SMALL CHILDREN EVERYWHERE HAVE BRISTLED AT THE BARK OF GUNFIRE. EACH DAY, YOUR SONS AND DAUGHTERS REMORSELESSLY ANNOUNCE THE BOMBINGS OF VILLAGES, AND THEY HAVE HEARD THE CRIES OF DYING MEN THEY MUST IGNORE.
But are they ready for the EXPANSION PACK?
Snap into RAGEMODE with anonymous rednecks everywhere through five channel full virtual surround sound and ORDER YOURSELF A MURDER.
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THIRST FOR BLOOD-RED MURDER THIS HOLIDAY SEASON WITH Aftermath™ – A REALISTIC WAR SIMULATOR OF ACTION AND VIOLENCE!
DO YOUR DUTY, PEPSI-CHILDREN, AND GET ON THAT FUCKING BATTLEFIELD.
SEASIDE HEIGHTS, N.J. — The bloated corpse of Snooki was allegedly recovered and then dumped back into the sea Tuesday after the MTV star went missing early Monday evening.
When whaling experts off the Atlantic Coast noticed a disturbance in their dragnets, they claim to have pulled up the bloated, lifeless carcass of Jersey Shore starlette Nicole Elizabeth Polizzi the reality television “actress” widely known as Snooki.
Coast Guard Captain Jacob Funkhouser, who found the body, said he could not believe his eyes. And since this particular whaling expedition was a capitalist venture, Funkhouser said, there was just not enough space in the hold of the S.S. Bismarck and jettisoned her stinking, lifeless body.
It was definitely her.
Captain Jacob Funkhouser, S.S. Bismarck
Internet Chronicle reporters interviewed Funkhouser on the deck of the S.S. Bismarck. “It was definitely her,” Funkhouser told reporters, slamming a defiant fist down on the platform where he sat. “Even though it was all purple and puffy, I’d recognize that face anywhere. Now that I look back on it, we could’ve made more money selling the corpse back to her filthy rich guido family than I’d get from a big, juicy Sperm whale.”
Though he lamented losing the chance to capitalize on her fame, Funkhouser said he does not regret the decision to jettison Snooki’s body, saying “America dumped Bin Laden, so I did the same for Snooki.”
Snooki leaves behind an infant child whose birth raised controversy after critics labeled her a “negligent monster . . . incapable of motherhood.” (NY Times, 2011)
Known for drinking and getting punched in the face by better people, Snooki capitalized on a baffling book deal that was displayed prominently in bookstores alongside, or ahead of, the works of sociologist Cornell West, popular scientist Niel DeGrasse Tyson and satirist David Sedaris.
It is unknown how Snooki was initially blown out to sea. Sources close to the reality TV star said she was drinking profusely during a Hurricane Sandy welcoming party, and disappeared in her Scion Monday night, a car known to float in less than six inches of water. Authorities have declared her a missing person but are currently occupied with more important recovery efforts.
Boy Band ‘N Sync has arranged a tour of the United States and South America to kick off in the summer of 2013
INTERNET — ‘N Sync, famed “Boy Band” heart-throbs of the ’90s, have signed on for a Summer 2013 tour to span the whole Western Hemisphere. J.C. Chasez denied rumors of such a reunion tour earlier this year, and other members have made similar statements to the media in the past. It is not immediately clear what changed the musicians’ minds, but some industry specialists speculate the explosive interest in second-hand copies of their albums in developing countries may be a reason for the reunion.
Especially under the repressive dictatorships of Rafael Correa and Hugo Chavez, ‘N Sync is finding thousands of new South American fans every day. “It’s like the ’90s just hit Venezuela, and the kids there can’t get enough of ‘N Sync. Perhaps the lighthearted bubblegum R&B gives the downtrodden and oppressed a vision of greener pastures,” said Ursula Fulton, pop culture expert at New York University’s Steinhardt School of Culture, Education and Human Development.
Members of ‘N Sync are yet to comment on the upcoming tour, but the aged fans at home in America are absolutely excited at the prospect of a nostalgic reliving of the halcyon days of the ’90s, when all was right with the world.
Here is a rare photo of “Violent J” without his carcinogenic face-paint.
DETROIT, MICH. — Joseph Bruce, aka Violent J, founding member of the Insane Clown Posse, released a statement to fans Friday canceling further tour dates pending his recovery from skin cancer. Doctors say the cancer was caused by carcinogens in the oil-based “dark carnival” style face paint, which Bruce wore at home and for all public appearances.
Oncologist Dr. Angstrom H. Troubadour said, “Sadly, the face paint not only caused the skin cancer but it also hid the tell-tale signs of growth before the tumor became deadly. Violent J is putting up a strong fight, but at this stage his chances of survival are slim.”
Over the course of a year, the survival rate for skin cancer that has progressed to this stage on the face is estimated at about 10 percent. “We’re hoping for a magical miracle,” said Michelle “Sugar Slam” Rapp, Bruce’s babies’ momma.
Shaggy 2 Dope, another member of the Insane Clown Posse rap group, stated “I’m switchin’ to motherfuckin’ safe face paints from now on. All you other juggalos out there, spray-paintin’ yourselves ‘n shit, y’all need to get real. Clown makeup ain’t no joke no more. Woop woop!”
Fans of the Insane Clown Posse were recently declared a gang by the FBI, and crimes by so-called “Juggalos” now carry extra sentences in some urban areas.
EARTH – Gangnam Style has finally reached the eyes and ears of every living human being.
Gangnam Style is pouring from every orifice of the Internet and daytime television. Gangnam Style permeated American culture faster than you could hook a USB stick up to it via Ellen, Shoenice, local weather guys all across morning news and YouTube user holy-fuck-let’s-not-get-carried-away-with-ourselves-oh-what-the-hell-the-faster-you-can-make-them-the-better.
Gangnam Style took the world by storm.
Indonesian day laborers, Thai sweatshop workers, the American homeless, people in South and Central Africa have come into close personal contact of some form with Gangnam Style. Even Eritrean refugees, once forced by the government to spend their entire lives face down on a bed of sand, are now allowed two provisions: the continuation of life in a sand prison, and enjoyment of Gangnam Style in as many different configurations of which they can think.
Played in every bar across the planet, individuals who once chose to suffocate themselves with alcohol to escape from the very reality Gangnam Style satirizes, are now caught up in the number one PSY’Sssick beats of self-awareness-pumping Gangnam Style. Get all in that decadence InFiltrator style, and pump, pump, pump it up. And blow it down.
Gangnam Style is more than a style.
Gangnam Style has so fractured the spiritual world, cult voids that once insulated us from the vacuum of transhuman insanity are bleeding onto the pages of human history because they’re allowing Gangnam Style in schools. For some, Gangnam Style has replaced God. More literal translations of Gangnam Proverbs differentiate Gangnam Style from PSY, its creator. Fundamentalist Gangnam Style has solidified in the brittle cracks of the fractured cult plane and begun to infect the consciousness of world leaders.
The United Kingdom Parliament, for example, has been replaced by a mathematically perfect array of beautiful young women on all fours, poking their asses toward the sky. Prime Minister David Cameron’s new role is to stand over them, fixated on the boundless sexual potential of iPhone-hungry children just starving for exploitation, and to celebrate this bounty with caricatured renditions of Gangnam Style.
No one can really say what’s next for PSY, or if the Gangnam Style worldview is versatile enough to adapt to the shifting cult plane.
Dozens of Gangnam Temples have already sprung up across the East Coast. There is even debate whether to allow a controversial Gangnam Temple to be built near Ground Zero in New York City, for fear it could spark waves of ironic self-protest against the Capitalist agenda that control-demolished Towers 1 and 2.
TL;DR Those towers were meant to fall, and Gangnam Style took them down.
ATLANTA, GA. – “Hey, she’s a dame. What do ya say, Hermie? We pick her up and show her a good time, give her the presidential treatment?”
Two pairs of eyes met in agreement on the rearview mirror. As it slowed to a stop, the campaign van brakes cried out in protest.
“I’ll introduce myself.”
The man in the backseat watched through tinted windows. “Yes, what is it?” the woman inquired of the driver, who approached her on foot now. He was a stocky white gentleman wearing a sportcoat, stylish prescription glasses, and a stained yellow mustache that matched his teeth.
“You want to meet a celebrity?”
“What are you doing?” she asked as he got closer. Her face changed, although an expression of politeness remained. “Now, wait just a second, what do you want? Back! Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The driver had grabbed her by the wrist, but when she pulled away, he slapped her across the face and took her by her curly brown hair, leading her into the side door of their idling press wagon. She noticed it now, out of the corner of her eye: 2012.
Perhaps you’ve seen him on TV. He’s bringing jobs back to America. He believes we can take this country back. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be here today. His marriage fell to ruin in the wake of a series of sexual harassment scandals that surfaced as researchers snuffled for anything that might drop him out of the running. The hours were getting short; the days, much darker. It was only a matter of time now.
With their fly in tow, our two spiders drove around back of a warehouse not far from where they acquired a thirst for young flesh. Once inside, they removed her blindfold. The building was stacked to the tits with beer koozies, picket signs, boxes labeled “flair,” cardboard figures and T-shirts in every color and size ranging from small to medium to large, extra large, extra extra large, and the unthinkable XXXL. With no small degree of confusion, she absorbed her surroundings, forgetting for a moment the two dark figures just ten feet behind her. She struggled for breath at the sheer immensity of wall-to-wall fascism, lights shining on American flags, and in her eyes, too. She squinted to ascertain the meanings of slogans and effigies. America never looked so cheap. That is, until a red crowbar wedged itself between her right eye and the inner socket, hooking itself on her temple. The pain was insurmountable. She could not scream, and collapsed instantaneously under shock. Dull sensations of otherness were shooting off at random locations around her body. The pain was unfathomable. Reality ceased. A voice gave instructions. She followed them, without question, without understanding, with no intellectual capacity whatsoever to guide her through this terrible nightmare. She was no longer human.
The young woman – a skinny waitress in her thirties – with her fist in her mouth, put the other hand down to her gingham skirt. Her broken hand was gnarled into a claw, but using that claw, she tugged upward at her skirt with pathetic incapability, in a bid to satiate the verbose bloodlust of her attacker, candidate for the U.S. Republican Party presidential nomination, Herman Cain – a Georgia Tea Party activist.
The hairs on Herman’s neck bristled with anticipation. In the dark, he could not see it, but a flash of recognition darted through the young lady’s body as she made out the face of a man she once knew. A man who, before, had told her what to do in a more professional setting. She worked in one of his restaurants. Her boss. The owner.
Your God is Power. You have no shame.
“Rape victims are sluts who produce their own birth control. But you’re no victim,” declared Mr. Cain, a former deputy chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank of Kansas City. “You like this. I’m going to teach you to like me.” As he pumped, and huffed, and breathed scotch into his victim’s mouth, his eyes glazed over and fixated on the corner of the room, where he imagined a younger, better looking rape victim. And briefly, he pictured his wife. “Now secrete it!”
Herman Cain crouched down over the woman, who was now bloody, disheveled and used, and he asked her politely if he might take her out to dinner sometime, and if he can get that phone number.
Black dots patterned across his vision, bubblewrapping the terrible scene beneath him, the product of his undoing. One last passenger aboard the Cain train. As he struggled to breathe with that thin, tobacco-stained breath of his, Herman’s blood flowed like sand.
“She’s done for, Herman. Now let’s be on our way.” Chief of Staff Mark Block, Herman’s driver, sucked the last trace of life from his cigarette. He could not take his eyes off the scene. Her ripped white underwear with blue trim, bloody at the crotch.
“I– I thought her body was supposed to shut down to keep this from happening.” Cain withdrew an unlabeled bottle of blood pressure medication and took four tiny white pills.
“If she gets pregnant, then it means she liked it. Who can blame her? We’ve run a campaign like nobody’s ever seen. But then, America’s never seen a candidate like Herman Cain.”
A smile bled from the open corners of Herman’s mouth, from which sprung twin puffs of gaseous hate that twisted up his thin, dark mustache, and moved in a vapor around his furrowed brows, tracing the restaurant manager’s gray, receding hairline. Sister demons danced a double helix in the midnight air, assuming the form of matching parallel negative impressions, shaped like dervishes with forked tongues slithering, their writhing agitations, spied ever so slightly amid the shifting breeze in Block’s polluted exhalation. Graciously, they pulled his mouth wide into a devilish smile.
The Innocence of Muslims has spread wildly throughout the Middle East and is one of the most critically-acclaimed popular films since The Passion of The Christ. A new landmark in American Cinematography, the wondrous shots of the barbaric setting for desert people transport audiences to a fantasy land where nothing makes sense and buildings are set on fire simply because they are inhabited by Christians.
Culturally speaking, this is a landmark for American film that could have only been shot by a highly-acclaimed pornographic filmmaker. Muhammed’s depiction as a bisexual who likes both submissive and dominant acts of sodomy had me laughing at all the sodomite homosexual submissive Muslims in the world. The poignant tale of Islam’s founder and his dynamic struggle for a sexual identity dropped a bomb on my misconceptions. No longer do I think of Muslims as serious practitioners of a religion, but now I see they are just innocent heathens led to destructive and violent acts by crazed Imams who follow in the tradition of Muhammed. No wonder they don’t like it when people depict him!
I have never seen a film which better facilitates masturbation. The sex scenes in this movie aroused me sensually and made me want to violate the Sweet Virgin Mary. I spilt my seed when Muhammed told his followers to rape the children of the conquered, because that has always been a dream of mine. Perhaps I will join the Army so I can get back at the Muslims for all their horrific war crimes through history. My only problem was that there were no graphic depictions of genitalia, and we did not actually get to see Muhammed having sex. That would have greatly improved my enjoyment of the furious masturbation.
It was hilarious how at certain points during the movie the actors lines were overdubbed with all the really incendiary lines about Muhammed, and that none of the actors were actually conscious they were participating in such a controversial movie. Not only has the entire Muslim world been fooled like the sad innocent child-like people they are, but the actors were also similarly fooled! The film all came together in the end, and the “Great Prophet” was depicted as a crazed sword-wielding maniac covered in blood, just as everyone in America has always imagined. Surely, this is the work of America’s greatest filmmaker. It was an intellectual tour-de-force that had me thinking, laughing, crying, and cumming in my pants all at the same time.
I’ve heard that its reception in the Middle East has been fairly negative, but that’s sad! If you can’t laugh at God, who can you laugh at?
If this triggers a flood of memories and emotions, Pokemon may be a perfect oracle for you.
As man has now known for decades, the meaning of an oracle does not in fact derive from God, who may or may not exist, but rather from the act of interpretation. Pokemon, when used properly, can provide deep insights into the nature of the self and our interaction with others.
Any Pokemon should work, (although I will talk specifically about the Red, Blue, and Yellow versions) provided there is an abundance of meaning invested in the game. That is to say, a cartridge of Pokemon one has owned since childhood is optimal. It is not recommended to attempt to use Pokemon as an oracle on the first play-through.
To invest excess meaning in Pokemon, custom names should be used for both Ash and his nemesis, as well as each individual Pokemon. This is not necessary, but of extreme use in an oracle. A successful oracle hinges on ‘investment of meaning.’ A common misconception about oracles is that the player must ‘believe’ or be into new-age mambo jambo. This is actually not true! These are simply further tools for ‘investment of meaning,’ which can be easily compared to a drug such as table salt or LSD. Too much and it is poisonous, flavoring everything with its overwhelming meaning, but even the smallest taste can profoundly change the way one looks at the world.
Believing in the world of Pokemon was incredibly easy for me as a child, and it is especially easy to recall.
In Pokemon yellow, there is the added suggestion that Ash’s first Pokemon, Pikachu, is the Pikachu ‘from the cartoon series,’ which, of course, is highly preferable for fans of the cartoon television series seeking an oracular experience. Naming this special Pikachu, a visible companion in the overworld and no longer enslaved property, is nearly as important as naming the self and the nemesis.
Quite beautifully, you awake as a child in your mother’s house, the only place where you (vicariously through Pokemon (these ‘other’ agents are your source of ‘health’ or vitality)) can recharge all your ‘health’ without being subjected to a corporate machine (Poke (!) centers).
There is no love plot in Pokemon except the one between Ash and his mother. Ash’s father figure is Professor Oak, not his father but the father of the nemesis, who insists Ash must catch all 150 (There are 152, if one counts Mew and the glitch Missingno) Pokemon.
[Footnote: What would Professor Oak think if he saw a Missingno? Would he immediately conclude that his entire universe was a computer video game? Would he think he was in some kind of “simulation?” Or would he tie it in and use it to elaborate on evolutionary theory?]
The virtual ‘self’ is named by its contrast with the ‘nemesis.’ Using this Ash-shaped ‘mask’ and the name of a chronic enemy or opposing force provides the fundamental meaning, framing the values that play out through the entirety of the game and from which all meaning flows. This can be both a way to examine an existing persona xor to create an entirely new one. A vital point to make is that the enemy will always be defeated as long as the entire game ‘plays out.’ This is simply an important archetypal structure which must be made note of, a video game Hero Myth: Make it through the end of the day (game) and it is always a victory. A reassuring message, surely, but not necessarily realistic.
Pokemon are absolutely agents–especially the most powerful, (& anthropomorphic) Mewtwo. However, they are nonetheless enslaved and kept in magical pool ball belt-prisons to be released only to serve their masters. There is no cultural resistance whatsoever to this treatment of Pokemon anywhere in the world, although the ‘mistreatment’ of Pokemon by the Team Rocket ‘Criminal Gang’ and the ‘Evil Genetically-Modifying’ Uber (?) Corporation is widely criticized.
Wild Pokemon attack constantly in grassy areas and caves and represent a force to be mastered. The easily-unconscious treatment of these Pokemon is revealed quantitatively after battles, and profound events may be ‘replayed’ or interpreted upon reflection of a Pokemon battle.
Brains are interpretation machines, and the cultural stigma in the gaming community against ‘religious’ experience is disingenuous. Too often the ‘vision quest’ is replaced with lame drug experiences and trendy ‘trippy’ movies like Fear and Loathing or The Wall. Disbelief is suspended openly to supplement these experiences, but these are cheapened experiences! As a tool for deep reflection, a vision quest, or a modern oracle Pokemon is, even when ‘deeply invested with meaning,’ still a greatly cheapened form of a visceral real-life vision quest. The complexity of the Pokemon experience, however, is potentially much deeper and more ‘authentic’ than even that of the I-Ching!
@Kilgoar is the prophet and ex-leader of @YourAnonInglip’s (Part of the @YourAnonInc Monopoly-Anarcho-Finance-Capitalist (Monarchofincap) Social Media Empire) Rhizomatic Syncretic Legion (A Lebal Drocer Hometown Family TransHuman Religion @LebalDrocerInc) which is evidently now headed either by @Alrart or @MichelleMalkin.
Move over, “Toddlers & Tiaras!” Because there’s a new girl in town. . .
Fresh from the impaired minds of The Learning Channel executives who brought you “What Not to Wear,” “Randy to the Rescue,” and “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant,” comes little Honey Boo Boo.
Tune in this fall as fat Michelin-man shaped rednecks flop into a mud hole repeating Larry the Cable Guy memes, until you think you just can’t take it anymore. Then, wait for Honey Boo Boo to win back your heart with cute emotional avoidances, like, “You better redneckocgnize!”
“Redneckognize” is a play on words which combines all the ignorance brought to mind by the euphemistic racial slur “redneck,” with the word “recognize,” or to consider again; literally, to identify something or someone previously seen, such as the degradation of educational cable TV stations.
And if you learn anything from this corporate-induced delusional exploit, you’ll learn Little Honey Boo Boo is hardly the meanest one, or the baddest of the bunch. Indeed, much of her family is being paid and encouraged to reinforce every stereotype television helped create. WATCH IT EVERY NIGHT FOR ALL I CARE!
Watch for producers to inject new cutesy catch phrases, such as “Where’s mah insulin?”
I watched “Prometheus” and found it amazing. I can’t enjoy a movie unless I can piece the plot together and understand the motivations of all the characters. A filmmaker really needs to exaggerate these things so I don’t miss little hints and thematic details that might clue me in because I’m a total idiot. That was the problem with “Alien,” but “Prometheus” really laid it on thick, so I could enjoy the two-dimensional characters more.
I was expecting a strong female lead like Ripley from “Alien,” but instead I got an “Ancient Aliens” kook with faith in Space Jesus or something. I’m an atheist, and the cross she wore offended me. Deeply. The lead female, played by Noomi Rapace, was too interesting and mysterious. I’m much more into female leads that act exactly like males and don’t heroically give themselves abortions on machines designed for men only. This was the only flaw in Prometheus.
When I go to a movie, I also expect extremely subtle attention to detail, especially scientific fact, because I know exactly what an interstellar spaceship would be like and the ship in “Alien” was NOT it. I could spend all day picking out the scientific inconsistencies of “Alien” and get more enjoyment from that than I did the movie itself. I don’t want to have to suspend my disbelief, it’s too much work. Nothing was scientifically wrong with “Prometheus!” Like every film made in 2012, it reflects the fact that this is the future and we know exactly how space travel would work.
When they discovered the alien life in “Prometheus,” I really enjoyed how everyone jumped around and yelled like maniacs, because that’s what people do when they make huge scientific discoveries. In “Alien,” when Ripley is running down the hallway, that was so fake. No one would ever do that when being chased by an alien! Ripley should have been screaming at the top of her lungs! The audience really needs to know what’s going on inside characters, and that means huge exaggeration because we’re idiots.
I really didn’t understand the deep themes in “Alien” because I was too busy trying to figure out what the characters’ motivations were. All the absurd over-the-top explaining that went on in “Prometheus” was great, because it gave me a window into the relationship between a creator whose creation has become more powerful. A lot of people say it didn’t make sense that the Engineers would want to destroy Earth after they created it, or that they’d leave hints about where their big stash of “weaponized” organisms were. To me, it couldn’t have been more obvious. The Engineers are so far above our level of intelligence that we can’t possibly understand their purpose and this theme was driven home with so little doubt left for interpretation that it was almost too obvious. But I’m glad the filmmakers made everything so easy to follow and more scientifically consistent than “Alien,” because that’s all I really care about.