Staff writer Cess Poole comes close to nearly writing article

Local writer later said “Fuck it”

Cess Poole

Cess Poole makes his living stealing money from people's wallets.

Cess Poole, 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 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, 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 writer. “Frankly though,” said Julius Epstein, attorney, “those of us here at the chronicle expect to see his mugshot on national news within the month.” 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?”

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A strong conviction

Investigative Analysis: The Presstorm Debacle

Drag racing is dangerous. Running from the cops is even more dangerous.

In 2003, Jamie Jo Lambertz-Brinkman wrecked her white Honda into a police cruiser in a drag race gone wrong [1]. She served time for check fraud and hit-and-run before escaping from prison in August of 2004 [2]. One month later, Brinkman and her butch partner were caught in Illinois. This offense carried a mandatory sentence of seven years [3].

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” [4].

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 [5].

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.

The cat that caught the canary?

In 2011, Ms. Brinkman founded, 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[6].

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” [7].

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.

Ava K Lamb Exclusive Report

Gonzo journalist and drug unenthusiast Ava K Lamb reports from the frontlines of your mind’s struggle to comprehend future instances of itself in the not too distant past.

Using the latest in neutrino technology, follow Lamb on a journey through prime numbers, recycling, Johnny Cash and a tractor.

Welcome to Roanoke, Virginia

Roanoke is situated on the Roanoke River, which forms a valley in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Southwest Virginia. The Appalachian trail and the Blue Ridge parkway pass through, bringing in tourists. The Mill Mountain star, a giant neon light, acts as the centerpiece to the city. The historic architecture of the downtown area is quite charming, especially the Hotel Roanoke’s Tudorbethan styling and the Gothic spires of St. Andrew’s church. The newly built $66-million Taubman Museum of Art features modern design reminiscent of the Sydney Opera House and is home to over 2,000 works of art. Roanoke has also spent $32-million on a recreation center, convenient to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Nearly $8-million was spent renovating the City Market building, at which point most of the old food vendors were driven out by an increase in rent. Over $35-million will be spent to widen a stretch of road which is less than one mile in length.

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.

Roanoke does not seem to value its natural beauty, either. Plans to allow a Chicago firm to place a wind farm on Poor Mountain have been met with defiance from nearby residents, but the County Council has continued to pave the way for corporate interests by loosening restrictions on the placement of the turbines. Although the majority of Roanoke approves of the wind farm, opponents are concerned the farm will destroy the area’s natural beauty and kill hundreds of thousands of birds and bats.

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.

Local man touches dick

Sources report great pleasure.

everybody’s afraid to use the chronicle
But I’m not

would you fuck me? yeah? you would. you’d fuck this. you’d fuck #oldbrutus

i know you would. i am touching my dick right now. I’m touch ing you. through this website.


Police chief hunts down cyberterror cartoonist

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.”

America Finally Closes Its Borders

Close Borders NowCasa 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.

America finally closes its Borders

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.

Good Old Fashioned Hate Rally

The only thing these rednecks hate more than non-whites is reading books.

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!”


Internet "Not Anonymous Enough" for CHRONICLE Writer Old Brutus

Ol’ B

In a trend that appears to be sweeping the Chronicle.SU, resident columnist and editor Old Brutus has reportedly snubbed fame and left the Internet, saying true anonymity can not be achieved online. “Fuck that NSA Octopus,” he said.

Fuck that NSA Octopus!

-Old Brutus

But anonymity is not the mysterious writer’s only motivation for leaving the Web in exchange for newspapers.

Old Brutus, who recently discovered the Deepnet, or Dark Net, shut down his laptop Tuesday, saying, “That’s it. I’ve seen the entire Internet. I’m done.”

When asked what he plans to do in the absence of 4chan and its bottomless supply of jailbait, Old Brutus told the Chronicle this:

There ain’t shit out there for me that I ain’t already seen. Child porn? Hell, I was havin’ sex before I knew what sex was. My best friend had to tell me what me and his sister had just done together. Bomb-manufacturing? Shit, the Anarchist Handbook is just copied and pasted from the annals of Chronicle.SU! DRUGS AND BITCOINS? NIGGA, I HELPED APPERSON ‘N PICKARD MAKE THE WORLD’S SUPPLY OF LYSERGIC ACID DIETHYLAMIDE OUT OF AN ABANDONED MISSILE SOLO TILL TWINNY OT FO’!”

Indeed, Old Brutus is a man of many worlds whose “dick don’t never go down.” Sources indicate he has regressed to the use of a 1972 IBM Selectric typewriter and pleasures himself via phone sex while looking through a window into his neighbor’s yard.

Old Brutus can be found busking on the streets of Asheville, North Carolina, like a bum, for marijuana and dollar bills – or whatever you will give him. Toenail clippings and old receipts have uses, he said, but refused to go into detail about what those uses may be.

The Chronicle remains staffed largely by psy-operatives and cyber-intelligence officials who hate your freedom. Our CIA-enhanced pseudo-intellectual framework of satirical propagandist innuendo promises to continue subverting your ideology and feeding upon the very fears which we nurture inside each and every one of you. Now read. It’s okay. Read.

Loving endorsements from the omnipotent Lebal Drocer, Inc. ensure that the Chronicle will never die, but in fact absorb all weaker publications, such as, and Roanoke Revolution.

In related news, Lebal Drocer, Inc. is proud to announce its acquisition of roanoke revolution dot com. We hope you will enjoy the bland mediocrity of a culture where depth is only a measurement of the polluted river upon which it was founded.

Tennessee Man: "I once punctuated a whole sentence"

Jacob Tamme is a TIGHT PUSSY
Harold Buckhauer, punctuated a sentence one time

Nashville, Tenn.–An area Titans fan made headlines Sunday when he held up a sign reading “Jacob Tamme is a tight pussy” at a home game against the Indianapolis Colts in LP Field.

Jacob Tamme plays tight end for the Indianapolis Colts, and rejects all assertions that he is a human vagina “of any elasticity or resistance.”

Harold Buckhauer, 30, held the sign up high for at least three hours, chanting the slogan. He was beloved by his neighboring spectators, and even hailed as a hero by one man who said he believes Buckhauer’s message “needed to be said.” The man reportedly purchased Buckhauer three beers to provoke more outlandish drunken behavior, such as singing with one foot up on the back of the chair in front of him, a claim he denies.

Language scholars have jumped on the sensation to condemn the Tennessee Titans enthusiast for his gross lack of punctuation that leaders claim “contradicts” the presentation of the man’s clever idea in the context of his drunkenly-constructed sign.

Buckhauer, a plumber of 10 years’ experience, defended himself, saying, “I once punctuated a whole sentence,” but intimated his distrust of “funny” characters on a page, saying he doesn’t know why it exists anyway.

“Harold-Hymen ain’t never used no hyphen.”

When questioned about a rare, documented instance where Buckhauer attempted punctuation, he failed to recall whether it was a period or an exclamation mark he used, because memory of his mistake was immediately overshadowed by the “distinct” memory of his friends using a rhyming female anatomical word to describe him as “Harold-Hymen, who ain’t never used no hyphen.”

A string of Google searches reveals the “punctuation” to which Buckhauer referred was used on a wrestling forum, and was not punctuation at all, but capitalization. In 2009, Buckhauer wrote, “batista is purdy good but he aint gt shit on the Edge”

Cecil Dillard, pastor of Midrow Baptist Church defended Harold Buckhauer’s lifestyle, devoid of punctuation, saying, “Harry’s a trustworthy, God-fearing American who don’t need no punctuation because it ain’t holy. Punctuation is misleading, saying things that letters don’t. Now do you want your kids to read punctuation, or do you want ’em reading the truth?” he asked, tapping the Bible.

This message is brought to you by Lebal Drocer, and:

“Now do you want your kids to read punctuation, or do you want ’em reading the truth?”

-Cecil Dillard, Pastor