INTERNET – Comedy fans were mortified Wednesday after learning their beloved, subversive satire news site is in fact a government operation dedicated to uncovering dissenters and information terrorists.
Documents reveal sites such as anonnews.org, #AnonOps, and chronicle.su were established as part of a plot to lure and entrap would-be radical thinkers, in a government campaign sometimes referred to as a “honey pot.”
Additionally, The Internet Chronicle is tasked with disseminating false information about chemtrail science and the Illuminati to discredit legitimate movements.
Immediately following the leak, federal agencies moved fast to stage late-night raids throughout Monday and Tuesday, targeting direct subscribers to the site.
American Civil Liberties Union Attorney Jim Buckerman said his Anonymous client is being unfairly accused of subversive thinking. Buckerman said his client “is not a thinker – subversive or otherwise.”
“My client is a good man. He has a family. He goes to work and he comes home. He has a beer. He watches MSNBC, and he goes to bed, dreaming of unchallenged American hegemony,” Buckerman said. “My client would not be caught dead reading The Internet Chronicle – a publication created by socialists, dope dealers – and worse.”
Buckerman said agents held his client down and asked him if he thought chronicle.su was “funny.”
“My client said in a statement that two men in suits pushed their knees into his back, holding him down on the ground. ‘Do you think Miley Cyrus is a f—— joke?’ They asked him, ‘Do you think the law doesn’t apply to you, because you’re on the Internet? Do you think chronicle.su is funny?’ to which my client responded, ‘No, no,’ and emphatically, ‘no.'”
Anyone found retweeting chronicle.su links, or suggesting The Internet Chronicle to friends may ultimately serve government interests, but that did not prevent readers from finding themselves on an “internet watch list” – which often leads to intrusive NSA backdoors, having personal emails read by secret agents, and being made fun of around the FBI office for obsessively googling “is this rash normal?”
The government released a statement Wednesday morning saying they do not comment on cybersecurity measures.
The Internet Chronicle is not the first case where the government has attempted to unearth dissent. World-renowned satirist and writer for The Onion Barrett Brown was arrested for linking people to his work with Project Persona Management, paralleling the works of Sabu, Abbie Hoffman and Jamie Jo Corne.
Security analysts project The Internet Chronicle will likely shut down or be repurposed to suit the cybersecurity needs of smaller, less digitized nations.
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I was 18 years old when I agreed to meet up with a fat girl I met on the Internet. I think I met her on myspace. Up until that point, I’d never even hung out with fat girls, because I didn’t have many fat friends.
She was from my hometown, just three hours away, and apparently she’d seen my band play live while I was still in high school. Also, she read my website and followed the controversy behind how it went down. So she claimed to know me and, after a few phone calls, was very interested in seeing me.
‘What could it hurt?’ I thought. I said okay. She seemed nice, and her voice was cute. Besides, why be down on someone just because she’s heavy, right?
She arrived in town shortly after I gave her the okay to come out and John – my roommate and best friend at the time – offered to help us out by meeting her at her car and driving us back to the dorm together.
We parked and walked casually down the sidewalk toward the street where she was parked. Then, he spotted her about a second before I did and asked, “That’s her, isn’t it?”
I fought the urge to grimace and forced myself to continue smiling. “Yep, that’s her,” I replied through gnashing teeth.
And on that fateful February evening, as the girl lumbered toward me, wearing flip-flops and a light hoodie, I braced myself for what would turn out to be twelve laborious hours of tolerance. It was then I knew nothing about this night could be romantic.
On the car ride home, she told us how difficult it was to navigate through Richmond, because of all the one-way streets. John and I stared silently forward, but I knew it was important to keep the mood light so I pulled out a pipe, and some marijuana.
“Oh muh Gawd!” the fat girl exclaimed. “I only done this like once before, so don’t y’all laugh at me.”
‘She didn’t sound this southern on the phone,’ I remember thinking. ‘Why is it coming out now?’ And that is how I learned that some people – when put in unfamiliar situations – will revert to a simpler version of themselves, as a sort of defense mechanism.
And it works, because I realized even though she can talk like a regular person when she wants to, she is a bumpkin at heart and no matter what happens, I’d better just go easy on her – as in, no intense debates, no really deep conversations. She’s already in the “big city” and I wouldn’t want to rattle her cages.
We all got stoned and talked about our favorite bands. LSD came up during the conversation, too.
For security reasons, my dormitory required visitors to be signed in, and in order to do that you have to fill out a few lines in their binder and leave your identification at the desk. This gave the security guards plenty of time to look us up and down and make assumptions.
As I handed ID cards over to the security guard, I detected an air of superiority from him. I could feel him judging me. But I was also very stoned – and as John and I had only very recently discovered LSD, I had become overtly aware of every little vibration – or so it would seem. Or maybe I was.
The three of us got up to the dorm and listened to Kyuss, smoked some more weed and discussed our ambitions. Mine include fame; John wants money; the RA wants to know what that smell is; and the girl was so stoned she didn’t know her name.
On that note, I wish I could remember her name so I don’t keep referring to her as ‘the girl.’ It was something like Lynn, and Laura Lynn makes bread, which is food, which fat people love to eat, so from now on I’ll call her ‘Lynn.’
John left to meet our friends – and not wanting to be seen in public with my adoring bumbling behemoth, I offered to stay back at the dorm and just hang out for a while. Quickly shutting down was my naive open-mindedness I had going into the night.
Finally alone, I was afraid her eyes might fall hungrily upon me and I would have to fight off the bear. But I’d clearly suffocated Lynn’s ego with weed, an effect I had not foreseen but was eternally grateful for. Recognizing the benefits of intoxication, I offered her a beer; however, it was not beer that she wanted. Nay. What does the beast require? She squealed out in ecstasy when I offered her a Little Debbie cake from behind the mini-fridge.
“Ooooh eeeee! AHHH! OH my GOD!” Lynn shrieked, tearing into the packaging. I felt almost as sorry for the little snack treat as I did for her.
She gorged herself on junk food and flopped onto my bed, grinding her filthy black feet into the pillow, where I lay my face at night. I watched in disgust as she wallowed around on my bed like a dry manatee. The situation was worrisome but I still found it hard to hate someone willing to go in on a ten-strip of acid with me even though she’d never tried it. For that I figured there must be something to her, some insightful spirit that needs nurturing, as we all do, and at the very least I could be friends with someone like that.
I had a paper due the following morning so I told her I needed to get to work, and she passed out quickly. Over the course of the next three or four hours, I finished her beer, wrote my paper and smoked more dank marijuana.
Then she woke up again, hungrier than a hell-hound and quite vocal about it.
I had no real food, and I was hungry too, so we decided to walk down to the 7-eleven. I knew Lynn’s visit to Richmond was the most walking she’d done up until this point in her teenage life. Her flip-flops made an aggravating “suck-pop!” noise as she followed behind me and we strutted boldly down a frigid, windy Main Street. I felt bad for her. I would’ve offered her my jacket but it was too small to fit her.
And then all at once, within 18 minutes and 45 seconds, my sympathy for this person disappeared rapidly.
We walked in the front door of the convenience store and I headed straight for the back of the line, which is very long the closer you wait until midnight. Suddenly my hairs stood on end as I heard her squealing like an injured beast behind me. “Sweet Jesus,” I said aloud, and turned to look at her.
“Oh my gawd!” she screamed. “These Cheetohs turn your mouth blue!”
I got hot in the face, turning bright red and I tried to pretend like I didn’t know her.
After ravaging the Cheetohs display, Lynn cut ahead of a guy standing in line with a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, to stand beside me. He politely said nothing but I could sense his annoyance. We awaited our turn to order Taquitos from the bar and, seeing as how I am a gentlemen and the bitch had already cut in line, I let the lady order first.
She demanded cream cheese Taquitos. He said they weren’t ready, but all the others were. She rose her voice and used my name, saying, “James! Can you believe they don’t have my favorite Taquitos? What kind of fucking 7-eleven is this? Arright, gimme the taco kind.” My asshole tightened, forming diamonds.
“Would you like three Taquitos for $3.33?” the man asked her.
She shook her head irritably. “Oh yeah, I want that. James, tell ‘im what you want sugar. Maybe they got what you like.” She bent over, placing one hand on the counter and the other on her equator, “‘Cause they sure as shit ain’t got what I like.” As if crippled by grief, she stared over her little bags of chemically-enhanced Cheetohs strewn across the counter.
I looked to my right, where at least ten people stood watching and waiting. The man holding PBR was now amused. I looked back at the clerk as I gripped the counter with both hands, afraid that I might lose control at any moment. Suddenly the idea of even ordering Taquitos was embarrassing. ‘What’s in this shit?’ I thought. ‘It’s probably giving me cancer. Diabetes. I am a disgusting human being. What the fuck.’ I mumbled my order to the clerk, swiped my credit card and almost left before he gave me my food.
On the way back, Lynn ignored a homeless person. He asked her for change and she pretended not to hear him.
“Hey wassup man? Your girl can’t talk?” He demanded an answer while approaching me with haste.
“I guess she didn’t hear you,” I said, and gave him a dollar.
“You could’ve said something to that guy,” I prodded.
“Yeah I know, but I never had bums ask me for money,” she explained. “I don’t know how to respond to that.”
“You just say ‘I don’t have it.'” I was nearly in disbelief at this point.
“But I do have money, silly!”
I said nothing.
I suffered through the excruciating pain of signing her in once again, making fat jokes in my head.
‘Will I need to sign her in as more than one guest? Maybe there’s a weight limit since I’m on the top floor.’
While writing her name in the book, I heard her wolf down at least one whole Taquito. By this point, I didn’t even care anymore. I just wanted the night to end.
As I typed away on my paper, Lynn sprawled out on the bed, dirty feet on my pillow once again, eating Cheetohs and yawning her mouth at me. From her open maw slid an indigo-blue tongue, flecked with orange pieces of Cheetoh.
“Blaeegh! Is my tongue blue?” she asked gleefully.
“Yeah, it’s like you ate dye.”
“Nuh-uh!” She ran into the bathroom to see for herself. “It is! Oh m’god, it’s so blue!”
Historical evidence that fat girls like gimmicky Cheetohs
We smoked some more marijuana, had a few beers and I blew her away with some very basic political discussion. I took this opportunity to transition into the social revolution of the 1960s, and then got her talking about acid.
I told her $20 would get her two hits of acid, and I’d just mail it to her after I bought the ten-strip. She said alright and eventually fell asleep.
I kept her money and took all the acid myself.
Apart from the occasional, “Where are my drugs or money?” emails, which came in for a few weeks and then stopped, I never saw or heard from Lynn, ever again.
anonops, as reported by the chronicle.su via anonnews.org, is teeming with internet cops the likes of which Blade Runner never saw.
anonops is a god damn trap.
Do not go near anonops, because the son-of-a-bitching federalis are there, waiting to trap hapless script kiddies, or even a curious visitor.
They want your IPs, which IRC compromises, as well as port vulnerabilities, whatever they can get their hands on, through any orifice they must. Oops! GOT THE TROJAN.FBI IN MY SHIT NOW I’LL NEVER FEEL CLEAN.
ANONOPS is where good intentions go to die. “Come get us,” you sniveling, wormy parasites say, “We’re just here to do right, bro. chill out. just let it happen.”
All because of ANONOPS!! Do NOT go there. It is a fucking FBI trap like you don’t understand. Those people are turning you in by the thousands.
The fear machine follows you as closely as you carry it, and you’re bringin’ it on home, anonybabies. This is me trying to save you.
Barrett Brown has led you directly into an anti-activism honeypot from which the only escape is critical thought itself. Sweet, precious critical thought.
Should you choose to continue deeper into anonops.ru:
The nightmare police who wait for you there want to come into your home, anonymous wants to rape your wife and they will, together, pillage your essence. They want anything and everything they can get their hands on. They want you, so serve yourself up on a silver platter at irc.anonops.ru. join the most populated channel. Congratulations! You’re now suspect and subject to the PATRIOT ACT.
Washington, D.C.–In an unprecedented bid for the United States Presidency, The Elf Wax Times has entered the race.
It is the first time in the history of the world an entire publication has ran for public office. They will probably win.
“You’re not just voting for a president, but an entire cabinet,” a man known only as ‘The Cold Hard Truth’ told reporters Thursday. He presented himself as their attorney, though his credentials are questionable at best.
He said, “The executive staff of The Elf Wax Times operates ruthlessly and efficiently, and we are fully prepared to step on anyone who gets in our way.”
Viet Zam will be the Defense Comrade, he said, unfurling a tattered scroll. Reading it aloud, The Cold Hard Truth announced, “By the way, we are a Marxist party, which we just formed.”
The Elf Wax Times promised in a television commercial “to president at least once a week,” and said that at no point in time will any part of the administration appear on women’s daytime TV.
“If Elf Wax appears on TV,” said the Elf Wax Times’ Media Mogul, “It will be Spike TV or one of those shows like ‘Pawn Stars’ or MTV’s ‘Pimp My Ride.’
The Co-President-To-Be went on to say, “We’re also considering a downloadable podcast on the PlayStation Network as well as pornography endeavors.”
Afterward, Media Mogul told reporters, and extended to all Americans, that if they wish to see change, then there would have to be sacrifice. He warned citizens must be willing to “game out” at least twice a day. “For some,” he said, “This will require a severe cutback on gaming. For others, it will demand much, much more.”
Furthermore, he went on to cite Gandhi, reminding Americans they must be the change they wish to see in the world. “So if you want pot legalized, start getting high with police officers,” later adding, “I’m just going to sit back and watch.”
To win the Republicans over, Viet Zam intimated his desire to replace the military with autonomous kill-bots that once set on BLIND RAGE MODE can not be undone, “for maximum defense.” He said freedom will be programmed into their circuitry, hard-wiring them for democratic, bloodthirsty justice that will be unleashed “mostly on brown people” following the 2012 election, but could extend to whites who can’t speak American or who have their own alphabet.
Loki and the Hecktones, premier cabinet leaders, and well-known from inside The Elf Wax Times for building their fame around pure absurdity, have pointed out the necessity to bring back the unwitting “dosing” of agents within the FBI, CIA, and especially the administration itself with LSD-25.
Loki said, “It is our heartfelt belief that every man, woman and child – wait, especially children – should at least once in their lifetimes experience the effects of lysergic acid diethylamide.” A sudden silence fell over the crowded room of reporters and newscasters and photographers stopped taking pictures. At this, Loki’s eyes bulged out of his head as he exclaimed, “What? Don’t be so fucking lame. Jesus Christ who let all these squares in the room?” Kilgore Trout, the self-described ‘Face of Elf Wax’ reacted promptly by placing one hand on Loki’s shoulder as he quietly escorted him off the stage, beaming for the cameras.
While Sarah Palin and Barack Obama scoff at the notion, The Elf Wax Times’ team of political analysts project that the publication’s platform of drug use, videogames and name-calling will be all they need. Voters who “wish to make the right decision” to vote for them in the 2012 election, are expected to “inform themselves,” said a man named Bill, “because we’re pulling the ads.” Experts predict a landslide victory for The Elf Wax Times.
Thanks to LebalSoft voting machines, voters will have the unique opportunity of voting for Elf Wax as early as they feel like, and as many times as they want if they feel their vote wasn’t counted properly. Additionally, voting has been turned into a “game,” according to one anonymous source from within Lebal Drocer.
Due to the dangerously high lead content of their products, all Lebal Drocer representatives speak on the condition of anonymity.
In the game, voters are rewarded with tickets and prizes for casting the right vote in the correct order. Prizes include freedom tickets, XBOX Gamer Points, even the right to vote. Freedom tickets would be redeemable at the United States Government. These are “higher-level prizes” that award freedom of speech allowances and “get out of jail if your 4th Amendment Rights were compromised” cards. “It’s like a get-out-of-jail-free card, but the 2010 version.”
There are no contacts listed for The Elf Wax Times and the staff could not be reached for any comments relating to anything, whatsoever.
The world must simply wait on standby for a glimmer of hope, change, or a press release explaining why there has been none, which sources predict may never come.
St. Louis, Mo.–Twisted combinations of acid and 24-hour news have turned one local man’s life into a waking nightmare.
Steven Phelps was a system administrator for the network at Lebal Drocer Incorporated for three years before LSD destroyed his life and evolved his consciousness into a nightmarish new reality so “terrifyingly unreal” that he prays for death.
He ruthlessly climbed his way to the top of the company network, turning in fellow employees for thefts of local office supplies and software when he had to.
Shortly after receiving a promotion and a raise becoming the system administrator of Lebal Drocer, Steven took his first hit of LSD.
He had a nice trip, taking note of any profound insights he took from the experience. His attitude toward work changed, he became a generally nice guy, and his employees liked him after a while.
Steven tripped again, and it was nice, like the first time. He gained “many insights,” good conversation and what he described as “what the fuck moments.”
“I was staring at the clock on my computer while we played Mario Bros. 3 on emulators. Then suddenly it swelled up so big it was larger than the video game, my friend Adam, and my room put together,” Steven said adding, “Man, that was fucking crazy!”
Then Steven said as he and his friend rolled around in the floor laughing about what seemed to be the same thing, “but there was no way it was,” he realized that all things in the Universe are connected, and given the vastness of space itself, and his closeness to this person, “It stands to reason that we’re all one consciousness because my friend and I – it was like we were reading each others’ minds. And we’re just laughing our asses off about how we’re just all squished in here together, down in this little gravitational hole to the point where there’s a god damn active torsion field around us, a network of pure thought energy zapping and jiggling around the electromagnetic field.”
Steven Phelps compared the earth’s electromagnetic field to “wi-fi for thought” to which humans are adapting through evolution.
He told The Elf Wax Times he believes, “If aliens have evolved a higher level of consciousness and mental abilities, then telepathy’s in there.”
Then, as if it couldn’t get any worse, Steven’s mental health took a rapid descent following one incident involving LSD and TV news.
“My friends just up and left the house while I was tripping with them one day and I had nothing better to do, so I flipped the TV channel over to C-SPAN.” What happened next, Steven said, was “too painful to recall.”
Steven reported visions of Hell on Earth and said it didn’t look much different. He claimed to have seen the face of Richard Nixon, but told reporters President Bush made him seem alright. “That was three weeks ago but I’m still seeing angels who want me to come to Heaven.”
Steven Phelps, who is now permanently insane, said he saw the angels wreck an oil tanker killing eleven people along with many species of Gulf life and some “black guy who didn’t do shit to help it.” He said, “Swimming in that oil’s what we all do every day. Right now they’re killing us with petroleum. And this is what we call living.”
Steven Phelps went on to beg for “sweet merciful death” after accusing two Elf Wax reporters of being Devil One, and Devil Two.