I knew Old Man Charlie from the days of my youth on Poor Mountain. That old man mostly kept to himself, but when I’d see him walking around on the mountain, he’d talk my ear off. Charlie told a lot of stories, but the ones that always got him worked up the most were the stories of what he called “dem saclones.” Charlie spent a lot of time walking the ridge of Poor Mountain, just to pass the time, but I always liked to ask him about dem saclones.
From what the old man told me, I gathered that he had been experiencing some kind of ultra-rare meteorological phenomenon that may be unique to Poor Mountain. It’s hard for me to go into any detail, but Charlie described clouds quickly forming very close to the ground, twisting like a cyclone. Within the course of a few minutes, an extremely small area would be pelted with up to quarter-sized hail. Sometimes the hail would be smaller, and the affected area could be as large as a house or as small as a frisbee.
Honestly, I never believed that old man. After he died, I wondered a little about Charlie’s stories and eventually researched some information on the internet. I learned that it’s possible “dem saclones” were also called Microstorms. No one on the internet seemed to have seen these vicious kind of tornadic hail Microstorms, and I tried contacting a few meteorologists. None of them seemed to believe the stories from Charlie, and just said that Microstorms were not proven science. However, Poor Mountain surely has great importance as a possible meteorological oddity.
Poor Mountain is located in Roanoke, Virginia, and is currently under threat of industrial development for wind power. Help us, Anonymous. Hack our government into submission for Old Man Charlie and his crazy cyclones. They’re probably real, and when those wind turbines go up, the Microstorms may disappear forever. Have you ever seen what happens when a wind turbine gets pelted with an intense cyclone full of quarter-size hail? Mayhem. Pure mayhem is coming to Poor Mountain if this wind farm is approved. STOP THEM NOW.
Chronicle HQ, Bolivia– Chronicle.su, or The Elf Wax Phoenix which arose from the burning flames of a better website, is celebrating Chronicle Day, the journal’s Holy Day of Praise. Dubbed C-Day, the annual holiday is a special time when throngs of teenage women thrust themselves into the iron gates of Lebal Drocer, Inc.
As salmon casting their bodies upstream, tides of fresh young women offer themselves in sacrifice to Veritus, God of Truth, eagerly vying to feed his demands. Seeking a cut of the criminal activity – and Bolivian cocaine – thought to be horded deep within Chronicle Mountain, many of these women have attained super bitch powers granting them the means to cast off their skin as dead ringers, and hunt us in the 4th dimension.
At sundown, a robed figure approached the electronic security gate, allowing a harem of six young women inside, most of them legal. Fifteen minutes later, the girls are presumed missing.
Found inside are thought to be all manner of freedoms, some of them American.
“I think they’re holed up in there doing drugs,” said Chief Daniel Spoktane of an unnamed paramilitary force, whose agents are stretched thin around the 14 kilometer electrified perimeter of Chronicle.su. “And I think there’s a pretty good chance they could be having fun.”
Chief Spoktane indicated plans to subjugate the website by individually arresting each member of chronicle.su one by one.
“We aren’t sure what they owe on a volcanic base like this,” he said, “but the banks have already foreclosed on it so we’re here to bag ’em up and ship ’em out.”
Most official chronicle.su business takes place inside a fortified safe room through which authorities will have to cut open, like a bunch of n00b construction workers; that is, assuming spies don’t sap our sentries, in which case we’re fucked.
CHRONICLE.SU – TASTE THE LIGHTNING
At chronicle.su we take our jobs seriously.
One glance at our track record will tell you we mean business.
“Fucking criminal-ass bitches, and telling you the truth.”
Cess Poole, chronicle.su writer, expressed wishes Sunday to produce new material. Almost immediately, however, the young penman changed his mind.
“He was like, ‘Fuck it,'” said fellow writer and chronicle.su editor Frank Mason.
With mounting debt, a sick girlfriend and hungry children at his feet, Poole has long been in a slump he can only describe as “inescapable.”
“It’s like, all the pressures of life are just fucking me up lately,” said Poole. “It’s like, I don’t care about nothing man. And it feels like I never will.”
The change of heart, Poole clarified, was not spurred on by a reported decline in marijuana abuse. To the contrary, the father of one and a half has only been clean for two days short of a work week. “And to be fair,” he said, “that’s a record.”
Instead, sources believe a source of creativity within Poole may simply have never existed at all.
“There’s just nothing there to nurture,” reported Mike Satton, chronicle.su social analyst and young talent scout for the publication. “I mean, if he did something besides spend other people’s money and playing with his prick all day, then yeah, you might have something to work with. But this is nuttin’. Nuttin’!”
Where Poole might end up next is anyone’s guess. Possible locations according to Poole include jail, his mother’s house, or face down in a ditch somewhere near his father’s home.
For the hottest most up-to-date information on Cess Poole, check the police blotter in your local newspaper or ask your drug dealer.
Chronicle lawyers speaking candidly on the matter showed little faith in the future well-being of the estranged chronicle.su writer. “Frankly though,” said Julius Epstein, chronicle.su attorney, “those of us here at the chronicle expect to see his mugshot on national news within the month.”
Chronicle.su lawyers are accustomed to bailing writers out of jail, but with an increase in legal trouble, combined with lack of contributions, editors for the first time ever are considering dropping Cess Poole from their services permanently.
“He’s a drag. And he’s always making everyone uncomfortable, offering us speed during business meetings. Selling me weed in my bosses’ offices. And I don’t even know how to react anymore when he tells me his children are hungry. Where does all that drug money go?”
This message is brought to you selflessly by Lebal Drocer, Inc.
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In 2003, Jamie Jo Lambertz-Brinkman wrecked her white Honda into a police cruiser in a drag race gone wrong . She served time for check fraud and hit-and-run before escaping from prison in August of 2004 . One month later, Brinkman and her butch partner were caught in Illinois. This offense carried a mandatory sentence of seven years .
Ever the freedom fighter, Ms. Brinkman later sued the South Dakota Department of Corrections for denying her Haldol, a prescription she had taken for “bipolar disorder, mood disorder, anti-social disorder and personality disorder” .
Ms. Brinkman explained on Red List Radio, “When I was 13, I was being abused and I started running away from home.” At the age of 14, she was sent to a boot camp where she claims she was also abused. She claims to have purposefully stayed at the boot camp for nearly five years in order to avoid abuse at home .
At the age of 30, Ms. Brinkman has spent over one third of her life institutionalized in correctional facilities. She has committed fraud, escaped prison and recklessly endangered the lives of innocent people who just wanted to go for a drive.
In 2011, Ms. Brinkman founded Presstorm.com, a blog devoted to what she called “investigative journalism.” She became a fixture within Anonymous, associating with hackers and attempting to influence their behavior through opinion pieces disguised as journalism. Inevitably, her schemes were laid bare by her own mistakes.
Presstorm came under repeated DDoS attacks after Ms. Brinkman posted a story which was critical of Occupy Wall Street. Former Presstorm supporters and writers did not offer her any support, instead laughing at her folly.
Ms. Brinkman has responded to the attacks by threatening to reveal the identities of those who donated to Presstorm and other contacts she made within Anonymous. She has also stated that the intentions of Presstorm were disingenuous and part of a psychological experiment which went exactly as she expected. Perhaps she has not been taking her Haldol.
Despite her illustrious past, Ms. Brinkman has attempted to chastise Anonymous for breaking the law. ” It wasn’t hard to know that what these children (or so it seemed were children!) were doing more harm to society than they were good. Like any juvenile delinquent, we felt that a little exposure would certainly shut them down.” She adds, taking the moral high ground, “We sincerely hope that we accomplished multiple levels of soul seeking, critical thought, and moral objection to one’s own behavior in the process” .
The Presstorm Debacle has served as an important lesson for Anonymous. Intentionally manipulative criminals are drawn to power and influence. Jamie Jo Lambertz-Brinkman created a cult of influence by playing on the high emotions in the wake of the WikiLeaks scandal and pathologically exercised what little power she gained. Like her Honda, Ms. Brinkman took Presstorm for a joyride that could only end in one way.
In the past few years, Roanoke has seemingly had its hands on more money than it can spend. The building projects are a sign that Roanoke is doing well. Still, corners have been cut. Glaring problems have been ignored. Childhood memories have been destroyed. Roanoke’s Explore Park, a living museum and window into history, was closed in 2007. The Explore Park was a truly charming destination where visitors stepped back in time to a working blacksmith forge, a native village, and all the trappings of the colonial era.
Despite all the extravagant construction projects designed to attract tourists and line the pockets of building contractors, Roanoke has shown some small appreciation for natural beauty. Roanoke’s greenway has provided a bike trail along the beautiful Roanoke River which has become an instant hit with Roanokers. Development of the greenway has not, perhaps, drawn enough attention to the abysmal state of the Roanoke River. Although the river is filled with litter, industrial equipment and sewage, Roanoke does not seem interested in spending its dime on cleaning things up.
Roanoke spends a lot of money on cockamamy schemes to draw in tourists and preserving natural beauty is, at best, an afterthought.
RENTON, Wash. — Cartoons depicting corrupt behavior of the Renton City Police Department have sparked a criminal investigation and scandal among locals. However, Chief of Police Kevin Milosevich has called off all official investigations, opting instead for guidance from McCarthy-era Secret Police.
Snitches close to Milosevich indicate the Chief altered his strategy because of a surge in public sympathy for the anonymous cartoonist, known only as Mr. FiddleSticks.
Milosevich’s close friend and spiritual adviser Lorraine McWorth told sources the Police Chief was desperately attempting to underplay the negative image of wildly corrupt law enforcement while simultaneously embracing its proven effectiveness.
“He’s taking a Gestapo-like approach to the investigation, now. Threatening phone calls, letter-bombs and kidnappings are sure to get his point across where traditional methods were failing. When he gets his guy, no one will ever know. Mr. Fiddlesticks will just disappear.”
Casa Grande, Ariz.– The predominantly white inhabitants of suburban Casa Grande paraded through the streets Friday celebrating the announcement of the closing of all the Borders in the country.
Shortly before the announcement, leader of the White Brotherhood Southern Arizona Chapter Harold Smith heard rumors of Borders closing. Harold gathered his people together in a Border’s bookstore parking lot at the mall – because it is a good place to meet, he said, and they have plenty of parking today for some reason.
Harold stood on the tailgate of his pickup truck in front of a jubilant crowd at their Patriot Rally and declared, “We will finally be free from the sub-human scum a the earth – who push our health care costs higher. I mean, shit. I might not go to the dentist, but bitch, these cheeseburgers ain’t doin’ my heart no favors!” The crowd laughed and applauded.
“He’s too much!” guffawed Stevie Hargrove, 40, a toothless overalls-clad spot-welder from Tucson. Stevie clapped at every opportunity, beaming a gummy smile up to his leader, squinting through matted, sweaty hair into Harold’s silhouette against the sun.
Harold continued. “And I ain’t got no insurance because Obama wanted to force me to get it and how d’you think he’s gonna pay for that? Nigger was gon’ tax the wealthy to pay for it, that’s how; so I don’t even fucken want it!” The crowd again erupted into a frenzy of whistles and cheers just as a vein burst in Harold’s forehead, spraying crimson hate into the yawning mouths and down the throats of onlooking slack-jawed hillbillies whose thirst for identity only grew drier under the bottomless black ocean of beer-soaked convictions swirling unseen in Harold’s cold, beady eyes. A rainbow formed under the blood mist spewing forth from the man’s skull, and at the end of it sat a Confederate flag, perched in the grass, with a little sticker on its miniature flagpole that read, “Made in China.”
“And that brown uncivilized scum who keeps minimum wages artificially high by taking low pay for jobs that was originally intended for everyday Americans like me and Bo! Jobs like mopping up coffee shops, unloadin’ book trucks and washing the walls inside a the killhouses.”
At that, Smith’s crowd of white nationalists almost did not hear the news update over the ruckus of their own hate-filled fervor, as some frothed at the mouth and fell to their knees, speaking in tongues. But for those who could read, the closed captioning on the JumboTron News Report said everything [if it said anything].
A fictitious TV news program that actually broadcasts real news reported:
Because of mismanagement and glaring lack of foresight, Borders Bookstores all across America are shutting down permanently. Infamous for carrying only mainstream authors, and notorious for grossly overestimating the number of orange people willing to read Snooki’s biography – Border’s Inc. lowered literary standards faster than anyone could possibly write a book about it. Yet, here you are celebrating your racism underneath a giant flat-screen TV. Don’t act like you’re upset. Nothing changed. You don’t even read.
Dumbfounded mouth-breathers all across America stood solemnly, Budweiser in hand, making not a sound. For two minutes they stood, reflecting on their own hatred; but hatred of what, exactly, became unclear. A small child clutching a teddy bear to her chest tugged at her mother’s dress. “Mummy? You mean they ain’t relocatin’ dem filtty wetbacks?” But her mother was too grief-stricken to answer.
Quietly they to stood until local pig farmer Jerry Pritchard, 48, broke the silence.
“Well,” Jerry started. “I hate books, too. I mean, shit. I like the Bible! Hell, who doesn’t. But you guys know what I mean. I mean, fucken … books, man.” Jerry’s detestation was met with groans of agreement, though many people were still visibly confused by the notion of a store specializing in the sale of bound paper.
Jerry licked his lips, picked up his courage and spoke again. “You guys still wanna…” Jerry clasped his hands together behind his back and toed a boot in a wide arc in the sand. “…Still wanna drag somebody behind my truck?”
The crowd again frothed and wriggled through the congregation of pickup trucks toward Jerry’s truck, chanting U-S-A and someone came up with “George Snorwell” which was repeated several times from within the group. Only the intellectual rednecks who got the reference laughed. The others just went along with it.
“But before we go,” Jerry continued, “I want to stop by Borders’ clearance sale. Larry th’Cable Guy’s thing is 40% off!”