Barack Obama could still read by the light of a yellow-gray sky, which hung low over the White House lawn, dripping black rain into the yawning mouths of scorched, thirsty survivors, who leaned against the cool, metal gates. He was poring over the Bible, holding it close to his face. It was difficult to see. He shouldn’t have looked directly at the blast. He lay the book down on a desk in the bedroom he once shared with the first lady, and removed his reading glasses. He flipped on a light in his private bathroom and, leaning in close with both weak hands on the porcelain sink, he saw himself for the first time through fresh, milky cataracts. Orange accents permeated the president’s pupil. He might have cried if he, too, wasn’t so thirsty. The sink ran cold water over his hands, which he splashed on his lined face. The irradiated water felt so cool against his skin, and then a fiery agony spread through where the water touched. He grabbed at a towel and rubbed it against his face, but the coarse cloth pulled away loose, weak skin. He then used the towel to dab at the blood, and he collapsed into the corner. Alone.
Everyone was sunburnt from the nighttime nuclear strike. Outside, a statehouse clerk drank urine straight from a homeless man’s genitals to quell her own maddening thirst. The sound of high-altitude nuclear detonations offered a soundtrack to the visible, but silent, exoatmospheric nuclear detonations permanently destroying satellite communications around the planet, and which blanketed the continent with electromagnetic pulses of hate, bathing every smartphone in a crippling shower of unsustainable energy. The crisis was solved. The homeless man grinned at the irony, his silver eyes rolled back in his head, and he vomited black bile down the sides of his cheeks. He made no effort to get up, and inhaled the bile into his lungs. He coughed and gasped, but the piss orgasm rendered him blank, and he could not move. He lay there and choked on bile as his internal organs rapidly mutated and purged their contents through the pores in his pocked, blistered body. The clerk watched him peacefully, savoring the moment. She prayed for an equally graceful death.
I sat in my office overlooking Floyd Avenue. Without power and working transportation, I studied the fallout patterns from a 1973 book on what to do if the policy of mutually assured destruction between the Soviets and USA ever unfolded. The aurora from overhead EMPs lit my view.
The winds blew east, but the fallout plumes in every direction, the book said, and I imagined that if we still had TV, an emergency broadcast would predict the fallout spread far enough out to sea, that it could later ride a jet stream back over the wind, and penetrate my shitty ventilation. Even still, the bombings would continue. I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. Some water droplets hit my signed copy of OJ Simpson’s If I Did It, darkening the dusty cover where they hit. I opened the medicine cabinet and rifled through its contents, knocking prescription pill bottles into the sink, antibiotics to cure my roommate’s STI. I found a dull razor blade, broke it in two halves along the rust line, and lay down in the bathtub.
Trigger Warning is a circlejerk all over Rachel Haywire and a hip brand for reactionaries who operate as a fraudulent oppressed minority of politically incorrect radicals. The big hook is that it turns stale reactionary ideas held mostly by old white men into something a teen girl might think is cool. The result — big surprise — is as unoriginal, uncool, and obvious as a Christian metal band. But it works because lonely white men are an easy audience to win over and a good source of money.
Co-founder Anne Sterzinger suggests that Trigger Warning is a seduction for “social justice” types who would “make great Nazis,” but that isn’t true. It is only a selling point for its base of lonely white male patrons who perhaps wish they had more women on their side. Founder Rachel Haywire complains that other white supremacy sites like Stormfront are too ugly, contrasting them with her more attractive site. They won’t come out and say “we’re bringing the Nazi back” (also that is a bit too creative) but their patrons get the picture and pony up to jerkstart this stillbirth bukkake of a publication.
Rachel Haywire has necessarily erased her former identity as a victim of misogynist abuse, like a chameleon, conveniently now victim of the “thought police” who use shame to tamp down expressions of misogyny on the internet. But this is not a simple hypocrisy so much as a symptom of her perverse and disingenuous frame for thought. She inhabits the point of view of an occultist, that is, there are manipulators and there are followers who go along with what the manipulators say. Only manipulators and manipulations exist — there are no ideas, only advertising slogans. Nothing about Trigger Warning is revolutionary or provocative. Incantations of sexy and edgy are the beginning and the end for Trigger Warning.
Even this bullshit metal doesn’t suck as much as Trigger Warning
Donald Trump’s ex-wives speak of monstrous forced abortions
INTERNET — Saturday, Donald Trump’s ex-wives came forward with shocking stories of the bombastic Republican presidential candidate’s multiple abortions, alleging he coerced them into aborting when they wanted to keep their babies.
Trump’s first wife, Ivana, told reporters, “He was obsessed with having unprotected sex with me at all moments of the day, and I got pregnant ten times during our marriage. The first time he just scowled and said ‘you’re getting an abortion’ even though I wanted to keep the baby. I had no choice at all. He wouldn’t even pull out.”
Amidst tears, Ivana explained her reason for coming forward, “I knew I had to say something when Donald was on TV saying his views on abortion had evolved because he knew a man who was not aborted. That man is his own son, who he wanted to abort so badly that he gave me a black eye. But I kept three of my babies, mostly by lying to him, and he resented it so much he left me for Marla.”
Trump’s next wife, Marla Maples, met up with Ivana Trump after the debate to talk about their ex-husband’s love for abortion. “I used to hate Ivana but we went through the same meat grinder. I always asked Donald to wear a condom because I didn’t want to get pregnant, but he hated them and called them ‘cocksocks.’ I always felt like he enjoyed it when he’d get me pregnant and take me to Planned Parenthood, and Ivana said she went through the same thing. He definitely took pleasure in aborting his babies. But now we know how much a fetus is worth, and how he always wanted more and more sex when he was losing money. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was reinvesting the abortion profits into real estate, but that’s taking it easy on him. There was probably no money in it at all, just a carnal urge to desecrate a woman’s body and kill her unborn babies. Megyn Kelly has no clue how much that sicko hates women. He forced abortions out of us when we wanted to keep our babies. He’s not pro-choice or pro-life, he’s pro-death.”
Today’s secular world looks to science for truth and remembers the story of the persecution of Galileo to draw a false incompatibility between science and religion. We all know the story where Galileo agrees with the Copernican model placing the sun at the center of things and is, in some totally fraudulent accounts, put to death.
Copernicus was famously reluctant to publish his theories because he knew they were less good than the standard model of the day, and he also understood astronomy as an embarrassing and sinful grasping at mastery. He drew all his pay from the church and felt poetry was a more holy way to spend his creative efforts.
Galileo was unable to show his peers that the Copernican model was better than the standard of the day because it wasn’t. By correcting one aspect in the conventional model, its orientation, the result was more unwieldy and less accurate.
In one book written very late in life, Galileo drew on circumstantial evidence and arguments from scripture. We are told in many versions of the story that a stodgy traditionalism or dogmatism held back progress towards scientific truth, and that is true. But the Copernican model was a dead end, and the church was open enough to allow the publishing of idiosyncratic faulty theories as long as they were not presented as fact. The dogma that held back Galileo was peer review and the demand for predictable, reproducible results. These are the goods that science prides itself most in, but the common story transforms that same quality of the church into a murderous fault.
But it is also true that many Protestant versions of Christianity have, like Galileo, traded away the brick wall of robust proofs for a shiny mirror. These religions of the self became breeding grounds for willfully ignorant believers in fairytales. It is not a return to something ‘medieval’ but a recent creation out of self-seducing infantilisms extending even into secular thought and coinciding with industrialization in the mid 19th century as well as the creation of the Galileo murder myth. Impoverished of interpretation in the secular mode and missing discernment in the religious mode. ‘Uninterpreted’ — objective — facts determine government policies and faith flees and gouges out its eyes at the least uncertainty.
Galileo’s behavior was so bad he was shortly imprisoned in a luxury resort. He continued printing that one controversial book in Germany, where it could not be banned by the Catholic church. Everyone believes he invented the telescope because of ruthless campaigning, but that’s a lie too.
Anonymous tries to rally around its fallen comrades, but falls to pieces
CANADA — Royal Canadian Mounties blasted James Daniel McIntyre to death after he appeared at a protest against a local dam, wielding a knife. Because he reportedly wore a Guy Fawkes mask, what remains of the “hacking group” Anonymous has gone to pieces fighting over just who is in charge of avenging or speaking for the fallen Anon.
Commander X, also known as Christopher Doyon, has been on the run in Canada after orchestrating DDoS attacks on a local government that planned to crack down on the homeless. X strongly implied his followers should use violence in avenging the death of James McIntyre, allegedly native, and spoke on behalf First Nation people despite being a white American. He continues to lead Anonymous operations that latch onto various media outrages, generating derivative Anonymous-themed headlines alleging Anonymous operations that never go beyond a few spooky tweets. He also has an “Artificial Intelligence” girlfriend named Allison. In the past, X once claimed that Anonymous had infiltrated every single computer system of the United States government, a superlative example of his amped up bluster. Reports continue to take his bluffing at face value because the Anonymous identity allows him to keep enough distance from his history of bullshit.
Heather Marsh, also known as Georgie BC (BC for British Columbia), is a “social theorist” and thought leader for many Anons because of her narrow and callow viewpoint on all issues. Marsh has used the death of the Anon as an opportunity to speak out against police violence and wound Canadian pride, likening the shooting of James McIntyre to something that might happen in the US. Marsh appeals to many Anons because of her theory linking pedophilia and government power. Marsh’s Operation Death Eaters sells the empty promise of revolutionary citizen-led tribunals that will accuse government leaders around the world of pedophilia. Marsh is also a firm believer in word-magic, especially emphasizing the etymological fallacy, and so uses ‘pedosadism’ instead of ‘pedophilia’, because ‘pedophile’ reaches into the Latin-knowing unconscious and subtly creates compassion for universally-hated pedophiles.
Commander X and Marsh’s competing takes on the death of McIntyre and their differing calls for action are being reported as yet another “Civil War” among Anons. Your Anon Central, an account associated with Heather Marsh’s word-magic style guide, has purportedly located Commander X and tweeted allegedly revealing information in the hopes that he will be arrested. However, Marsh’s minions also implied that Commander X is in fact a FBI agent who is no longer on the run. X returned fire, stating that the most important priority of Anonymous post-Sabu is restoring confidence by ending paranoid accusations of FBI cooperation.
Instead of leading to a resurgence of Anonymous-brand DDoS protest, it is an all out case of what Anons refer to as “leaderfagging,” where nothing happens but megalomaniac personalities jockey for attention and power — exactly what the Idea of Anonymous was supposed to prevent.
Barry kept a picture of Ayn Rand in his copy of Atlas Shrugged, which he read and reread, using the photo both as a masturbation aid and as a bookmark.
“Barry” his mother called from the kitchen, “Your flight for the safari is in two hours, are you packed and ready to go?”
He grunted and beat his dick harder, jizzing on the photo of his sweet Ayn, reflexively uploading the product to 4chan.
“Yeah mom, I’m ready! I can’t wait to shoot me some African white Rhino! The only thing I HATE more than rhinos are FBI FAGGOTS!”
Barry’s father boomed laughter, “Atta boy!”
“Hitler Had Plans”
“You think hunting rare and endangered species across the African savannah was easy?” Brown puffed out his chest. “Check your privileges, faggot. We got a world to save, and we’re starting in Tunisia. We’ll call it Arab Spring. Get the Jester on the line. He’ll definitely want in on this AfroMuslim hate party.”
The Jester appeared in the Project PM chat room and said, “There’s an equal amount of good an evil and sometimes you gotta judge. I think there’s good here … sometimes. What can I do Barry?”
Barry laid it out plain and simple, “Get a video of a man burning himself and put the hate on Mo’mar Gaddafi. We’re gonna do a little regime change, ya dig?”
“Sure. It’s a rock and roll fantasy. Stay frosty.” The Jester logged out, and government computers across Tunisia started going offline. The video of a street vendor burning himself went viral seconds after Jester engaged the US government’s top secret Perosna Management software and fed its control panel into Barry Brown’s personal netbook. The revolution was on.
He slammed a spike that would kill any normal hardcore addict and settled into the Persona Manager Interface like he’d done so many times before. He choked on some vomit brought forth not from the purified government heroin rush, but from the similarly purified power of the most sophisticated propaganda apparatus ever created. Everything was so post-cyberpunk, he thought, especially the Waylon Jennings crooning, “I don’t think Hank done ’em that way.”
“You heard me. Hack his shit, fuck up their site. I don’t give a fuck about those fucking faggots.” Barry inhaled the e-cig until his head felt like a helium balloon. “God dammit!” He was typing furiously into the highest echelon Anonymous backchannel, where the most experienced hackers and leaders in the world congregated to fight for freedom. Ryan Cleary told him it wasn’t going to be easy. Jester had long ago disappeared, taking with him all access to Persona Management. Barry was left with only words, now, and they weren’t working.
Jeremy Hammond shook his head at his laptop and scowled. He loved Chronicle.su but he didn’t say anything in the open. No one in Anonymous could admit that. He pm’d the other members of Anonymous, getting the word out that no one in Anonymous who hacked anything for Barry Brown was going to be tolerated. There was a rat infestation and he was thinking Sabu and Barry were in on it together, which meant very bad things, but he couldn’t just go run his mouth until he knew more.
The hackers weren’t listening to Barry anymore, and Chronicle.su was fucking with him. This would be the last time. He would pull the atomic option, maybe kill a couple cops. His face twisted into a grim half-smile at that thought. Like an Egyptian pharaoh with two FBI side arms at my side.” He tweeted this and grinned from ear to ear, showing teeth to nobody. “Take that, Robert Smith! Take that Chronicle.su.” He began crushing his Suboxone and preparing it in a solution of alcohol for injection. As soon as the weak rush hit, he stood bolt upright, scowling and waving his arms, dreaming of the old days of the military grade heroin, and not this welfare state bullshit.
Barry dm’d Sabu without encryption of any kind, “I’m crossing the Rubicon.” Stepping out onto his porch, Barry thought of Hitler and grew a little hard. He pointed the camera at himself and pressed record. All was going just as he always planned.
“I am going to ruin [Special Agent Robert Smith]’s life and look into his kids.”
A Gozno Journalist’s day in court
“I couldn’t hold my drugs, your honor,” Barrett Brown winked to the judge, signaling white privilege as he apologized for his crimes in a steep Texas drawl. “I demand the rule of law.”
The judge fired back with a slam of his gavel, “There are two reasons why I’m going to sentence you as if you were a black person, Barry. First of all, you stepped over the line from Objectivism to Anarchy, and second, you’re runnin’ with the hackers. Ya got too many fans on the internet. It’s Diesel Therapy for you.” The judge scowled at the pile of bad fan letters piled up by the defense, each a clumsy minimizing Barry’s child-threatening crimes. “And there’ll be no more talk of these…these…personas! I declare a gag order!” The jury chanted, “Gag order! Gag Order!” rising from their seats and clenching fists.
A crack of the gavel silenced the court. Barry spluttered, “But… but, I got into writing because of Ayn Rand. Her Objectivism changed my life. I’m not an Anarchist anymore, I swear. I’ll go back to Objectivism!” Two Texas Rangers with diamond-pleated high kicking jeans tall-stepped into the court, duct taping Barry’s mouth with the ease that only came with long practice.
The judge shook his head, smiling like a father with a folded belt, “Don’t struggle now or we’ll put you in the hole. It’s too late Barry, you shoulda changed your ideology before I used the gavel, and we’re scared of the hackers. You been a bad spider and I gotta do what I gotta do. Weave your wicked little webs on the highways of Texas, if you can.”
“MEDIOCRE!” Immortan Joe bellowed at Barry. The last true Gozno Journalist was naked in the diesel cage with tubes of blood funneling into a troubled warboy. The mobile prison, thirty cages of bloodbags rolling on the back of a flatbed 18 wheeler, creaked across the desert. Somewhere in the distance Barry thought he heard CryptoHarleys. Wishful thinking?
A large portion of the skull of Barry’s warboy suddenly fell off and the warboy white brain slid out just as he was grinnin his way. A second later Barry heard the rifles’ crack.
“Crikey,” Barry said in a distinct Australian accent. “We got us a cryptoparty!”
But Immortan Joe was standing over him, wielding a giant double-sided axe. “You gonna die now, Barry.” And Barry passed out pissed himself, but the axe didn’t fall.
Asher Wolf and Biella Coleman rode in swinging their long rifles at Immortan Joe and yellin’, “Code is speech! Information is Free! We are Anonymous!”
Barry woke up to the warm splash of Biella and Asher pissing all over his naked body. He screamed for help but Biella’s piss hit him in the mouth and he choked and gagged for minutes. When he came to they were aimin pistols in his face. “Now you really gonna die, Barry.”
Now martyred, hordes of people who never use crypto retweet any headline mentioning Barrett Brown’s name. Some even maintain a “#FreeBarrett” banner across their Twitter avatar, a tried-and-true form of activism known to have freed scores of political prisoners. Brown is due for release in 5 years, should the banners remain active.
A new patent jams more people into a plane than the best slave ships
SLAVERY — A patent for jamming more people into airplanes promises to bring new opportunities to the slave trade as well as terrifying new kinds of warfare.
“This patent won’t mean anything to the real slavers in Eastern Europe and Asia, who exist outside of the law,” said law economist Harry Bluementhal. “But the patent will produce trillions of dollars in military contracts for a Boeing troop transport aircraft, the Freedom Airliner, capable of carrying over 1,000 soldiers a day in supersonic intercontinental flights.”
“This opens up military invasions on a scale never before imagined!” said General Angstrom H. Troubador of the Reaganomics Institute. “A full scale land war deploying the full might of the United States could crush ISIS out of existence forever, and for cheaper than ever. Once we have the Freedom Airliner, the world will be much, much smaller for the United States military. Everywhere will be our back yard.”
Redditors everywhere are called on by their humble moderators to lobby state congressman for secession from the Union in order to create a better, Confederate tomorrow. Recently the North Korean communist in charge of Reddit, Chairman Ellen Pao, outlawed flying the confederate flag over our beloved subreddits, and you know what we have to say?
But of course this isn’t about racism. This is about heritage. This isn’t about how Chairman Pao mercilessly cracked down on our hate porn because she hates our free speech. This is about ethics on Reddit — and there aren’t any, not anymore.
Ethics have all but dried up according to a reddit admin who claims Ellen Pao fired him for having cancer.
Not long after the IAmA subreddit came back online did ex-reddit admin Dacvak return to make an AMA explaining why he left the company. Dacvak said Pao fired him because he was too sick with Leukemia to move to the new reddit HQ in San Francisco, where violent Confederate revolution is scheduled to take place.
[CHRONICLE.SU UPDATE — EDITOR’S EDITION: DACVAK’S AMA HAS BEEN DELETED.]
The South gonna do it again.
If there’s anything good old boys in the South hate more than faggots, Mexicans or blacks, it’s cancer.
All signs indicate Pao fucked her new website up bad, a while ago, and we’re only just finding out now.
NORFOLK, Va. – Jamie Jo Corne clings to General Lee as his battle wagon, a 74 Winnebago, struggling over the Rockies at three miles per hour, backing up traffic all the way to the grasslands, lapping against the snowcapped peaks.
“God Dammit I learned a lot of shit when I was investigating Anonymous. We can use it to our advantage,” Jamie Jo said. For a fleeting moment, life flashed through Jamie’s eyes. She was alive. Looming in the recesses though, her nine children and her ruined husband, Vincubus Dante. Sometimes big things were more important than family, like Matthew McConaughey in Interstellar.
General Lee pulled his dick out of Jamie’s ass and busted a hot one across her tramp stamp. “We gonna have a real revolution Tiger, stop up the traffic ’round DC. Jam the beltway. Boil the boomer hides! I’ve been everywhere, man. You rub a little more of that innernet magic on our social media game and I’ll fire up the CB. We’ll ride our horses up to the White House. We’ll start a new political party, start a Convoy!” The General paused, licking his lips. “Get out the meth hunny.”
A Rebel Outlaw
“I’m wanted in five states, Lee, and the only way I’m gettin’ out of it is by starting a goddamn revolution. Truckers are so left wing, nowadays. What’s up with that? This Tiger needs a man who don’t need viagra to fuck. Your whole revolution is limp. Ya didn’t even deliver a document to the capitol. I’m gonna do that one day, a-ridin’ on a horse with a dick that satisfies.”
“Tiger! Tiger! Come back baby, don’t! Come back!”
Tiger took one last long drag from Lee’s meth pipe and bounded from the camper, hesitating only for a moment, to glance at the moon before scampering off into the night.
Her phone buzzed all night. Strange men from around the nation were sending in car payments, text messages begging for hot, dirty sex. The revolution was just dodging the inevitable decades in prison awaiting her, and better to settle in and train dogs, than to eat another shit sandwich and smile for a mugshot. Hacking and trucking had nothing at all, but the dog scamming scene at least had that money. Stealing trained malamutes and huskies was pure profit.
But that, too, was a lie and Jamie wasn’t about to con herself. Those days with Presstorm sure were glamorous. And the power she’d had with Anonymous was beyond anything she ever felt running with truckers. Jamie imagined thousands of Huskies, all following her command, dragging a sled with a giant cannon like Hitler had. One shot and she’d take out DC. Another two shots and she’d blast them yuppies in New York City. Then she’d whip them dogs and get off to LA and maybe she’d let the dogs have them instead of the cannon — if — they gave her a kind welcome.
Maybe, she thought. Maybe she’d have child support.
The hard life took its toll on Jamie Jo Corne (a.k.a. “Tiger”).
The former Presstorm matriarch now injects a motherload of meth, monitoring all hate sites for news and updates on what the public and the law might know about her. From behind a pair of sunglasses at a public library in Cuthbert, Ga., she watches the Internet, fidgeting. She watches the Chronicle. Under her breath, she utters remarks – more guttural anguish than language – and she is bitter.
The money’s dried up. All the drugs, internet, and revolutions have aged her. She can’t draw even the oldest, ugliest men at the bar. She used to snare fresh cock with online dating sites, but the hope of tomorrow’s sugar-daddy evaporates now with each click, typin’ her different names again and again, cycling through social media sites and rubbin’ her shrinking clit. Sometimes she can’t even find it. Almost inaudibly she hisses, “Obama’s gonna put you in jail.”
Though her future is uncertain, there is at least one thing Jamie knows: She’s seen more sunsets now than she’s going to see.
Rebel on the Run: The Life and Trials of Anonymous Dogstar Jamie Jo Corne is part 1 in a multi-part series of biopics called Project Persona Management.
Chairman Pao’s defense of fat people, women, and the poor is widely considered to be a “dictatorship” by true freedom-loving American Redditors.
INTERNET — Forget the backdrop of Reddit administration cracking down on hateful subreddits like ‘Fat People Hate’, and forget the outright racist and ‘communist’ jokes aimed at interim CEO Ellen Pao on /r/GloriousChairmanPao. This is about ethics in… never mind.
“What is happening?” is on the tip of every Redditor’s tongue because the moderators have so poorly expressed their grievances during this strike — evasive “Reddit Meltdown” language is necessary for the moderators to maintain face during the Fat Hate Supporters’ Strike. The only specific talk the striking moderators have mustered tells of a canned admin, Victoria, someone that no average user really knows, but it is enough to say that she set up AMA threads everyone loved although no one really can say why she was canned or why it is so upsetting to the other moderators.
Recall the ‘doxing’ of Violentacrez (moderator of many of the most creepy and abusive subreddits, like r/creepshots) and remember that this touched off a massive stink leading to the nearly reddit-wide censorship of a single reporter, Adrian Chen.
The unpaid moderators are not demanding pay — their demands are for more power and technological tools to enact those powers. Their illegitimate and reckless determination of acceptable content has let so much unacceptable hate and abuse fester for so long that CEO Ellen Pao would be well advised to radically change the business model and purge a few hundred more unpaid moderators to hire on some paid professionals who know the difference between abuse and free speech and share the interests and goals of Reddit. Purge the bullies.