [if it said anything].
A fictitious TV news program that actually broadcasts real news reported:
Because of mismanagement and glaring lack of foresight, Borders Bookstores all across America are shutting down permanently. Infamous for carrying only mainstream authors, and notorious for grossly overestimating the number of orange people willing to read Snooki’s biography – Border’s Inc. lowered literary standards faster than anyone could possibly write a book about it. Yet, here you are celebrating your racism underneath a giant flat-screen TV. Don’t act like you’re upset. Nothing changed. You don’t even read.
Dumbfounded mouth-breathers all across America stood solemnly, Budweiser in hand, making not a sound. For two minutes they stood, reflecting on their own hatred; but hatred of what, exactly, became unclear. A small child clutching a teddy bear to her chest tugged at her mother’s dress. “Mummy? You mean they ain’t relocatin’ dem filtty wetbacks?” But her mother was too grief-stricken to answer.
Quietly they to stood until local pig farmer Jerry Pritchard, 48, broke the silence.
“Well,” Jerry started. “I hate books, too. I mean, shit. I like the Bible! Hell, who doesn’t. But you guys know what I mean. I mean, fucken … books, man.” Jerry’s detestation was met with groans of agreement, though many people were still visibly confused by the notion of a store specializing in the sale of bound paper.
Jerry licked his lips, picked up his courage and spoke again. “You guys still wanna…” Jerry clasped his hands together behind his back and toed a boot in a wide arc in the sand. “…Still wanna drag somebody behind my truck?”
The crowd again frothed and wriggled through the congregation of pickup trucks toward Jerry’s truck, chanting U-S-A and someone came up with “George Snorwell” which was repeated several times from within the group. Only the intellectual rednecks who got the reference laughed. The others just went along with it.
“But before we go,” Jerry continued, “I want to stop by Borders’ clearance sale. Larry th’Cable Guy’s thing is 40% off!”
One day, I got really high and had this great idea to further erode the quality of information on the internet. What if bloggers were only allowed to post 140 characters in each post? The consequences might possibly include the final death of journalism in exchange for ultra-simplistic celebrity worship. “My God,” I thought, “the masses would shit themselves in excitement and trample each other to death for quicker access to such a service.” That was when I remembered I was thinking about something that already existed.
Twitter provides me with a customized stream of micro-blog posts on a wide range of bullshit I couldn’t give a fuck about. Somewhere, buried in the defiled ocean of witty celebrity comments and political trolls, something of interest may occasionally float to the surface. This is such a rare occasion that I really don’t know why I even bother anymore. Oh yeah, that’s right, I am desperately trying to float this web site to the top. Luckily, I kick ass. Sort of.
I sit around desperately watching for mentions from users with more followers than me. I socially engineered the famous hacker group LulzSec into tweeting a link to Chronicle.SU, only when the link smacked the face of 350,000 followers so many visitors flooded the site it crashed as if it were under attack. Our servers were crippled for days.
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.
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Chronicle.SU–NewsCorp’s premiere chat service, News of the Chat of the News World, functions by way of a high-speed underground network of rare Emperor Cheetahs, which are blocked for their usefulness by anti-cheetah hospital security systems everywhere.
Years of warmongering, bloodthirstiness, Kahane-level Zionism and utter hatred of Arabs had not entirely divested Mr. Murdoch of his dealings with the Arab Cheetahs. Saudi money had acquired quite a bit of his Neocon twistiness, and finally the Arab Cheetahs were allowed over that tricky border between Egypt and Gaza — where nearby, on the Egyptian side, only, like, six people in a group are allowed to walk at a time — and into the D.C.-sized deathaplex they ruptured. Their lightweight tails smacked against the backs of their noble legs as they poured into the world’s largest prison camp, trails of saliva, like shoelaces, lapping against their forelegs.
“It’s a lolfest if you don’t know what to expect before going down there,” reported freelance cheetah dealer Joe Bradley, 45. “Innocent people getting d0x3d left and right, cheetahs prancing around at high volume with hateful messages pinned to their shock collars, and they’re like, ‘What the fuck, I should be in the savannah pouncing on the fucking river, drinking caribou and throttling gazelle, not running copyedits to and fro. Fuck that wrinkled old prick!'”
Murdoch’s viewers have been internationally recognized to possess the lowest, basest possible understanding of the dynamics that created the Fox News — oops, I mean, the second Iraq War, the one following the harrowing, “courageous” embargo of the southwest Asian country that killed billions of innocent cheetahs. That country is known to us as North Korea.
Wearing Gacy-like clown makeup at time of press, Mr. Murdoch announced that it made complete sense that his average viewer possesses the cognitive/reality coherence that they would call “Osama bin Laden” “Saddam Hussein.” This is a result of mass-consumption of furry pornography.
“I thought I could make an edifice as large as those structures in Bioshock III take off.”
“I would never have imagined that people would have bought so much of my flag-fellating bullshit. Ever since Bush I was able to make that incubator-baby crap fly, I thought I could make an edifice as large as those structures in Bioshock III take off.”
“Good doggies do tricks,” added Mr. Murdoch, red food-coloring dye, as used by goth kids, running down opposite sides of his mouth along with saliva, red ink trailing into the white.
In spite of their rebellious demeanors, the cheetahs remain polite because should they resist, they will be put to death, skinned and crafted into spectacularly jewel-encrusted thongs for Murdoch to prance around in.
“They’re not outspoken about their plight but they should be,” said cheetah specialist Speedy McFeely of the Bristol Motor Speedway, Virginia and fucken redneck.
Adrian “Cheetah” Chen approached the Virginia physics expert and without asking permission bent him over and snorted a line of cocaine off the small of his back. With lips pursed, Adrian softly sucked his dick, which instead of semen, leaked the phone records of celebrities and d0x of LulzSec hackers.
One cheetah busted out the cocaine in front of reporters as Murdoch – who audibly gasped at the faux pas – pondered it a moment and opted instead to cup his genitals crying, “Not here, man. The cameras. Shit’s tainted with skin-rotting levamisole. You know what that does to my ballsack.”
Murdoch hatefully orders the reporters out of his hospital suite and defecates in his bed. The hateful troll-cheetah delivers Murdoch his percocets, and Murdoch takes out a small tray, a credit card and a rolled up tin-bob note.
“Who’s the pussy now, bitch?” roars Murdoch. “We’ve got to get these children off of Google+. It’s like a disease, man a fucking KID [emphasis added] disease. Delete the little fucker’s emails to his grandma, if that’s what it takes. They’re worthless, because they were written by a CHILD [emphasis added].” Rupert Murdoch buries his face into the fur of a cocaine-dusted cheetah and insufflates a full breath of cocaine as it wanders idly by. His eyes then glaze over and turn a fiery red.
“Come here son, I’ll tuck your shirt in for you.”
“Show me your MySpace before you go!” calls out Murdoch, half-erect and blind from cocaine. “Come here son, I’ll tuck your shirt in for you.”
To Mr. Murdoch, the cheetahs look like small children, ready for molestation. Murdoch passes out, drool glazing his wrinkled face.
Media Mogul dreams of Yao Ming and his network of cheetahs. In his dreams, he snorts a line of crushed percocets to kill the pain.
“Thank God it’s not that levamisole-tainted bullshit,” he remarks to the pool-boy, “and thank God it’s lab-produced morphine.
Krokodil gets the Cheetahs high, makes their dicks grow and nurtures their latent homosexual tendencies as a means of population control. They cook up various drugs in Murdoch’s Russian apartment, and come out stinking of iodine. Murdoch reeks of Cheetah anus, the latent evidence of a recent shitler hitler still slightly noticable. It is grim, but oddly arousing to this reporter.
“I’m assembling a panel of premade emoticons to tell a story because I am autistic,” Murdoch tells the press. “Ctrl+v for autism. Look only at mouths while communicating.”A new trend in communication is sweeping the Internet, churches and wi-fi cafés. “Create a rage comic if you want to propose to your husband or call out a troll,” said Murdoch. “Create a rage comic while high on Krokodil, before taking a line of levamisol-tainted cocaine. My flesh is rotting away and all I can do is read the next rage comic. Twitter has become my only outlet for communication, after rage comics.”
Murdoch is visibly upset by this point and releases an odor resembling that of decomposing flesh. It is decomposing flesh. The cheetahs pull the plug on his life-support and he dies a slow painful death emitting a gurgling puddle of feces, writhing in a nightmarish hell, and being mercilessly ripped apart and taunted by his once loyal army of cheetahs.
“Just looked at the first reddit post in a long while,” Murdoch mumbles to himself before documentary filmmakers overlapping with the Chronicle.SU doing coverage of the long-term effects of cheetah-addiction. He gently rolls the click-wheel of his mouse down a cat-lover furryboard gleefully tapping his foot and singing “im a little man, also evil, also in to cats”
“To avoid downvotes, everyone prefaces their statements with an apology and an explanation of what their comment is not.” #fagreddit
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