Alex Jones Compound Under Siege

Wednesday Photo of Genesis Communications Network Compound: File

MOUNT CARMEL, TEXAS –Alex Jones, famous shock-jock and gun enthusiast responsible for popularizing Waco conspiracies, found his compound under siege after a brief, but violent, confrontation with local police. After recently claiming to own over 500 assault weapons on-air, police responding to a noise complaint decided to take extra precautions for their safety, kicking down Jones’ door with fully automatic assault weapons. Witnesses disagree about what happened, but both Mr. Jones and a police officer were grievously wounded in the exchange.

Mr. Jones, holding his many wives and children hostage, continues to broadcast the first of many revelations considering the true nature of the Illuminati, Bilderbergs, Bohemian Grove, chemtrails, 9/11, and other folk tales which explain away the collective guilt of America.

Meanwhile, Jones has been accused of rape in Sweden, and Interpol has issued a red notice for his arrest. Jones has brought his many wives on air to talk about their perfectly happy sex lives, extolling the many holistic benefits of the kind and gentle touch of Alex Jones. “People, this smear campaign is just the beginning. This is Waco, this is 9/11, this is Ruby Ridge. Wake up, people!”

I Am America – A Herman Cain Fanfic

ATLANTA, GA. – “Hey, she’s a dame. What do ya say, Hermie? We pick her up and show her a good time, give her the presidential treatment?”

Two pairs of eyes met in agreement on the rearview mirror. As it slowed to a stop, the campaign van brakes cried out in protest.

“I’ll introduce myself.”

The man in the backseat watched through tinted windows. “Yes, what is it?” the woman inquired of the driver, who approached her on foot now. He was a stocky white gentleman wearing a sportcoat, stylish prescription glasses, and a stained yellow mustache that matched his teeth.

“You want to meet a celebrity?”

“What are you doing?” she asked as he got closer. Her face changed, although an expression of politeness remained. “Now, wait just a second, what do you want? Back! Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The driver had grabbed her by the wrist, but when she pulled away, he slapped her across the face and took her by her curly brown hair, leading her into the side door of their idling press wagon. She noticed it now, out of the corner of her eye: 2012.

Perhaps you’ve seen him on TV. He’s bringing jobs back to America. He believes we can take this country back. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be here today. His marriage fell to ruin in the wake of a series of sexual harassment scandals that surfaced as researchers snuffled for anything that might drop him out of the running. The hours were getting short; the days, much darker. It was only a matter of time now.

With their fly in tow, our two spiders drove around back of a warehouse not far from where they acquired a thirst for young flesh. Once inside, they removed her blindfold. The building was stacked to the tits with beer koozies, picket signs, boxes labeled “flair,” cardboard figures and T-shirts in every color and size ranging from small to medium to large, extra large, extra extra large, and the unthinkable XXXL. With no small degree of confusion, she absorbed her surroundings, forgetting for a moment the two dark figures just ten feet behind her. She struggled for breath at the sheer immensity of wall-to-wall fascism, lights shining on American flags, and in her eyes, too. She squinted to ascertain the meanings of slogans and effigies. America never looked so cheap. That is, until a red crowbar wedged itself between her right eye and the inner socket, hooking itself on her temple. The pain was insurmountable. She could not scream, and collapsed instantaneously under shock. Dull sensations of otherness were shooting off at random locations around her body. The pain was unfathomable. Reality ceased. A voice gave instructions. She followed them, without question, without understanding, with no intellectual capacity whatsoever to guide her through this terrible nightmare. She was no longer human.

The young woman – a skinny waitress in her thirties – with her fist in her mouth, put the other hand down to her gingham skirt. Her broken hand was gnarled into a claw, but using that claw, she tugged upward at her skirt with pathetic incapability, in a bid to satiate the verbose bloodlust of her attacker, candidate for the U.S. Republican Party presidential nomination, Herman Cain – a Georgia Tea Party activist.

The hairs on Herman’s neck bristled with anticipation. In the dark, he could not see it, but a flash of recognition darted through the young lady’s body as she made out the face of a man she once knew. A man who, before, had told her what to do in a more professional setting. She worked in one of his restaurants. Her boss. The owner.

Your God is Power. You have no shame.

“Rape victims are sluts who produce their own birth control. But you’re no victim,” declared Mr. Cain, a former deputy chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank of Kansas City. “You like this. I’m going to teach you to like me.” As he pumped, and huffed, and breathed scotch into his victim’s mouth, his eyes glazed over and fixated on the corner of the room, where he imagined a younger, better looking rape victim. And briefly, he pictured his wife. “Now secrete it!”

Herman Cain crouched down over the woman, who was now bloody, disheveled and used, and he asked her politely if he might take her out to dinner sometime, and if he can get that phone number.

Black dots patterned across his vision, bubblewrapping the terrible scene beneath him, the product of his undoing. One last passenger aboard the Cain train. As he struggled to breathe with that thin, tobacco-stained breath of his, Herman’s blood flowed like sand.

“She’s done for, Herman. Now let’s be on our way.” Chief of Staff Mark Block, Herman’s driver, sucked the last trace of life from his cigarette. He could not take his eyes off the scene. Her ripped white underwear with blue trim, bloody at the crotch.

“I– I thought her body was supposed to shut down to keep this from happening.” Cain withdrew an unlabeled bottle of blood pressure medication and took four tiny white pills.

“If she gets pregnant, then it means she liked it. Who can blame her? We’ve run a campaign like nobody’s ever seen. But then, America’s never seen a candidate like Herman Cain.”

A smile bled from the open corners of Herman’s mouth, from which sprung twin puffs of gaseous hate that twisted up his thin, dark mustache, and moved in a vapor around his furrowed brows, tracing the restaurant manager’s gray, receding hairline. Sister demons danced a double helix in the midnight air, assuming the form of matching parallel negative impressions, shaped like dervishes with forked tongues slithering, their writhing agitations, spied ever so slightly amid the shifting breeze in Block’s polluted exhalation. Graciously, they pulled his mouth wide into a devilish smile.

Trollman Cain

This story is part 2 in a 2 part series entitled “What was the deal with Herman Cain?

Sent from my iPhone

Rapist Speaks Out In Support Of A Delusional Barrett Brown

“We are the pee-pool,” says Tiessen.

Internet legend John Tiessen spoke in defiance of IRC bans and IRL double trouble Barrett “The Wild One” Brown Monday. During his Internet podcast, Tiessen once again decried the rats amongst us, referring to undercover agents at Occupy meetings, and outlined the divide and conquer mentality of government opposition, referencing Sun Tzu’s Art of War.

Barrett Brown is in police custody after threatening the children of federal agents.

Tiessen quietly yelled to his audience of no one, “We’re rootin’ for Barrett Brown to get out of jail, and we’re fuckin’ protesting against that. They say they’re protestin’ against them but they’re not – they’re tryin’ to stop it. They’re tryin’ to stop the movement and they’re winning. They’re winning and people are listening to ’em. We are the pee-pool! We are the pee-pool!”

As something resembling emotions rose up within him, Tiessen got carried away with himself and, remembering why Brown, on whose behalf Tiessen is speaking, was arrested, corrected himself midstream: “We have our minds and we’re going to do what we want to do. If we want to take down the feds– if there’s five people that want to take down the feds . . . they’re gonna do it, leave ’em alone!”

Tiessen concluded by encouraging his presumably sleeping audience to “wake the fuck up.”

The following is funnier than anything we could possibly write ourselves

Those Sandusky Boys – A Major Motion Picture

Sandusky
He's got that look on his face like he's been sucking on little boy scrotums and little pinky shaped boy penises. Sucking on little pink nutsacks.

BITING REVIEW: I just watched Those Sandusky Boys, the finest piece of investigative journalism there’s ever been since the Watergate scandal revealed Richard M. Nixon routinely trafficked little boys into the White House.

[Editor’s note: This was the biggest little boy scandal until Penn. State’s Coach Sandusky proved it could be more easily done with free tickets and promises to meet certain heroes in the shower room]

Stan Marivan, main character of the Hollywood blockbuster Those Sandusky Boys, which grossed $40 million on its opening weekend, plays himself: an Internet millionaire working for chronicle.su who donates half of his earnings to right-wing conservative hackers in the form of bitcoins. Marivan said the film incorporates fictional elements to make it more interesting, such as bitcoins being worth something.

“I’ve experimented with men before,” said Marival. “But I have a girlfriend. I am very interested in the things I can do to her, sexually.”

Marival is like M. Night Shamalayanayea except he’s talented and the only twist he needs is a titty twist as he’s getting his rocks off so he can bust a nut up inside his girlfriend and Those Sandusky Boys.

 Attorneys are awash with litigation pertaining to the film’s sensitive subject and refusal to change the names of neither the perpetrator nor his victims. “But all in all,” Marival said, “It’s just a bunch of whatever, we’re making money. Shit.” Marival threw up his hands and squatted so hard he tore the ass out of his khaki slacks, and shat liquid projectile feces directly into his own rare human-face carpeting in the Whollywood Whills.

Marival yelled to a woman named Henrietta, attaching profanities in Spanish, and pointed to the brown stains in his living room. The woman exhaled a whimpering cry, and wallowed in it.

Extra Rage Comics

You know all those exaggerated bullshit stories you read on Reddit, which trick you into believing it really happened to someone? 99% of the time, people embellish their stories dramatically and this is the only reason they get upvotes. Yet somehow, you want to believe it because it’s disguised as a sillyass cartoon that gives you chills of cult like love for your precious, sweet, loving redditors. Oh, you know about the trolls, though. They’re always downvoted and exposed because of Reddit’s precious direct democracy.

Well prepare to have your mind completely shattered, REDDIT.

I use hundreds of sockpuppet accounts to constantly push MISERABLE rage comics into Reddit – HELL, I INVENTED THE LIVEJOURNAL RAGE COMIC.

I did this by making sure the comics would play to all the fucktards who go “aww” and upvote something that isn’t funny.

WELL BY GOD, I’ve got something you’re going to HATE. This is designed for all the little trolls out there, who are now going to RUSH to f7u12 spamposting and spamvoting up horrific comics which will possibly ruin the seriousness which has taken over this CANCEROUS and HIDEOUS scar upon the internet and possibly the worst abscess in COMIC HISTORY.

YOU WILL RUE THE DAY, REDDIT!




Imagine the comments… Infiltrate Reddit…. Upvote…. Profit???

I LOOK EDGY AND FUN WHEN I MAKE TEH IMAGES TOO BIG

 

Fanfiction: Righteous Indignation – Excuse Me While I Rape The World!

An Andrew Breitbart fanfiction

“No, Mr. Breitbart. Please!”Victim of Andrew Breitbart

Andrew Breitbart’s stringy gray hair was greased back with sweat as he loomed over a child, heaving and groaning. In his shadow, the small boy covered his naked shame with both hands and fixed his eyes on the wall, where a picture of Jesus was hung. He was supposed to meet a star.

Through blurry tears, the fresh boy pleaded silently into a haze of pastel colors, bargaining with the figure in a helpless bid to take away the blinding pain he knew was coming again, and again. The picture, slightly a shift, just stared back.

“Please,” he mewed. “Don’t.”

Breitbart reached under his well-fed and sagging One Percent gut where he fished around in an area of fat – barely distinguishable as a human crotch – to release his flaccid member from an outcropping of silvery pubic hair, and he peed on the child. Neither said a word.

Breitbart wiped coke from his mustache, then lost his balance, collapsing into sturdy hotel furniture, driving a chair into the wall with a thud and a smoker’s cough. He quickly regained his composure, squinting to combat double vision toward the bed where a guest with backstage passes cowered palely in the fetal position. Across the floral pattern of a posh Hilton comforter, the child seemed a rare delicacy served up on a platter of foliage among which he was the flower.

“Spread ‘em,” commanded Breitbart through the darkness. “Roll over, and spread.”

The boy looked about seven, or maybe nine. His dad was a staunch supporter of the Second Amendment and admired Breitbart’s throbbing tirades against the Fourth Estate, who just lie to propagate the Jewish agenda. “Nothing but the best for my boy! Let him spend an afternoon with a real American hero, and see what a modern businessman does.” This was nothing new. The man was secretly afraid his son might be “turning into a faggot,” so he once bought him passes to the New York Giants locker room after their 2012 victory against the Patriots.

The boy rolled over and, with uncomfortable familiarity, did as he was told.

“Mm, good,” burped Breitbart, pumping his limp genitalia. “Now what does Daddy say about Reagan? You know the presidents, boy?”

“Reagan was a good president!” he recited tremulously.

“He was the best!” roared the conservative orator. “He won the fucking Cold War. He beat the Commies!” Breitbart was now sporting a self-supporting second stage erection, which he aimed at the child. But the young boy had not proven his loyalty to Reagan well enough to satisfy Breitbart.

“You like Star Wars?” Breitbart cajoled the child who still lay submissively on the bed. “Like the movies?”

“I like Jar Jar,” he said in a lighter tone. His muscles relaxed as the TV star and author appealed to his love for science fiction.

“Yeah, Ronald Reagan knew Star Wars. And with it, he scared those rubes into submission!” Breitbart pulsated, allowing a single drop of conviction to seep out, forming a clear bead. “Thanks to Ronald Reagan, we didn’t have to fire a shot.”

“Reagan liked Star Wars?” The boy was confused.

Breitbart dropped to his knees on the bed and positioned himself directly over the quivering mass of dry, supple flesh, which assumed innocent passivity. And reeking of fermentation, Andrew breathed hotly into his left ear, “Yeah. Reagan liked Star Wars.”

Th3j35t3r’s lie

Feels bad, man

On Sunday, Chronicle.SU was attacked by th3j35t3r, noteworthy Anonymous pedophile. On Wednesday, Chronicle.SU rose from the dead – kind of like Jesus over there, except this really happened. Now, while th3j35t3r is carrying out yet more superficial attacks on WikiLeaks, we’d like to share with the world exactly how petty and powerless this “jester” character really is. Read on, citizen.

During our outage, sockpuppets for th3j35t3r claimed that we had not, in fact, been attacked. They demanded our former host force the removal of any and all references to th3j35t3r and assumed that is what actually happened. Actually, our host refused. But when the Chronicle went down from th3j35t3r’s subsequent attack, his child porn ring claimed victory because they’re really just that dumb.

The real attack, a distributed denial of service,  proved that a traditional botnet is a functional part of th3j35t3r’s arsenal. We reported accusations of th3j35t3r violating children – and the computers of children – which provoked him to flat out attack us. He attacked us because it was true and we are a threat to him. We are a threat to his pedophilia. He stated several times that he didn’t attack us, and that he didn’t use a botnet. He lied.

Isn't she just so damn sexy?

Th3j35t3r commits libel as routine, d0xing anyone who looks like they might be LulzSec, peace be with them. He d0xed us, implying that we should fear the consequences of exercising the freedom of speech. Implying that we are criminals, for speaking the truth.

He abuses the infrastructure of the internet and breaks the law for personal glory and fame. He’s not helping anyone out, and especially not soldiers at war.

What kind of sheltered first world dildo would believe that th3j35t3r’s attacks are demoralizing or debilitating terrorists? More to the point, what kind of terrorist sits at his computer, trying to refresh some fucking forum before he goes out to kill infidels? “Gotta Jihad but first f5 to make sure we’re still game.” The same kind of terrorist who sits in Northern Virginia eating Hot Pockets refreshing 4chan, discussing the same old revolutionary bullshit that’ll never happen. Noko! 404.

Th3j35t3r is all misdirection. He’s a living lie, if you can call that living. Every time we’ve called him on his lies, he’s doubled down and socks a threat or five, claiming that each one is the “first and last” – retweeting his own faildox to a miserly 300 views. This internet try-hard has no power he doesn’t fake or take. That is, none of it is earned anymore than you earned access to the Chronicle.SU today.

Hey jesterfag, you just lost the game. Or, has the game lost you? Since reporting on th3j35t3r, the Chronicle.SU has enjoyed no increase in traffic although we did pick up seven Twitter followers – or 700% of living, breathing followers who know what “th3j35t3r” is. If there is anything to be learned from our coverage of the declining child pornographer and pseudo-hacker (scriptkiddie), it is this: The Jester is officially completely utterly irrelevant.

JesterAttacksChronicle320 by ChronicleSU

On the phone: James K. Galloway

James K. Galloway
Yep, James K. Galloway is Old Brutus. So what?