we heard you was happnin
word on the streets you happening
with this alpaca you can have textiles, put your children to work and sell the pelt for gold and have luxuries.
On a brisk October morning in Brookline, a graduate student announced that he was an expert at something, to the total indifference of his friends, peers and vague associates.
The student was reported to Chronicle.SU by a local informant and subsequently identified by spiteful classmates as first year Benjamin Berkey. Berkey, an enthusiast of the dark witch house music scene, tacitly agreed to make a phone statement to me by making dozens of unsolicited calls to the office of The Soviet Chronicle.
“I’ve read many thick tomes so, like Prodicus, I’ve become adept at choosing words. Often I finish sentences for other people in more exact ways than they ever could have expressed themselves. So, I’ve decided to go on a mission for total exactitude in language. Any time anyone strays from the Oxford Dictionary definition of a word, I will correct them in public in an elitist fashion. This will have innumerable social benefits.”
Berkey then invited me to watch him do his work across town to his sparsely furnished Allston apartment. I spent the next eight hours watching him gruel over a footnote, intermittently taking breaks to masturbate and troll the Internet with obscure semantic and grammatical criticisms.
“Work is hard, but I spend every second of every day knowing that I’m making a difference and growing intellectually. I’ve got a bright future and will surely finish my program with a good job. Not many people can say that these days.”
He then agreed to show me his favorite local coffee shop, where he ordered us espressos only to reject them several times due to “the quality of the crema.”
The barista eventually gave up and told us to fuck ourselves. We took a seat in the back of the checker-floored bar, next to a group of bicycle messengers playing bones.
As we sat down, one of the dudes among them, a pierced courier wearing a Brooklyn cycling cap, put the finishing touches on a lengthy monologue.
“…and that just begs the question, ‘Is McInnes libertard or not?'”
“Excuse me, sir,” interjected Berkey, “but I believe that you’ve made a mistake. The expression ‘begs the question’ does not in fact designate something that raises questions, but instead refers to an instance of circular reasoning. Be warned.”
The messenger looked over at him and his septum piercing flicked a little spark of a glint in the light. A pug-faced drunken crusty messenger appeared from among the group.
“Why you gotta be a bitch, man? Nobody asked you, faggot. Nobody spoke to you.”
The altercation deeply shocked Berkey, who became horribly insulted. He began to shake and then suddenly walked out of the coffee bar and refused to answer subsequent calls to his cellphone.
I never heard from him again.
Update: Several weeks after our encounter, The Boston Globe reported that Berkey had disappeared without a trace. Even more strangely, authorities declined to open an investigation into his disappearance. His family’s attempts to sue the Boston Police Department were bizarrely dismissed in a similar fashion. And in a final twist, my dumbfounded reading of the report to The Chronicle office occasioned a smile in our editor, Kilgore Trout.
“Yeah, the sergeant at Boston PD actually clued me in weeks ago. Benjamin Berkey was administratively arrested as part of a law enforcement operation targeting known gang members and associates.”
it’s been a long struggle to get to where i am today with lowercase anonymous, and as you can see, i’ve given up on uppercase letters altogether. people can play playstation again, and life is back to normal. i have chosen today to reveal the most shocking fact of all time. my very first trolling handle was in fact guy fawkes, and i have the long-form birth certificate to prove it:
read moar books nonimus? since none of u were able to read books, i disregard ur bawww literary criticism. remember forever that i quit anonymous because no one had read the epilogue to timequake by kurt vonnegut. it’s his last novel ever, his final words . it is a secret final admission to an accidental uber troll by kurt vonnegut himself, using teh alias guy fawkes.
i quit anonymous! i quit anonymous! i quit it SO HARD! I QUIT ANONYMOUS!!!! I SWEAR!!!!
btw, u just joined lowercase anonymous by becoming aware of it. the true definition of lowercase anonymous is the set that contains all sets. it can never contain itself so you are immediately and paradoxically a part of lowercase anonymous and not a part of it at the same time. rofl.
you know what? i think i’ll quit lowercase anonymous too. I QUIT LOWERCASE ANONYMOUS!!!!
YOU HAVE BEEN DDOS’D. CONSIDER THIS A WARNING.
Your Disinformation PSY OPS Campaign has gone too far.
We are Anonymous.
We do not forgive.
We do not forget.
Featured here are the Lampshade Drama.
She had Jet Pilot eyes from her hips on down, so I remember.
I watched her quietly from a dark corner, really looking like a stalker. I suppose acting like one, too, although you could say I have a disposition for being unfavorable.
She wouldn’t look over here, so I did everything I could to keep it that way. I sat perfectly still, staring at her. By now, she had to be uncomfortable from this; not that she’d really made eye contact with me but after so long one starts to feel like they’re being watched.
I was not only watching her, I was imagining her story. I projected my desires onto her and pictured her to be the kind of chick who doesn’t need to be in a place like this bar, someone with a better life and better home outside of here, who just needed to duck in and make sure this scene still isn’t for her every so often. Someone with DVDs of her favorite TV show, popcorn in the cabinets and a tall bottle of wine for one.
Someone unlike me.
‘What am I doing here?’ I thought. ‘I could be working, or better yet, drinking alone at home where these sour losers don’t go, where I am the best and only one, where I am King.’
I looked into my beer and then back at my Queen. A guy sat next to her and they were really chatting it up. Her smile had in it something stern. A seriousness. It told me she is a woman of ease and difficulty at once, simple but tough and likes it rough.
It told me she probably didn’t have a bottle of wine back at the place, or maybe shared an apartment under the pretense of a complicated partnership she’s looking to get out of.
Doesn’t sound like my thing. Or maybe she’s a ladyboy.
There is a terrible lack of empathy in the world.
West Hollywood, Calif.–Revolutionary Che Guevara purchases a microwaveable burrito from the La Cienega Boulevard 7-Eleven wearing a t-shirt reading, “Stop bitching, start a revolution.”
Che is best known for overthrowing Cuba’s U.S.-backed Batista regime and representing Cuban Socialism across the globe, while at home providing medical assistance and education to people who never held a book. However, neither his heroism, nor even the very act of dying in the name of freedom compares to the satisfaction Che reports during the act of adorning his favorite t-shirt, purchased from chronicle.su. Long live the revolution! All Soviet Chronicle merchandise is produced in an unventilated basement by illegal immigrants who can’t complain about the toxic fumes.
The Soviet Chronicle was granted an interview with Che, who graciously took time from battlefield command to help us sell our merchandise.
Che met us in Beverly Hills, and hopped out of his Chevrolet Bel-Air which sports a bumper sticker with the eponymous statement proclaiming his status as a revolutionary. Che informed us that he rejects both hybrid and “smart” cars, for fear of being labeled as a “Liberal Bedwetter,” plus, he added, “they’re just womanly.”
“I was just so tired of people talking about wanting change, but not doing anything about it, that’s why I bought this t-shirt,” Che said, pointing to the message on his chest. “See?” he cajoled, “I am making a difference, now.”
We followed Che on another of his multiple daily trips to the 7-Eleven. As Che pulled in, he was already drawing the guffaws of gentrified Hollywood, and the hostile attention of a police officer. Upon seeing his t-shirt they immediately quit bitching. This t-shirt shows “the man” you mean business.
Roanoke, Va.–“I used to wear these in middle school, when everybody was doing it. We’d put these jeans on and quietly sit expanding our consciousnesses to Coal Chamber, KoRn, and Insane Clown Posse,” said unemployed Thomas Cranwell, 25, inside his mother’s home where he still resides.
Instead of waiting for the late-90s style to return, experts say he should start hanging out with the right people.
“Still highly sought after by juggalos, JNCOs are the rarest type of jeans found in goodwill,” said InDesign TV’s fashion expert Claude Montagne.
“They look like a skirt, sometimes, or like a pair of shorts for a giant,” said Montagne, adding, “You drop something in the pockets of a JNCOs and you can forget about it.”
JNCOs were easy to spot in the late 90’s, and were typically held up with one hand while the other hand swayed out at a 45-degree angle, as if the wearer was constantly battling the urge to stiff-arm imaginary children.
The Lee Pipes model, ex-competitor to JNCO, no longer extends ten feet outward in all directions. Following hipster fashion, Lee Pipes now makes skinny, constrictive jeans for people who are just now getting on board.
JNCO’s doctors and lawyers warn against this particular style of jeans, citing reproductive issues as a cause for concern.
“Any male who wears these constrictive jeans for too long risks severe damage to his scrotum, penis, and even the vas deferens,” said El Wax Research Department, Berkeley, California Chairman Dr. Langstrom T. Armstrong, expert in Urology.
“Vas deferens?” he added incredulously, “How do they work!?”
The vas deferens is an eighteen inch tube carrying sperm from the epididymis to the ejaculatory ducts. Or, as Insane Clown Posse explains it: “Miracles.”
“Magic everywhere in this bitch.”
Thomas Cranwell said he will hang onto the jeans for at least another decade, holding out either for a relapse in fashion sense or for an open letter of apology from the JC Penny’s that sold him the pants.
“In the meantime,” he said, “I pick a particularly tough day after work and wear them as an aid to my sense of well-being.”