Myspace was always better than Facebook

INTERNET — Computers turned people from apes into apes that can view and interact with apes and their messages from anywhere in the world. People are now a multiplying, interconnected, knowledge-sharing cancer. We’re a computer virus in the planetary system.

All social media is inherently evil, so how is myspace better than Facebook?

But remember myspace? Sure, after everyone went to Facebook, myspace was a sad, broken scene. In fact, there was a period between 2008 and 2015 where I had been unable to create a profile, just to see the place again.

Billions of people and bots now use Facebook every day. People use it for their reasons, and the bots use it for their own reasons, plus people.

Cambridge Analytica behaves as both.

Modest Beginnings

At one time, Facebook was simply a website for college students to get mad puss, so naturally we all went over to Marko Zuckerberg’s place and made a profile. Today there’s no telling what your 2004 facebook profile is worth, but it’s probably in the hands of every marketer, scammer, and blackhat attacker that ever wanted it.

When some people transitioned to Facebook, they brought myspace with them.
When some people transitioned to Facebook, they brought myspace with them.

We left our space when we left myspace, and went to Facebook, where everything and everyone looked more or less the same. Homogeneity therefore made our messages more important, and gave us incentive to set ourselves apart in the images and text displayed on our feeds.

It would be interesting to see myspace still in business. Because users had control of their own pages’ appearance, people used music and background pictures to set yourself apart. Bots rarely did this!

Russian bots on myspace now would have background images of farmland and hardworking good old boys, while God Bless the U.S.A. plays in the background. The bots’ memes to steer hatred away from Russia, only to splash it back out at each other would be all the more hilarious. Unfortunately, that would never happen because myspace never reached so deep into people’s lives as Facebook has done.

All social media is inherently evil, so how is myspace better than Facebook?

For starters, myspace did not sell your shit to Russia. Or if they did, I haven’t heard about it. I don’t care if they did! My opinion is special and you’re still reading it.

FaceFuck allows you to find lookalike pornstars by integrating with your friends on Facebook.

They also didn’t track you all over the web, using artificial intelligence to build personality profiles around you, which is objectively pretty cool but really, if we hadn’t been so slowly acclimated to that tracking shit, we might have asked ourselves, why are we tolerating this?

I would be motherfucking pissed if I found out a friend in my group was recording my conversations, building character profiles around me and my friends, connecting the dots between innocuous information we shared, and searching – like a stalker would do – for deeper meanings behind those connections and what it means for them being able to profit from that intimate access. That’s something a very sick person would do. You know this, but you guys keep coming over and hanging out at his house, anyway.

That’s weird, man. That’s fucked up.

Myspace was so much better than Facebook.

As far as sites go, Facebook is not even in my top 8. My favorite webpage is a 404 error.

10 Early Warnings Signs Santa Is Not Coming

INTERNET – NORAD tracks Santa through the sky each and every year, and every year, he appears like clockwork, magically darting backwards over the dateline, bringing toys to every good boy and girl. But geopolitical turmoil, exacerbated by warmongering, nuclear threat, and the high profile assassination of a Panama Papers journalist suggest that for some, Christmas might never arrive. Worse, some politicians under investigation for collusion with Russia and Israel could find coal in their stockings!

Dr. Troubadour flipped over a table, spilling our bitshekels all over the dusty pavilion ground at the town center, where chronicle.su was charging readers access to “extreme gaming PC speed lanes” marketing a paid solution to Network Neutrality as their shortcut to Truth.

“Merry Christmas you pieces of shit!” Troubadour slurred, spraying viral phlegm into the air as he forced his speech through gnashed teeth. He fell down and picked through the dirt for spilled bitshekels, as desperately as if they were the precious flaking crumbs of high-powered crack rock. “Do you have ANY idea how hard Santa’s slaves worked to make your iPhones and Playstations? DO YOU UNDERSTAND!?”

Real Dr. Troubadour has always been there for Santa Claus.
Real Dr. Troubadour has always been there for Santa Claus.

Troubadour, whose duty as personal physician to the estranged Northern toymaker is eclipsed only by the bond of their friendship, offered insights into the widening scope of Santa’s delusional megalomania. More to the point, Troubadour turned his darkest concerns about the future of Christmas into a handy, easy-to-consume list. And he published it here first, where you can read it all on the same fucking page, because we ain’t crumbin’ for rocks. This isn’t fucking Buzzfeed! Read the list:

10 Early Warnings Signs Santa Claus Is NOT Coming To Town

10. Santa is not coming because he is disturbed by the content you view online. This, coming from a man who enslaves Elves and demands milk-and-cookie tribute. Clean up your act!

9. Santa’s not coming because Elon Musk is edging him out of circumnavigational flight, and you people just LOVE it, don’t you?

8. Santa’s not coming because he outsourced it to Pursuance, but there’s no one online to accept the task.

7. Santa will bypass the Middle East because you moved a critical embassy into hostile Jerusalem territory. “Look I’m no investor,” Troubadour says, “but I think if it’s in the Bible, I wouldn’t open a Starbucks there. Forget an embassy.” You guys want to make another shitty Benghazi movie, or what?

6. Santa is not coming because you went to one too many pot parties. Santa’s got no problem with the sweet leaf – it helps with his glaucoma – but laying around, smokin’ grass and watching a streamer play Destiny 2 is NOT a party. Get on Rust.

5. Santa’s not coming because of a rare condition with his prostate.

4. Santa’s not bringing any toys to fake and sensationalized news outlets. It’s a very serious sin that hurts all mankind, Santa says. Really? So is gluttony, you fat bastard. FAKE NEWS! BRING THE FOSSIL COAL AND WE’LL BURN IT FOR HEAT, OLD MAN. Santa said it. The pope is saying it, too. Right, we take advice on hard news from a man who claims to represent Pedophile Daddy from the Sky. Go fuck yourself. Santa’s bailing on that shit, too.

3. Santa is not coming because the War on Christmas has escalated to include surface-to-air missiles and a new Iron Dome that deflects toys away from locations where Israel and the US don’t want them.

2. Santa is not bringing you ANY fucking toys because he knows. He knows that dark secret ‘only you’ know. He hasn’t said anything. But he knows it.

1. Santa is not coming because you read this website. Who needs him? You’re not fucking babies. Fuck toys. You smoke dope and drink liquor! Chemicals are your toys, and there is no such thing as joy. You suffer alone and have forgotten about things like toys, happiness, togetherness and joy. You are so ironic and cool, now. You are so right about everything. Now YOU get it, too! Now you speak only in truisms and summarize your experience of the world in worn out platitudes. Santa’s got no use for that, but of course we’ll accept your pseudo-intellectual bullshit in the comments. Do keep reading! You’re old souls! You’re WOKE AF!


Santa’s noticed many of you aren’t showing enough appreciation for what he does. Some, he says, even doubt his existence. You FOOLS! Are you trying to make the naughty list? Do you understand what HAPPENS to people on that list?

The Santatorium shows no mercy.

“It is high time I demonstrated the True Meaning of Christmas. On Christmas Eve, I will strike down from my polar base and teach the world just how real, motivated, and powerful I am. I’m only telling you this now, because you guys at Internet Chronicle are cool. I don’t know what it is, but you just have this energy. You guys get it, you know, so I am telling you: Stay home on the 24th. Aight?” – Santa Claus

‘Donald Trump did nothing wrong’: Critics SLAM Melania for refusing to stand by her man

Melania Trump disrespected her husband in front of the entire world.

A group of women from the Focus on the Family for Profit charity foundation cried out in protest Monday after soon-to-be-Former First Lady Melania Trump disrespected the President in front of their Israeli hosts by selfishly swatting Donald’s hand away as he reached out for support. Continue reading “‘Donald Trump did nothing wrong’: Critics SLAM Melania for refusing to stand by her man”

Baby’s Day Out: Hatesec goes to New York

Upon arrival, I slept for 12 hours.

This morning I woke up, took a long shower, and hit the road. I walked a mile through Queens to the Rosedale Station, where I’m sitting now.

On the way I purchased half a chicken, a half pound of Spanish rice, and a bottle of Coke for $9. So much for kicking soda. I am now carrying a quarter chicken and most of the rice around with me.

Yesterday, out of desperate starvation, I bought a $3 hot dog from a cart near Penn Station, where I took this photo:

Ladies: hatesec has arrived.

I turned around from the hot dog vendor and accidentally made eye contact with an old man, from three feet away, who was literally eating meat off a chicken bone from the garbage, and staring intensely at me as he did so, as if I were the one making him do it. There was something simultaneously punk and horrifying about meeting eyes with a man hunched over a trash can for his dinner plate. And that is when I realized I am one stolen debit card away from jockeying for position over the good trash cans around tourist hubs.

So what did I do next? I stuck my fucking debit card into the greasy, diseased, yawning hole that is the MTA ticket box, and bought a ticket to Queens.

Sleep is my home now. Everything else around me is temporary and unfamiliar. It’s exciting and dreadful at the same time. But as long as these uncertain days are punctuated by quality sleep, then everything else is going to be just fine.

Today I am purchasing a monthly MTA card, so I only hear the cash register bang once, instead of repeatedly throughout the day. It’s usually not so much the price that bothers me, but the experience of spending.

Fortunately, I give off that vibe. Yesterday I was approached by a bum on the street who took one look at me and threw out his hand in dismissal. He grunted and, under his breath, muttered, “Forget it.”

I am on my way to Manhattan, for no particular reason.

Lebal Drocer CEOs asked: “Why aren’t there more broads in the workplace?”

New Miracle baby dust pills by Lebal Drocer Inc
Tiffany, from Lebal Drocer, Inc. enjoys a long, storied career answering phones, and fetching Kilgoar's coffee.
Tiffany, from Lebal Drocer, Inc. enjoys a long, storied career answering phones, and fetching Kilgoar’s coffee.

dr troubadourHi, I’m Dr. Angstr Hirem Troubledames and I am chief of human resources at the legendary chemical warfare contractor and Internet Chronicle publisher Lebal Drocer, Inc. At Lebal Drocer we specialize in putting tear gas and mustard gas into the wrong hands at the right time. Watch out Assad! The chemical monster’s comin’ to gitcha! (Just kidding. We like to have fun, here! [But seriously, watch it]).

But I come to you today with a message. Good tidings. And I’d like to extend a veiny, rock-hard olive branch to all the pretty ladies out there just looking for a job, or an excuse to leave the house.

More to the point, my bosses have been riding me like a whore four on the floor over hiring practices, and our lawyers are telling me it’s high time we show a little beaver in the workplace. So here’s my pitch (a “pitch” is when one man tries to sell his idea to another man – or, in this case – a woman):

Construction workers are often misunderstood as misogynistic, aggressive cat callers according to Lebal Drocer Ethics Board Chairman Raleigh T. Hatesec.

“In actuality,” Dr. Hatesec explained, “the men shouting from down in that hole are trying to lure more women into the workplace, where their absence is sorely frustrating.”

I get it. Sometimes while we’re driving rivets into steel, we like to be reminded it’s nice to FUCK something, so this is why I look around at the cock-worshiping, Freudian dildo cigar gauntlet that is the Lebal Drocer Tower lobby and I think, ‘Hey, you know what would look good in that corner right over there? A beautiful woman. Have her answer the phone or something.’

I went into the Yahoo! office and first thing I noticed was this beautiful blonde with big tits, dressed like she wanted it. I said ,”Now there’s a tall drink of water!” And this dame works here. I leaned into her, real close – she could smell my essence – and I said, “Hey there Sugar Tits, you got a daddy? Because Daddy’s standing right here, you feel me? ‘Cause I feel you. Now here’s 20 bucks. Buy yourself somethin’ cheap.”

The answer to the question, where are all the broads, is you, ladies. Get off your asses, quit spending your husbands’ money, and come get a job already. If you act now, and submit your little resumé to Lebal Drocer, Inc. Cuthbert, Ga. we’ll even throw in a complimentary handbag, because we know how much you like that shit.

Come get interviewed by two or three guys.
Come get interviewed by two or three guys.

hatesec will nvr hurt u again bb

Dating Advice by Doctor Troubedaur of chronicle.su

this is a message from hatesec’s attorney. my client has asked me to reproduce the following statement on his behalf:

these-hands

“you should have never crossed me. i am so sorry. YOU just make me so MAD. i am sorry i can’t contain myself. we love you readers, it’s just that you only read what you want to read and that is when we get to hittin’. and a smackin.

now let’s not have this conversation twice, OK?

Good. You’re such good readers. You’re great readers. You’re the best readers. Beautiful readers.

Obedient readers.

Bow to Editor Messiah.”

It is important only that we look at the facts, and the facts show progress. And if you can’t recognize that, why, I ought to just cross the room and hit you.

As hatesec’s prize-winning attorney, I have advised him against everything from small arms trafficking, to grand theft auto–heck, I told him not to write this very letter. And I say that as one of the boys. Hatesec is an old soul. He gets it. And in his wisdom, he will beat this.

hatesec will ne’er hurt you again, baby, so don’t you forget it. now why don’t you slip into something loose, and wait in the garage.

I’m gonna rub one out.

Neoliberal partnerships advance chronicle.su agenda ‘one step closer to peaceful annihilation’

Lebal Drocer, Inc. Zombie Apocalypse Edition
It was just cats, everywhere: Kilgoar
hatesec is a cat on the internet

The Internet Chronicle has combined forces with Hate Security by Hatesec Enterprises, a Lebal Drocer affiliate.

The new partnership’s dual purpose is to simultaneously hack your iPhone using powerful, state-of-the-art decryption techniques, and provide a propaganda mouthpiece for the ruling elite, who got that way because they have earned it.

You’re reading it here first: Reading chronicle.su is not just emotionally harmful, it is now a national security concern. You should have read our privacy policy.

There are doubts.

“Damn, son. Ya know you done fucked up, right?” – kilgoar

But through our efforts, We, the people will rise up against the tyranny of chronicle.su, and restore order to an otherwise verdant, and peaceful world.

It is for that reason that we preemptively name this day “Victory Day” to commemorate mankind’s erasure of everything but the myriad black memories of atrocities carried out by The Internet Chronicle. This is like, the 9/11 of chronicle.su right now. I mean, we are seizing the means of production. You know? This place.

Never Forget.

[Pause here for a moment of silence]

[Thank you]

Now let’s see what’s inside those phones!

hatesec out

*drops the mic*

chronicle.su is brought to you proudly by Lebal Drocer, INC.

The Dark Path

To borrow the shittiest, most overused image in literature for a moment, let’s pretend like what I do next is original.

Original thoughts come rarely, as rarely as life itself. Everywhere you look is a bright world of color and hatred. A beautiful, blissful carving at the base of a jutting cliff from the mountain of shit. But that isn’t original. The dark path goes past the scenic abuse of our masochistic temporal wastelands and traces a river of regret-soaked vomit poured from a half-liter of a blue-eyed, blonde bottle of vodka. There’s a downtown apartment overlooking the dark path right now. Inside, two sweaty shadows have sex in July, with the windows and doors open to the boulevard below.

How the sucking maw with black holes for eyes pulled its prey inward, so too does the entrance to the dark path. A whirlpool of originality, spewing unseen colors, unheard-of ranges of vibrations and sound, the dark path catches the eye. It inflames every sense, violent with color, promising poison.

Hatred and ignorance fuel the torch that illuminates the caverns of their being. To learn more about the other so as not to destroy, but consume, an orange glow pours in from the ancient streetlamps – just enough – just enough to see fear. They burn like pines in a flame in a nation of heat.

And they walk the dark path.

A Carolina Wonderland: Bacon and drug tests

drug party!

Carl Sagan smoke weed everydayMy uncle told me to pad my resumé with dead businesses. “They can’t call ’em,” he said.

That’s not necessary, I told him. I got a job with a corporate spy agency. I got benefits. I got paid meals and travel. I get mileage. I get paid double what I was working before without overhead. They want ‘me for me,’ I said. I have an education. I’ve been published.

On the phone with my interviewer, Jeff handled a few final formalities.

“Okay, just some quick questions I have to ask.”

I told him to go ahead.

“You have a car?”

Yes.

“You have a high school education, GED or equivalent?”

…Yes, again. I thought my degrees were listed on my CV. Nobody gives a fuck about you. That’s actually a good thing.

“You can pass a drug test?”

I was stoned when I said yes, of course. This is what employers want you to say. Now is not the time to argue individual liberty, not when Daddy is hanging a salary over your head and the promise of a means to reach your bullshit dreams.

I stayed awake that night drinking water and playing Counterstrike with Jihad. He carried our team through every match as I made trips to the bathroom, pissing clear, clean rain. By the time I took my drug test, I was nauseous and my urine looked like tap water as I handed it over for corporate approval and testing. The test proctor’s name is Roy. He was very fat, so I thought he might know where that sweet barbecue smell was coming from as I walked in through the rain.

“Oh, that’s Biscuithead’s!” he exclaimed. “You probably smelled their bacon.”

It was a sweet smell, I said. It was like nothing I’d ever smelled. I had to try it.

“Well, you know they don’t just do regular bacon, egg and cheese biscuits,” he explained. “They’ll give you a biscuit, sure, but they might put the eggs on top of it, and then the bacon or sausage and they’ll pour their signature gravy all over it.”

He called it ‘signature gravy.’ I said OK. I spaced out as he finished, and felt sick staring at blood samples sitting out on his desk. I knew it belonged to the sick-looking man who came in before me, and left with a cough. It had begun to separate into two colors, yellow and crimson.

“They got a jelly bar, too. Eight different kinds a-jelly. Anything you can think of.”

So I finished my piss-cup paperwork and, feeling really nasty, but in desperate need of replacement salts which gallons of water continued to wash out of my bloodstream.

I asked the cashier at Biscuithead’s about what Roy had described.

“He said you put a biscuit at the bottom, bacon and eggs on top of that, and you pour gravy all over it.”

The cashier made a disgusted face, as if the notion had never occurred to him. He looked healthy.

“Yeah, you can do that if you want. The biscuits come with a side of house gravy,” he said. “You could rearrange our biscuits however you like and use the gravy that way if you wanted to.”

So I bought my biscuit. I pissed in their bathroom sink while waiting for my food. I meant no harm by it, but staying awake all night drinking water so that some bureaucrat ape will say you didn’t smoke pot has a way of shifting a person’s values. I washed my hands, still thinking about Roy’s grid, filled with vials of diseased blood.

I ate my biscuit in the hospital garage, listening to Comedy Bang Bang, texting out as many drug test jokes as I could think of. I didn’t so much as drive up to the drug test as I blew in with the fog.

It was the bacon I smelled. I tasted it, remembering the wet air as I approached my drug test, full of water. THC metabolites desperately trying to infiltrate my piss and keep me from having a job. A future. Anxious to be running out. The bacon tasted good. It tasted like the misty mountain air surrounding Asheville, which people mistake for sweet clarity when in fact it is heavily polluted by what might otherwise be considered trade winds pulling in pollution from surprising places. A Carolina Wonderland, the percentage of people suffering from mysterious lung disease continues to rise, and the pulmonologists are turning people away.

I don’t know if I passed, yet, but I quit my old job anyway. I immediately feel like shit, but deep down I know I’m happy. It has to be this way. The bacon was sweet.