Chronicle.su field correspondents spotted PyCon drama queen and feminist partying down with hackers and felons alike at a loft in Newark, New Jersey Sunday night, when supposedly at PyCon.
Richards, supposedly took out her feminist ire out on a poor python programming man at PyCon last weekend, getting him fired in the process. He had 3 kids, one is now dead.
She has been the subject of extreme scrutiny since the child’s death and some speculate she may have possibly been committed via 5150 to a mental institution. However, after field reports spotted her at Newark, New Jersey doing pot and swinging from swings, little to no truth is known to be truer than the truth itself, which can only be the truth.
A wave of paranoia swept through the Anonymous consortium late Monday night when #TeamSabu was introduced by Aaron Bale who claims is a group of Sabu sympathizers and synthesizers, led by the OWS and Wikileaks activist shm00p of UGNazi and Rustle League fame, who is actually Sabu himself.
#TeamSabu is lead not only by shm00p, but has close ties to Adria Richards, who sold exploit code to Matthew Keys in an effort to gain the good graces of LulzSec so she could eventually land a job at the DailyDot. Little did she know that among a group of thugs, hackers and drunks, people would be snapping photos.
So who was at PyCon and why the drama surrounding Adria Richards? Simply to distract us from #OpBlackout and Aaron Bales efforts to thwart Jen Emick with Ron Brynaert in tow.
No one knows for certain, but after reading some threads on abovetopsecret.com, we believe this is Illuminati related, considering Luke Rudkowski was at weev’s sentencing.
This month a brilliant artist at The Wall Street Journal has broken new ground in the flourishing investigative journalism market by going where cameras could not. You can click here to see these images in their original context, alongside a breathtaking column by Laura Saunders. Witness the pain of these Americans’ faces, as the fruits of their brow sweat are ripped away by the useless, degenerate masses and their fanatical, usurper ringleader.
First in Tim Foley’s slideshow of unbridled pain is a retired couple, who is just breaking even as socialist fascists have taken over their country. Social Security income is capped at roughly $40,000 annually for each of them — presuming each of them made only a meager $120,000 per annum since the age of 18 — and so in order to get by on $180,000 with their deductions in investment income in tow, their aging bodies will have to scrap together $23,000 this year. And what incentive do they have to even do that in the Nancy Pelosi/Barack Hussein Obama II economy? In the crossed arms of the man — whom we will call “Carlton” — and “Carlton’s” world-weary stare, we see a bold entrepreneur degraded into being a simple welfare slave on the Democrat retirement plantation. He has just told his partner in Christ they will face the belt-tightening prospect of having to switch from Perrier to the utter swill San Pellegrino. We can see from his lean that the heat of South Carolina’s merciless golf courses have caused spinal degeneration. His wife has a raised eyebrow, characteristic of these stark sketches of the toil and misery of 21st century America. We can sense she knows that “Carlton’s” days to be numbered. And without his brave, beating heart, the Social Security Administration will be cutting off a hefty $40,000 a year.
Mr. Foley’s next portrait of insurmountable anguish shows a nuclear family taxed nearly $22,000 more in 2013 by a society thankless for the parents’ willingness to put up with each other after 40. Clinging like a Ritalin addiction to the father’s body is two of the children, the one in front of him cowering into his shoulder, staring upwards at a towering, dream-crushing IRS. At $650,000 a year, these surely above-average children face a dark future, one in which they may have to take on some degree of debt for every single one of them to attend Kenyon, Amherst, or some other liberal arts institution that may by and large be bought into. The married, upstanding professional “businessess” faces forward more than her righteous husband to symbolize how liberals have electorally plotted to divide his Godly household. She like “Carlton’s” wife raises a single eyebrow. But the pre-menopausal woman’s eyebrow raises as if to say: “Should I really have to pay this much more this year to stave off my de facto execution for having to carry an ectopic pregnancy?”
‘Single person’ features yet another pearl-clad responsibility-ite, her face tilted slightly to her left in cynicism, her hair diligently parted, her arms crossed in indignation. As yet unbruised by years of toil and her holy, as yet unfulfilled, duty of childbirth, one eyebrow is not raised more than another, as with the retired woman and married mother. She still possesses the idealism of youth, and so is surprised to see our newly totalitarian government demanding so much of her, three years out of Wharton. She has purchased fine pearls to attract a suitable mate. She uses a watch, despite its being old-fashioned; checking her smartphone’s email app every five minutes to look out for any possible, more lucrative opportunities from one of her firm’s ruthlessly job-creating competitors. But now that she will be paying so much more on her taxes in 2013, what’s the point? she says to herself. Any more income will just mean moving into a higher tax bracket. And this is the way that in the New World Order’s America, a job creator is effectively murdered in public by a raging lynch mob. The mob, she understands well, is just jealous of the superior productivity genes that the American Enterprise Institute’s own Charles Murray has proven with science her to have.
The most heartbreaking of Mr. Foley’s portraits is that of the ‘Single parent,’ a subject with whom The Wall Street Journal’s editorials have famously long sympathized. The subscriber can immediately derive additional sympathy because her children look sufficiently alike to allay any suspicion that she might be single by a decadent choice. In the foreground, we see that she must console her child about her peasant family’s additional 2013 tax liability of just over $3,000. She places a loving hand over his shoulder, as she has probably just told him that — upon hearing the results of the treasonous fiscal-cliff congressional package — they will not be able to purchase for him a Hanson Robotics “Zeno.” The boy has his mother’s job-creator genes, but he knows with this year’s inability to afford that multithousand-dollar toy, his hopes of becoming an undergraduate in MIT’s robotics labs may very well be crushed. As with any of the parents or married people in this sketch essay, in his signature Foley-ian style, the woman’s eyebrow is raised at a new, decadent culture so willing to punish any American unworthy of the very gutter. This final, masterful sketch is the single greatest representation of economic repression since (original, lesser) Depression documentarian Dorothea Lange’s “Migrant Mother,” below.
Mob rule is everything in the Hyper Revolutionary Social Networking device.
This message comes from the Public Relations desk of your very own chronicle.su:
While on its way to chronicle.su’s chief war correspondent Viet Zam, a message from Lillian King was intercepted early October, establishing a multi-tiered dialog around the coming “Social Network Revolution.” After several rounds of negotiation, [CHRONICLE EDITORS] have decided to release her video with the unspoken understanding there will be no further harassment from herself or the plethora of Illuminati-centered agencies she is believed to represent – both governmental and nongovernmental.
“A New Medium”
From the unsolicited email:
The Hyper Revolution video was created to show the strength of our new medium the Social Network.
Far from status updates and the latest instagram photos, social media is shifting the balance of social and political power back to the people and not a lot of individuals know this.
The new Social Network political party line is determined by upvoting. Its ideology is driven totally by cat videos and reposted television gaffes of celebrity politicians. There is no room for dissent once the most strongly worded opinions bob to the top – a sign that the Hyper Social Revolutionary Network has served its full purpose.
Sensationalism dominates the Hyper Revolutionary Social Network while marginalizing those willing to ask questions unanswerable by witty retorts that, no matter what, fail to reach into the humor box of the 98% who still don’t get it, ALL of whom carry the power of a downvote, and MANY of whom want YOU to shut up.
By the time you read this message, over 800 million people will believe they changed the world by clicking on Revolutionary status updates such as “Click Like if you are the 99%!”
We’re all leaders now. Join the Anti-Leaders for Change network and start posting today. Don’t forget to subscribe now and share this with your friends… You could start a revolution!
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.
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 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.
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?
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.
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.
The American gaming male automatically degenerated into an alternating cycle of hardcore gaming and furious, repeated bouts of masturbation Tuesday after Mother Blizzard released her tepid seed into the yawning, fertile womb of jilted fantasy gamers who have already seen enough WoW expansions to make General Patreus reconsider an extensive Iraq strategy.
The most celebrated feature of the game thus far is that in Diablo III, you’re no longer a slave to reading. Audio lore gives you experience points as you continue about your quest by reading your own journal entries to you. No longer will gamers groan at the sight of glowing books which fall open into the floor in front of them.
Diablo III journals are now jam-packed full of game lore you never cared about before, but sounds really cool coming through your speakers as you ransack the libraries where you found it, like an SS squado looking for ze papers.
Diablo III is well-optimized to run on computers dating all the way back to 2007, when Barack Obama was busy hiring the white collar criminals responsible for America’s economic collapse onto his financial planning committees. Those were shitty computers back then, but they will still run Diablo III at medium settings and you won’t feel like the poor kid whose left light up sneaker stopped working a week in because you did the Macarena too hard. Good luck with Minecraft, though. NASA is still working on a PC capable of running it at maximum render distance.
Many new games push medium-rated hardware beyond their limits, unreasonably so. Recommended specs if you want to run Tribes: Ascend, for example, requires that your computer be qualified to run CERN supercollider calculations as theorized having taken place on the varied surfaces of distant asteroids, providing NASA had a budget and Hi-Rez Studios wasn’t run by Jews hell-bent on absorbing it.
Diablo III has you shooting the shit out of Thriller extras with both hands; it even has rapid-fire drawstring longbows which makes no sense at all, except magic. Instead of magic, however, the Demon Hunter – like chronicle.su – balances hate with discipline to land combination attacks of rippling snarefuck and piercing arrows of godlessness.
The storyline enlists you – the main character, whoever you are – to assist Leah with various quests and, without raping her, collaborate with this old Nick Oliveri-looking dude to own up on some shit-eating demons. You even get to help a guy kill his wife who, inexplicably, is a mini-boss loaded to the tits with rare magical items and gold. She’s a sweetheart, though. Play to find out why.
I’m about to.
It’s $60. The first coolguy to leave us a comment on this review (with your email in the appropriate field) gets an official chronicle.su Diablo III guest pass providing free access to early gameplay.
Have you ever witnessed the birth of multiple universes, only to realize you were too stoned to verbalize it to your friends?
That’s why Lebal Drocer Labs has invented Mind Over Matter™ to pattern out your logic trees in REAL TIME so you can share it with your friends and trusted family members!
ABSOLUTELY FREE [with purchase]: upload your philosophical renderings to Facebook and Twitter today!
Mind Over Matter™ can be inserted directly into the brain stem* and is powered by any wall outlet, and your thoughts thoughts thoughts
Forgot what you were thinking? NO PROBLEM because Mind Over Matter™ offers a fully-interactive and comprehensive read-write experience. Just turn a dial with your thoughts and select how far back in the past you wish to go, and Mind Over Matter™ overwrites your current state of mind with previous mental states! It’s magic!** Repeat as many times as necessary, going as far back as you like.***
*Mind Over Matter™ should not be used by children or people over seventy. This product is not a toy. Mind Over Matter™ has been shown to cause irreversible psychological damage to people who insist upon misusing Mind Over Matter™. Use Mind Over Matter™ in a controlled environment away from sharp objects and television.
**Some users of Mind Over Matter™ complain of a sensation of experiencing themselves as shadows lurking in the periphery. If you become a shadow behind the scenes of your own memories, come into close contact with (or find yourself becoming) a religious superlative, or witness the death of the Universe, discontinue use of Mind Over Matter™ immediately, and avoid sleep for at least 36 hours. Mind Over Matter™ can not bend spacetime, but studies have shown the ability to rearrange neutrino star structure from billions of miles away, and should only be performed under close adult supervision.
***Do not reverse mental state any farther back than before 1 years of age. Studies have shown using Mind Over Matter™ to recall pre-natal thoughts has led to heart attack, stroke, and brain-death. Mind Over Matter™ is fun for the whole family and the multitude of accidental horrors that lie in wait (for you and your children).
BITING REVIEW: I just watched Those Sandusky Boys, the finest piece of investigative journalism there’s ever been since the Watergate scandal revealed Richard M. Nixon routinely trafficked little boys into the White House.
[Editor’s note: This was the biggest little boy scandal until Penn. State’s Coach Sandusky proved it could be more easily done with free tickets and promises to meet certain heroes in the shower room]
Stan Marivan, main character of the Hollywood blockbuster Those Sandusky Boys, which grossed $40 million on its opening weekend, plays himself: an Internet millionaire working for chronicle.su who donates half of his earnings to right-wing conservative hackers in the form of bitcoins. Marivan said the film incorporates fictional elements to make it more interesting, such as bitcoins being worth something.
“I’ve experimented with men before,” said Marival. “But I have a girlfriend. I am very interested in the things I can do to her, sexually.”
Marival is like M. Night Shamalayanayea except he’s talented and the only twist he needs is a titty twist as he’s getting his rocks off so he can bust a nut up inside his girlfriend and Those Sandusky Boys.
Attorneys are awash with litigation pertaining to the film’s sensitive subject and refusal to change the names of neither the perpetrator nor his victims. “But all in all,” Marival said, “It’s just a bunch of whatever, we’re making money. Shit.” Marival threw up his hands and squatted so hard he tore the ass out of his khaki slacks, and shat liquid projectile feces directly into his own rare human-face carpeting in the Whollywood Whills.
Marival yelled to a woman named Henrietta, attaching profanities in Spanish, and pointed to the brown stains in his living room. The woman exhaled a whimpering cry, and wallowed in it.