Richmond, Va.– It’s almost down to freezing here today, and all I can hear are the liberals complaining about this “global warming” supposedly taking place. Is anybody warm? Not me.
I’m cold, inside and out. And I’m just so mad about everything I see going on in politics today. We want to detain enemy soldiers, enemy combatants, people we believe support the enemy cause and damn it we need to keep a tight lid on this, because the crybaby non-partisans are already starting to catch wind of it. They say, “You can’t detain American citizens!” I say, “Not unless we can determine they show support for the enemy.” If they pay so much as a smile to Al Qaeda, then we ought to lock ’em up. And I mean it. It should have happened sooner, right about the time everybody was bellyaching about “where are the WMDs?” as we liberated Iraq from a tyrannical dictator. Listen, brown people: sooner or later, you’re gonna have to Westernize, that’s just how it is. They weren’t going to do it themselves. Iraqis are not cut from the same cloth as the Arab Springers. In Iraq, they’re a weaker kind of Muslim, but that doesn’t mean we should not try to detain all them too. Jay Leno on latenight sure is a great start, but there are some people whom even Primetime TV can’t help.
I’m a shareholder with Boeing. We understand human suffering. At the same time, we understand war is a necessary enterprise. People can not exist without war. Sometimes war is the only way when you just can’t be together with someone. Sometimes war is the best way. Sometimes war is even kind of fun. Hell, I like war. Boeing creates some of the finest war machines of the 21st Century and I’m proud to hold stock in their company. I just wish people could understand how Boeing and the military-industrial complex helps the war industry create the most jobs out of any other industry. War is quite simply the best approach to the problem of human existence.
Now don’t get me wrong. I hate hearing about women and children suffering as a result of armed conflict sponsored by the United States. I can’t stand it and I know you can’t either which is why I make sure not to run that kind of news, so you don’t feel bad about yourselves and you feel more accepting of wartime conditions, all the time. It’s easier on us all that way. I don’t want to see images of little dead babies in the laps of their crying armless mothers just as bad as you don’t, so hey, let’s just not look at it. Simple as that.
Call me brave. Call me bold. Call me fearless. I’m not afraid of those words. I’m an American and I’m proud of it. And I’m sorry you aren’t.
If more people just learned life is what you make of it, then we’d all be a lot happier, am I right? Of course I am. Now if you want to go and wear black makeup and put a bunch of dark shit on your blog with twenty seven followers, that’s your prerogative but don’t drag the rest of us down with you. Life is what you make of it and I speak for those of us who just want to make money and watch Family Guy. Call me brave. Call me bold. Call me fearless. I’m not afraid of those words. I’m an American and I’m proud of it. And I’m sorry you aren’t.
There are a good number of communists out there, on the internet – or a bad number depending on how you feel – who wish to destroy the very foundations of Democracy upon which this country was built. They’d rather not work and take all your money than see any truly beneficial changes arise out of a free market. But this is all part of a larger campaign against the Freedoms we hold dear in our American hearts. These anarchists want a larger government, and are actively seeking more regulations on an already-suffering market. They do this by sleeping in a nearby park. Despicable.
And that’s where global warming comes in. The cold weather was supposed to run the occupiers out, but soon it will be warm. Were they shouting about global warming to get us to ignore the problem, just so they could use it to their advantage to protest on through the winter? These self-hating liberal American communists are devious creatures, and should be hunted down and detained for the manipulation of truth around global warming and held accountable for the reckless obstruction of sidewalks everywhere.
I used to believe it wasn’t real, it was invented. But it will soon be unseasonably warm for a January so I’ve begun to ask myself: Why global warming? Was it all just a scheme by the liberals to generate distrust in our ecosystem? Or was there actually a false flag attack on our basic understanding of the overall workings of nature – aimed ultimately at tricking the general public into putting innocent bank managers and corporations in the path of Communist occupiers? Their hatred for free enterprise knows no bounds, folks. They’ll stop at nothing. They’re already sleeping in a nearby park, despicably lowering property values in the surrounding area, so why wouldn’t they lie to you?
Do the liberals really hate our freedom so much as to make up a global warming scheme to detract our fickle attention from national security? Today it’s cold, but Monday it will be sixty degrees and sunny. Dear God, are we in the end times?
We haven’t tried much, and it has all failed. Overlapping values, trending #revolution on Twitter, video evidence of wrongdoing – could not rescue our society from the bonds of greed, nor could it free us from tyranny. Peacefully.
In fact, a year later, we are less free. Every privilege we assumed was a right, and every ounce of security we felt buckled under the pressure of a thousand guns turned on 100,000 protesters, peace taken by force, and won’t be returned. Peacefully.
Anonymous could barely turn out a swastiget in Habbo Hotel, forget a fucking legitimate protest. These kids are young, mad, and they just barely know why. Scientology? If you want to protest a dangerous, dehumanizing cult responsible for the embezzlement and conning billions out of innocent people, why don’t you protest “Billy Graham, Oral Roberts, and all the other evangelists who save.” Pick any branch of Christianity and you’ll find a more rampant, systematic con-job operation than Scientologists, in all their scientific wizardry, could invent. Peacefully.
Protesting at Wall Street proved, once and for all, that no amount of begging will dry up the greed overabsorbed into the sopping wet hearts of corporate American CEOs, bank presidents and politicians. Protesting the federal government without ten million dollars is like showing up to Wal-Mart without ten dollar bills. If you want something, be ready to spend. That’s Lesson Number One.
Lesson Number Two: In 1976, Buckley v. Valeo decided spending money on campaign contributions is free speech. Did a panel of judges, thoughtful men of experience and wisdom, really not stop to consider, “If spending money is free speech, then isn’t absence of money the absence of speech?” Alas, whether they did or did not dissent is yesterday’s question; now, more than ever, politicos are in the pockets of corporations, financial schemers and worst of all – bankers.
The conditional response to force, is sooner or later, going to be force. I am not condoning violence, but I see us going down that road – once the fragile computer geeks and straight women get out of the way, of course. Then, there’ll be true change. When men own men again, there’ll be revolt.
So what if Occupy Wall Street “opened the dialog” like it didn’t already exist in print. The Occupy movement was misrepresented in television, we all know it was, so stop watching television. They’re the ones you’re protesting, you stupid fucks!
#OWS was a “test run” for what, exactly? Future failures, or the police? Because I look at the police, and they got their exercise, alright. Every precinct near a medium-sized city got to play with a bunch of new toys and spray neat and interesting colors into people’s faces. People who just sat there. On a sidewalk. On phones. Shit, there were so many consumers at this anti-corporate protest, anybody old enough to remember the 70s is hard-pressed to see what is the matter with those rich kids on TV, getting maced and beaten.
#Antisec, trying really hard to attach to our anti-banking, anti-finance sentiments, is making up hacks and reaching for literally anything that makes them look rebellious, even the names of innocent, elderly citizens. No thanks, Sabu, I already have a phone book. Also, I should direct your attention to what I thought was an obvious fact: that you’re doing a valuable free service to the shit-eating 1% out there who couldn’t be hassled to pay experts to ensure the protection of their own customers data.
“Great vulnerability checking! I’ll write the check out to Anonymous.”
-CEO, Bank of Unfairica
The status quo is, in and of itself, cancer. Therefore Antisec is AIDS, Anonymous is cancer, and the Occupy movement will be a time on which we look back and say, “Damn, I should have stood up and hit that motherfucker back.”
[ Editor’s Note: Antisec was barely worth mentioning, and Old Brutus is an asshole for doing so. However their decline signals the disappearance of the last substantial online collective. The Antisec movement, having departed from LulzSec, is no longer funny, and in fact pointlessly contrary to their purported goals of creating instability by attacking networks. ]
Hold onto your rights, because War just went global!
Respawn Entertainment, founded by top developers from Infinity Ward, maker of the bestselling Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series have announced plans to release a new game they say will allow players to enjoy the gut wrenching realism of indefinite military occupations.
Co-creator and sadomasochist Frank West said all people deserve to witness, and even partake in, the atrocities of war.
“We thought, why should brown people be the only ones lucky to experience the horrors of modern warfare? With Modern Occupation 2, we want to bring the nightmarish reality of war into every American’s living room.”
Vincent Zampella, co-founder of Respawn Entertainment said, “We want to move gameplay away from the kill or be killed mindset. I am fucking sick of it, you’re sick of it and we all want the emails to stop. In Modern Occupation 2, every advancement presents a gray area in which gamers are forced to make split second decisions that may affect them for the rest of their lives – in some cases, more horrifically than war itself; for instance, your character may come down with PTSD if you shoot an unarmed child. Conversely, this is likely to occur even if the child is armed.”
In a live demo, very small children carrying toys and presents walked up to the player to give him gifts of baked goods – but as it happened, Sonjay’s teddy bear actuated a thermite bomb in the bread basket, killing everyone on screen. Leading up to random events such as these, the decision to shoot on sight is in the hands of the player.
Civilian kills are penalized, but if the gamer can turn a murder into an accidental suicide, or frame the bodies to look like insurgents – either by planting guns around their homes or, during online play, calling on other players to support an alibi before his commanding officer – then he will no longer face court marshal and play continues.
However unlike previous iterations of the Call of Duty franchise, which pitted gamers against the Taliban in Afghanistan and challenged them to defend Northern Virginia from Russian invaders, Zampella said Modern Occupation 2 is variably paced.
“For example, in Realistic Mode, a player may find himself standing watch for ten, twelve hours at a time – changing only to adjust for his or her declining opinion of the military industrial complex.”
Additionally, as with any occupation, the political landscape plays an important role. Players may suddenly “disappear” or find that they’ve been targeted for political assassination if, during online play for example, gamers of the same faction invaded Pakistan’s airspace to the chagrin of a terrorist-sympathizing Presidential body, dozens of Seal Team Six may be deliberately targeted for assassination by groups allied forces never expect.
West said, “War games have become so realistic by now, that if children aren’t balled up in front of their televisions in the fetal position, in fresh puddles of their own urine, then we aren’t doing our jobs right.”
A press release posted Saturday on Respawn Entertainment’s website said the company hopes to get Call of Duty: Modern Occupation 2 out while images of ground-based occupations are still revolting to American audiences. Videogame industry insiders fear many gamers are becoming more rapidly desensitized with each new release, which market analysts believe could cut into profits.
American audiences were enamored by the non-stop carnage of Capcom’s mid-summer release of African Vengeance: Genocidal Rapestorm, in which gamers are challenged to saw a Somalian woman’s arms off while simultaneously gang-fucking her in a flaming blood-spattered hut, or be shot for insubordination.
“I loved circumcising young girls in the bush, but after a while it was just a button-masher,” said eleven year old Kevin Jones of Boston, Mass. When asked what changes Kevin thinks would improve upon his favorite war game, he said, “More mini games like where I get to shove hot phosphorous in my enemy’s eyes using the Wii mote. That was so fun!”
Facing stiff competition from all sides, West said they are comfortable pushing back the release of Modern Occupation 2 to give developers a chance to add features he hopes will keep bloodthirsty fans coming back for more. Some new features include torture chambers, mini-games in which the player herds civilians into cages, and various rage meters West said will gauge a character’s contempt for the people he is enlisted to protect, adding a whole new tier of depth through multipliers and hate crimes.
If pushed back, gamers can expect to unleash their xenophobia on the digital world just in time for the holiday season.
This is just a friendly reminder that if United States President Barack Hussein Obama happens to be reelected, this is why.
Osama bin Laden died as a martyr, but not his way. Bin Laden died at the hands of Seal Team Six in the name of everything he ever hated. Incidentally, he died to propagate that which Americans also hate.
While I don’t agree with his decision to name people specifically (note: I don’t care who he actually named), I find it difficult to disagree with this man on all but one issue. The notion that politically-minded Americans willing to give campaign contributions to honest politicians will somehow outweigh the collective corporate dollar is, like Paul Jay suggested, Utopian. It’s just so far from realistic that we could give enough money to enough candidates to turn the tides against the forces that be (and cheat to exist).
It was so funny (creepy) to me when campaign people came by my house seeking campaign contributions on behalf of Obama, after it was already so clear that he had the best media team in the Presidential history. How is that? Lotsa fucken money, folks. More than all of us put together could ever have come up with in order to stop him.
And it’s a well-known fact of politics, as well as the main reason people hate and distrust Washington, that corporations have a lot of money they’re willing to spend on people they know will protect their interests – and there are sleazy assholes willing to betray their countrymen by accepting it (and still can somehow sleep at night). Well, it’s nice to see someone stating it so poignantly and my only hope is this kind of articulation becomes mainstream. How that will happen without “big media” – or without big media hijacking the movement is beyond the scope of my imagination.
Please, Gods of Reason. Rescue us all from this sea of shit, and get me off the boat of feces. Or, stand up and think for yourselves, America. But don’t look to me; for even as a man of peace, I see no peaceful resolution.
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? That Moslem 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!”
I am extremely high on opiates, and this is being written from a hospital bed. Beautiful women involved. I am a ray of pure light energy, eternal love, a message of hope for the deaf, a line of sight for those blinded by their own insecurities, propensity for greed destroyed – I am the One. Listen.
I was doing vince in the bay when some bitch came a knockin’ at my front door. some bitch named chest pains and shortness of breath.
I wanted to troll you all and say, “Folks, I’m dying…” but that’s only as funny as Hell actually existing and me asking to go there. Folks, I’m going to survive to see another many years of this headlong shitshoot we call life and I am just fine with that.
Today I laid with the most beautiful woman in the world – and she fed me grapes because I can’t raise my good grape-eating arm. I can’t even masturbate because one arm’s an IV-hub and the other is crippled by the pain of today’s surgery. The pain feels good, though, because opiates are the answer.
I love that woman. She is everything you could ever ask for in a very best friend, plus gorgeous long black wavy hair whose silhouette spider-webbed my indigo window picture and re-taught me the joys and appreciation of the limitless beauty of the human figure in her everyday power.
Well, lovers of the night, I was sidetracked by a beautiful young woman on the Internet just now. So my rhythm is fucked. Also I’m totally loaded on pills and I am becoming a sleepy vessel of nature, trawling down the stream of consciousness – looking for fireflies.
I’m pretty fucking tired of the egotistical free wrong-hood of the Internet, the failures of prominent leaders and the realization that some people only become well known because they’re famous at sucking. Like whores.
I’m the newest writer to come out in support of – fuck, I forgot. This note’s about to lose its structure fast.
I’m the leader of black operations of a peaceful and pleasant nature. A rebellion of the self, by the self – for the self. We are all children born into the human condition which most people agree gets worse every second, if you look at the corporate bottom-fucking of every man, woman and child with a gleam of hope in their eyes for something better, something good. Something pure. You can die, they’ll help.
Sell ya poisoned food regulated by the same FDA that turns around and stuffs you full of the medicines they approve to keep the population drugged dumb and full of fear. What will happen if I don’t take this drug? I can deal with the fact that American political leaders have manipulated the “debate” of whether or not national health care plan can ever be implemented – but America is one of the only countries in the world where you can watch the “news” and are told at least once per commercial break to “ask your doctor about [insert drug here, in your ass because we’re fucking you with it.]”
They’ll also help you die by feeding pointless, useless “news” media into your useless faces day by night.
They’ll also kill you by enforcing and regulation ignorance upon yourselves and your family. Political career suicide should not be an excuse not to do the right thing, to vote in the decent manner. NOR should 45-year-old hard-working pipe-fitting, gas-pumping, home-constructing Americans accept such an excuse. “Oh, he could lose his hundred thousand dollar per year job if he voted for workers to have a bump in their minimum wages. That would be career suicide. He could go from making $100,000 per year to making $80,000 and having less power to abuse. I understand why my quality of life doesn’t improve; and because I understand that, I’ve already accepted it because I have become conditioned to equate information or thoughts which appear to be of my own manifestation – but are in fact someone else’s implanted by the globalsocioeconomic warmachine – with unchangeable fact that can never be overturned. And I’d be a fool for thinking otherwise. That is not what my neighbors do. That is not the example by which my parents lead. That is the example set by two generations of reinforced patterning and distorted reward systems that perpetuate ever-lowering expectations of the self and at the same time devalue hard work.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I believe the only answer is to commit political career homicide, rather than hold out hope that one day someone white-haired fuckhead in thick glasses will suffer a stroke of humanity – or worse – goodwill toward men.
Am I inciting violence toward elected officials? No. But do I endorse it? Hell yes.
I encourage readers to write in and share your dissent, disillusionment and condemnation of your very own government(s) which have corrupted their figureheads, convoluted our collective unconscious and create self-propagating cynicism, narcissism and other social diseases stemming from total lack of empathy and represented by a national bloodlust and call to action against one high-profile babykiller and not an entire army of them.
Fuck the power. Discuss it here. Fight it now. Form the revolution.
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. And neither do we, but these stories SELL.
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 fake 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, at least not before he turns a whole bunch of you in.
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 directly into the hands of the FBI. Because the undeniable truth is the combination of his actions and words has sparked a widespread movement toward hacking government and corporate websites, by idiots like you – 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.
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.