INTERNET — Taryn Fivek is dressed in all black, backed by Marxist guru Molly Klein AKA RedKahina, who has some kind of Chinese hat and togas loosely knotted around her body. She chews on one and fiddles with it, staring at her internet device. Slavoj Zizek is sitting on the stage, sweating and psychoanalyzing the wild audience. A majority of them have left, including Democracy Now! anchor Amy Goodman. Those that are left are totally involved, cheering and jeering the Slovenian slobberer at each provocation. The Left Forum emcee, Kristin Lawler, is standing in for Goodman who was slated to question Zizek but left without a reason or statement of protest. So this emcee is taking the heat from Fivek like it’s nothing at all while some goon is doing some menacing darting in and out of their personal space. I paused this video for about five minutes and took a long breath. It was almost unwatchable with meaning, the most potent cringe vid on the internet. Who are all these people? Why am I watching this?
I first came across Fivek when perusing Molly Crabapple hatred. Crabapple is a socially engaged artist splattering watercolors that reflect on the horrors of war as often as personal stories of women getting abortions. Under the nome de plume EM Quangel, Fivek wrote a dystopian fiction, Spooks, which warned against Crabapple’s brand of politics. Also she wrote the non-fictional essay, Weaponized Naked Girls, which says of Crabapple’s breed:
Their support of imperialism, combined with their self-promotion as empowered savvy “burlesque dancers” or “naked girls”, combined with their self-portrayal as frightened women under attack, is effective in triggering silence from the left … it would be anti-women, certainly anti-female sexuality, to attack the media as using the nakedness as a screen for pro-NATO positions.
Very well. Absolutely. Actually it must be true because “anti-woman” was my knee-jerk reaction when reading Spooks without its non-fiction analog. Feminism is one of many politics deployed on the margins of neoliberal order as a weapon, there is no doubt. Also it is encouraged within, belonging as it does to hallowed liberal rights, those that cost capitalists nothing. Feminism can be so strongly hegemonic that the CIA funds feminists such as Gloria Steinem to operate in strategic areas.
Among Fivek and comrades, there seems no doubt whatsoever that Crabapple must be a CIA operative. The pseudonymity provided by the EM Quangel alias was necessary for Fivek because it allowed her to continue her work with a UN associated migration publication while speaking out against the western worldview and its propaganda. Molly Crabapple had knowledge of Quangel’s identity for years and deployed the dox strategically. The starving children making doe eyes, supplicating US drones for death, were too precious for any westerner to deny. Only a totally inhuman monster would not happily digest this base propaganda, and the outrage that sly Crabapple witch cooked up against Fivek in conjunction with the doxing likely put Fivek out of her chosen career path forever.
But now Quangel is maybe dead, and Fivek is even more ferocious than her pseudonym. And here she is on this vid, confronting Slavoj Zizek and the Left Forum, leaning the fuck in and insisting that the slobberer can’t use that n-word. And that may be enough to fry your egg on, but there’s more!
Standing behind Quangel is Red Kahina. The biggest name of all in Crabapple hatred on twitter. As a point of massive interest, she gave a talk against Zizek at Left Forum in 2014. It is described in its abstract:
Is Slavoj Zizek a US propaganda psyop? I want to ask my comrades on the left to consider the possibility. After years of research, I have come to the conclusion that Zizek is a charlatan posing as a “Stalinist” to both discredit communists by performing a caricature Bolshevik and simultaneously, to smuggle fascist ideas including old fashioned Aryan supremacism and 19th century race theory, back into public discourse disguised as radical left critique of liberalism.
The talk was entitled Zizek Delenda Est, butKlein later employs the gender corrected slogan “Zizek Delendus Est” so the name is not likely a clever joke for people who took a year or two of Latin in high school. I wish the talk was put together with more care than the title. I want to be convinced. Klein’s quavering voice often sprints off to the end of a statement, and indeed to the end of the talk. Was Zizek a far right agitator in Slovenia, pushing for annexation by the neoliberal order during the breakup of Yugoslavia? A racist nationalist? So little of the situation is explained, each loose connection hangs to the next without clear reference back to Zizek and his particular, specific involvement.
Kahina takes us down some old paths, common tales such as Nietzsche the proto-Nazi, all “French Post-Structuralists” as Heideggerian “cuckoos” and Nazis. During the talk she uses the politically incorrect word “gypsy” to reference Roma and I consider putting this in the “gotcha” sack. But nah, less of a gotcha and more of a meaningless false equivalent. But these things are adding up, and it is also a fair point by now to think to myself, “Why should I listen to her talk about this distant conflict if she cannot even name the people involved by their right name?”
But it is not actually a total flop of a talk. I continue to listen. I am interested now in Zizek’s former career. It could change my opinion of him or his sincerity. The accusations are so serious I cannot dispose them. Maybe Zizek has committed a genocide or been complicit in one. Maybe he is a right wing spook, but past that what can I say? These questions are just left hanging there. Someone in the audience pushes the panel, asks them if they will answer “yes” or not to the question posed by their abstract. Is Zizek a spook? The panel refuses. So much for that. I feel like my time has been wasted.
I stop hyperventilating from the cringe after several minutes and commit to the rest of the video.
Kahina holds her internet device as if a frog is dancing on top of it and smiles with the kind of satisfaction I’d get from seeing such a marvel. The moment the words “you blacks have a big penis” come out of Fivek’s mouth, Kahina looks out to the audience, grinning and holding the toga to her chin. The dwindled crowd erupts into passions and Kahina orders, “Patience!” The exasperated emcee gets her microphone back in the commotion. I am not sure when Fivek got a hold of it to begin with, but the emcee was upset about it. Fivek repeats the obscene Zizek quotation, and Kahina smirks at her internet device. Fivek declares Zizek’s misogyny and racism is now a given, as well as his hatred for refugees entering Europe. She demands that Left Forum organizers answer to this. How much did they pay Zizek and how can they justify it? The emcee answers that the Left Forum organizers considered the complaints against Zizek and that it is a kind of critique that takes his statements out of context. At this point, Fivek, the audience, and Zizek say “the N-word” all at the same time. That is, they are all shouting the euphemism and not the expletive itself. As the camera pans to Zizek, Kahina raises her voice, “You know the context! What about that context changes?” Fivek moves to the center of the audience shouting with the anti-Zizek leaflet raised, and everybody in the room begins to shout. Somewhere in the mix there is the word “Friendship!”
Zizek has been confronted, the smuggled goods are now on display. He answers to the leaflet’s accusations of misogyny, taking a grave tone to defend his position that trauma confuses the accounts of rape survivors, that incoherence should not discredit their testimony as the leaflet wrongly suggests. And he knocks down other critiques just as handily to applause and laughter. But here and there I hear a lone laughter at moments that seem wrong, carrying some kind of inscrutable, disturbing message. At times through the shoddy, echoing audio it sounds like a defeated, traumatized sob.
The smuggler is caught red handed in the open, and he empties his pockets. Inside are all the same old tricks that poke fun at “white liberal antiracism,” a phrase that gets the last big laugh of the night. The emcee Lawler thanks Zizek and ends the talk, but I want more. I still want more and I scrape twitter for every mention of Zizek, but nothing satisfies. I type tweet after tweet trying to wrap my head around the politics, personalities, and power dynamics at play at this mad talk. Kahina and Fivek are the underdogs, the heretics, the ones resisting a pleasant night with a talented and well-loved speaker and they’re raising a great alarm that is so urgent and compelling I want to know more. I have to know. I want to be able to explain it, understand it, and not stick to empty assertions that are so easily laughed off. I am still searching for this smuggled fascism and racism when I come across a pair of tweets from Kahina. I don’t want to believe they’re real. I hope they’re a joke. Kahina makes an admission of white privilege into white supremacy as neat as I’ve ever seen. Just who’s smuggling what, and why is a professional, expert young woman like Fivek with such explicit, strong views to the contrary an attack dog for this kind of white savior junk?
“Tall pale king man wears a dirt costume, my precioussss. Mean, tricksy. Wantses my precioussss but the Baggins has it! Thief! Liar!”
Aragorn struck Sméagol with the back of his hand and tightened the ropes cruelly.
With a screech, Gollum collapsed and wept. “It’s worse to poor Sméagol than Sauron. Gollum, gollum, gollum.”
Aragorn tied a kerchief to his face. “No troll, no rotting orc corpse, no pile of goblin shit on Arda stinks as badly as this worm.” He kicked Gollum.
“It hasn’t smelled the darkness has it, precious? Sméagol knows! Sméagol smells it now! Precioussss. My preciousssss.”
Gollum scampered alongside Aragorn, not tiring at the cruel pace or from starvation. As the black night paled in the first morning light, Aragorn halted, scanning the shadows on the skirts of Fangorn for enemies. Just outside the dense forest, two black riders passed.
“Finds the thief! Kill it!” Gollum shouted to the riders. He informed Aragorn, “It always findses the thief but it never findses Sméagol, does it precioussss? Sméagol knows where to hide. Sméagol hides the precioussss from it forever and then the thief Baggins–” Gollum choked as Aragorn gagged him with the kerchief. Muffled wails of, “Ollum, ollum, ollum” mixed with the fading, galloping hooves.
Aragorn despaired. He’d moved at night through Fangorn, walked backwards over soft ground, crossed the Anduin, put out false trails and even crafted two pairs of false deer feet in failed attempts to shake the riders. Gandalf’s warnings were all but proven true by this supernatural feat alone. That they made no move to kill him only increased his unease.
The words of Sméagol stuck in his conscience as he continued now, ponderously muttering aloud, “This creature is plainly no goblin, but it is twisted by evil in a similar fashion. It was once perhaps good, or at least not evil, but if it truly bore Isildur’s bane and evaded these same pursuers, perhaps–”
Removing the gag from Gollum in this contemplative mood, Aragorn received a deep bite on his hand, which Gollum released at once.
“The Baggins knows. He brings the preciousss to Sauron. It can’t hide, but it can run! Runs to Baggins with its big strides, but not big enough.”
Aragorn rinsed his ragged wound and wrapped it with the kerchief and did not become angry with Gollum. He removed a roll of cloth from his pack. Unfurling the fabric and revealing the shattered ancient sword, he spoke directly to Sméagol, “This is the sword of Isildur that is now mine. The ring was his and is rightfully mine, as well.”
“Precious!” Gollum croaked in recognition at the sword. “Precioussss! Maybe it once had the precious, but it is MINE! My birthday present!” Gollum squinted his lantern eyes and peered at Aragorn, “Maybe what it says is true, Sméagol. Sssssstrange. Will it die soon and become like the others, precious? The tenth? Gollum! Gollum, gollum, gollum.”
Aragorn wrapped the shattered blade and studied Gollum. Had an entire age of Arda passed in relative peace because Isildur’s bane had, by fortune, come to this despicable, evasive creature? His appearance and his speech seemed evil, and yet in deed no other could match Gollum’s good. Where Isildur failed, this creature had triumphed. Aragorn saw plain evidence now that he could never bear the ring, a route to peace only paid for through a will infinitely more enduring than his own.
In a quavering, shaken voice, humbled as if speaking to the great wizard Saruman, Aragorn said, “Tell me of the evil moment when you lost Isildur’s Bane, Sméagol.”
“The thief Baggins cheated Sméagol!” shouted Gollum. He paused, reflecting for a moment, “Baggins told Sméagol a false riddle and stole the precious. He wore the precious to chase and cut Sméagol, but Sméagol hid.” Gollum clenched a fist and swung at the ground. “Thief!”
“How did you come to possess your precious?” Aragorn asked, breathless.
“Tall mens in shiny shiny metals passed through my carrot patch, too tall and proud to stop and speak to little Sméagol. But Sméagol followed them and watched.” Gollum peered at Aragorn, “They were killed by orcses in their sleep. All dead.” Gollum smiled, recollecting past glory, “Ah, Déagol and Sméagol were tricksy and warned everyone about the orcses. We made an ambush. When the hungry orcses came for our sheeps, we were ready in the trees with the metal bows of the dead mens. We shot the orcses when they came, preciousss. All dead. Then Sméagol found precious in the captain’s pocketses. Preciousssss! Sméagol took preciousss because we shot the captain and it was our birthday. So it was the mens’ precious first, eh? Gollum, gollum. But Déagol wanted to steal precious. Everyone wanted to steal precious. Gollum, gollum, gollum. So Sméagol hid for a long time in the dark. Gollum.”
Aragorn blinked, thinking of the story related by Gandalf, as told from the hobbit Bilbo’s perspective, and the haughty histories that told of Isildur’s death. None now had the ring of truth, but rather the feel of twisted fairytales and imaginative fabulation. There must be large omissions, gross mischaracterizations, and fabrications on the largest scale, told in that way so as to avoid the pain and suffering that only the ageless steward and bearer of the ring, Gollum, could express. They were words that no other mortal could utter, and that Aragorn knew now he could never repeat or attest to. Yet he would still complete his task and bring Gollum to the prison in Mirkwood where Gandalf would interrogate him further, even though it was wrong and unnecessary to further persecute Sméagol. But Gandalf must hear it for himself.
Perhaps it was all a devious lie, given this worm by Sauron himself. But if it was false, the lie could only be in the details. Gollum was a mortal burdened with immortality, who had, in spite of his own selfish and mortal intention, prevented, or at the very least postponed more harm than any immortal. And Bilbo? If his tale was the truer one in its details, so what? Had he not, in spite of his good intentions, brought the ring out into the open, as was Sauron’s will? Had there not been a great battle to mark the passing of the ring from Gollum to Bilbo, with far worse consequences yet to pass? No matter what good or evil happened now, there would be death on an epic and ancient scale, long postponed and prevented by the devious works of this vile, stinking creature he’d hunted and hated for sixteen years.
Aragorn looked again for the black riders but saw nothing past traces of daylight filtering in through Fangorn’s mossy canopy. He loosened the ropes and Gollum cackled and danced. “Precioussssss. Precioussss. My Preciousssss thanks it.”
Charlie Hebdo maniacs are busy investigating their own assholes as they’ve advised all terrorists to do before car bombings.
INTERNET — We’ve always loved Charlie Hebdo. But now we hate them. They have taken things exactly one half-comprehending social media outrage explosion too far. That’s why Lebal Drocer, Inc. is dropping out of financing the Charlie Hebdo comic book. We never read it anyway.
When Molly Crabapple turned on them this afternoon after painting loving memorial of the dead splattered in blood, we knew they were bad. Real bad. She, like, speaks Arabic and should know. You don’t just memorialize heroes and then hate them at the first sign of pitchforks unless they’ve fucked up. So far we aren’t sure what they’ve done, but they’ve done it. It’s not the essay, probably, but an offensive choice of a certain metaphor having to do with an iceberg. But we are smart enough to take it all in as a whole as well as divided into its most virally offensive constituents. At Lebal Drocer there are many truths. On the one hand, Charlie Hebdo fiends are calling all Muslims terrorists and rapers just to piss on people with less power than they have. On the other hand, they are incisive satirists who depict and investigate the culture of hate that suffuses the world. How can they be so racist and anti-racist at the same time? A panel of experts are here to weigh in.
Sexpert Dr. Angstrom H. Troubador shared his analysis, saying, “We used to think this kind of ruthless self anal examination had some health and ideology benefits that prevented terrorism, but from the data we now know it was the biggest factor contributing to the terror attack. It is known that the Hebdo cartoonists were shot to death while fisting one another and examining the extra taboo of busting onto Muhammed’s depiction. And now they’re telling Muslims and orientalist liberal ninnies to join in on the blood and cum bath of their brand of self-examination? Lebal Drocer did the right thing, in my opinion.”
ISIS spokesperson Aladdin Ramadan said, “When we shot Charlie Hebdo to death I didn’t think it was their fault. We just knew it was Allah’s will. Now I have read the editorial and I know I will have a lot of second thoughts during my next suicide bombing. But I won’t think too hard because ISIS newspapers showed us the cumstains on their jeans, anal gapes, the manic grins of ecstasy locked onto their dead faces with rigor mortis. Like they died from their own trolling, not from our warriors. As for Lebal Drocer, it won’t bother me too much as long as they keep paying my way. I support their decisions.”
PR frontwoman for the shadowy Lebal Drocer regime, Dr. Danka Painface, said, “The Lebal Drocer board of executives fabricated everything, using drones and robotics to fool the press everywhere into jacking up some anti-Muslim mania. Win-win. Cultivating the hell out of this outrage just to mix things up and fire a few bad apples was the best move in decades. Go ahead and report it all, see who cares. Hell we’re riddled with leakers and it doesn’t make a damn difference.”
Lebal Drocer’s in-house press elite, famed chronicle.su reporter Frank F. Mason and former czar of Severnaya said, “I’ve been on this beat for ten years. I can even read French. It’s the damn truth. All of it.”
Step aside boys, because #ItsHerTurn! Clinton is going GIRL this week with a fresh new look and ALL-NEW attitude!
She’s mighty sick of them lies The Bern’s been a-spreadin’ and Hill is “going ham,” according to one anonymous source among her circle of trust – which Clinton endearingly refers to as her ‘Event Horizon’ – a demarcated point of intimate trust, beyond which there is no escape but death.
“When Birdie Sanders won Alaska and Hawaii, Secretary Clinton vomited bile, squatted down in the floor and, like a dog, scooted around and smeared her own feces across my off-white rug,” the source told Internet Chronicle on Friday.
“Her head swiveled 360 degrees and she was sucked by some mysterious, invisible force up from her throne of human bones, and she was hurtled back-first against a cross. Her clothes exploded into ribbons which tied themselves, as if magically, around her throat and torso, as she shrieked out in Latin…something about souls of the unborn? I don’t know. Mrs. Clinton has a fantastic sense of humor!”
Clinton says she wants to help women take control of their bodies by taking control of their bodies.
“The Planned Parenthood drone strikes are a spectacle. They come down here and abort ISIS fetuses for free, and make Republicans pay for it.” – Muhammad Assad, brown person
Each drone is equipped with a tiny vacuum, and a Cervical Scraping Device™ (CSD, patent pending). It subdues the mother-not-to-be and forcibly extracts the terrorist from her womb before it can grow to the aggressive, adult stage. The drones return to the United States and expel their contents in blood-mist chemtrails across skies over the Midwest, where the nation’s food is grown.
Clinton’s Secretary of State service drone sprays blood mist of forcibly aborted fetuses over the United States. The blood cloud follows Clinton everywhere, because she needs it to survive.
A specialized, smaller drone follows Clinton around personally. It provides her with a personal blood cloud she needs to survive, chew food, and stay lubricated.
Because like a wolf, Clinton’s vagina can sense fear. When she takes off her underwear, her labia unfolds into raw, bloody tendrils that seek to pull in anything nearby. Her tentacles are known to clamp onto hesitant cocks and pull them in, breaking them off at the base, and suck them into her yawning snatch. The reaction is described as entirely involuntary.
“Secretary Clinton’s vagina famously ate a Volkswagen in 2001, salvaged from beneath the wreckage of the September 11 attack on the World Trade Center,” Feinstein said. “The victims were still inside, but that did not stop Madame Secretary from swallowing the vehicle whole into her uterus and later secreting out the unwanted asbestos and rubber. So yeah, she has blood clouds and an autonomous, carnivorous sex organ. It’s her turn.”
Jim Callahan could not answer the rhetorical question.
RICHMOND, Va. – A Richmond man found himself puzzled Tuesday by the question, “whose baby?” when posited by his eccentric uncle.
“He just came out of the bathroom and said it,” Jim Callahan, a Richmond SEO analyst, said. “He said, ‘whose baby?’ And I didn’t know what to say.”
Dr. Angstrom H. Talkenlaut, professor emeritus of linguistics at MIT, said the question goes back to mankind’s earliest communication fundamentals, the call-and-response.
“Whose baby?” – similar to questions, “Whose buddy?” and “Whose boy?” – begs the question, to whom does one belong? That is to say, who is your main man, who is your boy, who is your buddy, and who is your baby? To which the response, in every case, is unanimously, “Yours.” — Dr. Talkenlaut
Callahan recalls that he paused in reflection of the question.
“I thought, ‘Whose baby am I?'” Callahan said. “I just couldn’t answer the question. I asked him, ‘Am I supposed to say ‘yours?'”
Callahan said the uncle laughed and said, “Well, we’re still two pretty good old boys, aren’t we?”
Talkenlaut could not defend the exchange, and went home early. Callahan’s brain exploded, and the uncle proceeded to watch YouTube videos of ‘old sawmills in action,’ and ‘old dirt bikes.’
TORONTO – The infamous former mayor of Toronto, accused of stealing public money to fuel his own crack cocaine addiction, was pronounced ‘alive and healthy’ Sunday by Jeremy Lions, the Ford family doctor, who added, “But I don’t see what the big deal is. Why, did something happen?”
On the front lawn of his home in the suburbs, Ford told supporters, “I appreciate your concern, but don’t act like you care now.”
He paused and looked around at the audience of eager reporters and gawking onlookers. “As long as we’re talking about concerns,” he said, “as far as I’m concerned, you can all go fuck yourselves right here on the street. That’s my position on this matter.”
The Internet exploded into a ticker tape parade for the disgraced leader who, by some prankster trickery, was feared dead. The “Ontario Trump” as he’s called, is a celebrated figure among redditors, who will upvote anything that intensifies the reverberations of their Silicon Valley of Death worshiping echo chamber.
TORONTO – Rob Ford, the former Toronto mayor, died over the weekend after a long battle with “just having an awesome, good time.”
The infamous Toronto mayor actually died painfully from cancer. Ford was a human being whose pain led him to drugs and partying, which was fun – even if the fun was only for himself – and may have led to his early demise.
Listen (or look): I am not going to sit on my internet ass and tell you Rob Ford was a good leader. He wasn’t even a good man. But like so many of us, Ford did not give a fuck to please you or anyone around him. But unlike so many of us, Mayor Ford did not hide his growing contempt for society and family, which you’re all so intent on creating for us. Ford cared, but only in that kind of, “I wish you were all better, but none of us are, so I’m getting fucked up now,” sort of way. I saw him, insane in the eyes and beautifully grotesque, and for once in my life, I could relate to a public official. I could discuss politics.
Who hasn’t been there? You’re at one of those imperceptible milestones – you can’t see it, but you know – this is as good as you’re ever going to do in life, but you’re fucking it up at the same time as you witness previously undiscovered definitions of mediocrity reveal themselves to you.
Some of us handle this with pure rationalism. Others, delusional barking, and lashing out. And some of us, like Mayor Ford, internalize that battle and fight against ourselves, so hateful for the enemy whom everyone knows best – himself. Attacking the problem at the source, we destroy ourselves and maybe a few others along the way. Ford went down in a hateful quiet, fighting cancer while we laughed at his death throes. Drugs and alcohol. His mental illness was hilarious. His death, our punchline.
Don’t you hate it? Kick him out on corruption charges. Since everything is a joke anyway, to Mr. Ford, you had him die alone, as a joke. But who cares? He was corrupt, by any definition of the word. Offensive by every sense.
We saw in Rob Ford what we saw in ourselves. A depraved, emaciated, psychotic animal, clawing its way out, ugly and wet, and reeking of urine. In fact, Rob Ford’s open manner of drug abuse and public freakouts are the two main activities that built this very website, chronicle.su, so here’s to Rob Ford, who died carrying that message to so many people: Thank you.
We have your back, sir. We’ll carry this torch.
“I might look like Robert Ford, but I feel just like Jesse James.”
OH BLEAK, RAINBOW-TINTED POST-APOCALYPTIC IMAGE-DRENCHED MILLENNIALS OF THE WORLD WIDE INTERWEB
Whether ye brand be Bro, Redneck, Hip Hopper, Pill Popper, Punk, Nerd, Hippie, Goth, Fur, Gamer
You are WORTHLESS, and your tuna munching at that important meeting is a disaster for everyone around you!
You’re probably sitting there underemployed, overworked, without benefits, crushed by student loans, and up to your ass in busywork in an office full of older people who just read that story disparaging your generation. They’re all having a chuckle at you right now, aren’t they? This happens at least once or twice a month. They pass these stories around and synchronize a hateful change in their attitudes towards you in the workplace.
Now it’s lunchtime and you feel sudden terror at remembering you packed a tuna sandwich.
MILLENIALS: GO FORTH INTO THE WORLD AND EAT THAT TUNA SANDWICH
Bernie supporters pledge to switch over to Trump if Hillary wins
INTERNET — Despite lies peddled by the Hillary-controlled media, Bernie Sanders still has a very likely chance of winning the primary despite facing nearly impossible odds. However, a recent poll by Quinnipiac showed that 55% of Bernie voters would shift their votes to Trump if given Hillary as the only other choice. Analyst Dr. Angstrom H. Troubador deconstructed the meaning of this statistical finding, saying, “Voting for Hillary in the primaries is over a half a vote given to Trump. End of story.”
Bernie supporters waved the numbers in Hillary supporters’ faces on social media, final mathematical proof of the correctness of voting for Sanders. Some person somewhere posted on Reddit in response to this very story, “No one can deny it. We hold all the power and they have nothing but their fake establishment tricks – and you know what? We don’t want that. Nothing could be worse than that. And we hold Hillary to be equally as conservative as Trump, because she voted for war and there is basically no difference except that Trump is not a part of the establishment. He is at least a political revolution. Things may get worse before they get better, but under Hillary it would be the very end. The bitter, cold end when America is ruined and tech companies like Apple and Facebook have to take the lead. Democracy 2.0 is on its way, and the antiquated slow-paced stuff is out, it’s crumbling before our eyes.”
Famous political blogger Forrest Oldman said, “The American people, we are like the undergrowth in a forest where the soil is wrecked. It’s rootbound with the overgrowth of big trees, corporations. They stand tall, blocking out the sun. For some it is okay, but for most there is no hope in sight. Their lives are precarious and lean, and they will vote for any hope at all, especially false hopes. The old trees talk to them, tell them how to grow, ‘Do not prune us, for you might one day be a giant yourself. Feed on the lead corrupted waters that we won’t, and you will be stronger than we ever were.’ And so they slowly coax the life out of Americans everywhere.”
As a techbro thrillionaire living in Silicon[e] Valley, I can tell you the pussy gets pretty epic. But something I don’t always talk about is how I owe it all to “the big guy upstairs,” Rupert Murdoch, founder of News Corp.
After Vice was quietly purchased by the media mogul publisher of FOX News and The Sun, Rupert Murdoch gradually turned Vice into a clickbait hellhole, and that’s where I come in.
Working as a Vice journalist used to mean something: We were at the bleeding edge of modern journalism, risking our freedom to show you North Korea from the inside, and voyaged into the South American underbelly to reveal scopolamine abuse, an amnesiac, deliriant powder used for mind control. But thanks to Rupert Murdoch, that’s all changed. Since the topiary takeover, I have propelled Vice into viral success using such original ideas as, “What it’s like to drive for Uber,” and “What it’s like to pee sitting down for 30 days: I literally peed sitting down.”
The Topiary Takeover left Rupert Murdoch’s “The Sun” in shambles.
Profits have never been better. We fired investigative journalists in exchange for sit-at-home bloggers, and because we no longer challenge the status quo, sitting editors no longer fear for their lives. It’s win-win! Except instead of bringing you interesting new content, we now guide you in the long tradition of white apology.
I’d like to thank you for your misplaced trust which made us rich and famous and remind you that, yes, Rupert Murdoch really, really does own Vice, and yes, that fact has changed our shitty publication for the worse. But you’re still in college, and you still want to work for us, don’t you. Yes, you do.
Come on in. Murdoch is always hungry for fresh souls.