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”
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:
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.
Hi, I’m Dr. Angstrom Hire 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.
this is a message from hatesec’s attorney. my client has asked me to reproduce the following statement on his behalf:
“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.
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.
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.
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.
[Pause here for a moment of silence]
Now let’s see what’s inside those phones!
*drops the mic*
chronicle.su is brought to you proudly by Lebal Drocer, INC.
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.
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT REGARDING ANONYMOUS
V For Vendetta was a turd film for shit-minded people – people like Anonymous – who flock like birds to the government birdseed.
Eat shit and die, you dimwitted pack of nobody, followers. You people are losers.
My 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?”
“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.
‘Anonymous’ is the lamest “movement” I’ve ever seen. First of all, they borrow their strongest image from a piece of shit Hollywood film thoughtlessly shoveled out in the general direction of teenagers who like big words. I know this because a lady I was banging when I was 19 showed it to me, and I liked it. But I specifically recall hating that faggy Guy Fawkes mask, and I especially hated the focus of the narrative on some narrow slice of history that, even today, is only cool in social circles in which the prominent leaders are still drawing encircled A’s on their composition books.
More to the point, though, Anonymous is totally impotent, made worse by the same kind of manufactured outrage as you see out of your average TV news piece, attempting to equate their fake struggle against all government, healthy and unhealthy, with the real struggle of the black working class against a small percentage of bullish cops enabled by a cabal of DAs whose favorite shows are Law & Order, and their spin-offs (Special Victims Unit is a favorite among closet rapists). Yo, the police didn’t kill that kid because he was “Anonymous,” they killed him because he wouldn’t put down a knife, so stop acting like the police want to kill you over their ideas. The police want to kill everybody because they’ve been doing whatever they want and nobody is stopping them; in fact, you could say they’re doing God’s work. The police could give a shit if your homeboy was wearing some Halloween mask. He might as well have been wearing a strap-on.
Your movement is weak, and you’re weak fucking people. Stop it with those stupid masks and stop acting like you stand up for something when you wouldn’t stand up to pee. May I suggest getting off the fucking Internet if you don’t like the government, and going to a few meetings? [I am laughing to myself as I write this, because the thought is absurd: just imagining these pasty, disgusting slobs dragging their fat guts, covered by black Game of Thrones t-shirts, into a municipal building to participate in local government is so funny to me.] What are you going to tweet when you get there, huh?
“These speed cameras are oppressing me. The red light cameras are oppressing me. This hard foldout chair is oppressing me.”
And you don’t even fucking think of where those suggestions are coming from. You want to fight the power? Use the government, don’t act like it’s in your way, preventing some phony utopia from unfolding. Do you faggots even know what anarcho-capitalism is? Well, eliminate the government and find out. The central tenet of anarcho-capitalism is that without government interference, we can have something WAY MORE PROFITABLE AND HATEFUL than even the TPP‘s wildest aspirations. The government is supposed to be the people’s instrument for the prevention of corporate tyranny over the people, NOT an enabler of it. Which part of V For Vendetta covered that? Oh that’s right, none of it, because Hollywood, like a dumb animal, shit it out without even stopping in its tracks (the same company that produced V For Vendetta also created the turd-rific Speed Racer remake).
You fuckers should be looking up to the sky and praying for government tyranny: tyranny over Google; tyranny over Monsanto; tyranny over Nestle; tyranny over Lockheed-Martin; tyranny over the entire fucking globe against anyone who ever dared to mess with sanctity of the human condition.
You want revenge over Momma’s little baby who wouldn’t set down his pocket knife? Here’s your list. Get to work.
[Editor’s note: I knew you wouldn’t do it, spineless fucking losers. Go do something you’re good at, like DDoSing a gameserver.]