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News

Barrett Brown is a big ol’ Nemelka and he don’t know what that is even

Raking in the sympathy accolades: honorable mentions for awards no one’s ever heard of from people who don’t know what the fuck this guy is on about but totally buy into the hype.

He went to prison and his girlfriend went over to Adrian Lamo and you wouldn’t believe the wild conspiracies. Who fuckin’ knows. Sounds about right for her. Said she was not only battered but we know for sure she was strung along into his obvious suicide-by-police. Self-swatting. That motherfucker wanted to die and he didn’t give a fuck about her. But you wouldn’t imagine the judgments everyone ran to. He’s a hero, you know. The rules change. This girl logs on to tweet even today and gets hate. Considering the hostile-ass reaction to her claims that he battered her, it ain’t no fucking wonder she didn’t worry about confirming their worst suspicions like she did. If Jacob Applebaum is any kind of a lesson for anyone, well fuck it. Shitlessons, Randy. Shitlessons.

While Biella Coleman is wringing her hands for the cameras, telling us that ‘faggot’ is just a fun thing Anons say, boy howdy them Anons is good little diverse liberals just standing up for the computers– Brown the admitted Randian fascist with an amoral dictate is working his name into “Anonymous” lashing out at anyone with concerns that he’s an FBI dupe. Biella, Biella. What the fuck.

Hatesec says, “Hey Barry, we’re a little concerned about the FBI logging all your chat rooms.” Flash forward: Barry screeches under his door in solitary again and again “Faggot! Faggot! Faggot! Faggot!”

“We think Sabu is kind of aligning himself with Federal motives.” Barry’s ‘ascreechin’ “Faggot! Faggot! Faggot! You ain’t Anonymous sweetheart. Huh huh. You’re lowercase anonymous.” Yeah fuckin’ right, and we call you a namefag. You’re so out of the fuckin’ loop you don’t even know who Nemelka is. He’s you, only more successful. Even more of an atheist although he hasn’t manspread his shitty little nineteen year old ass all over Fox News. Well, boy, was that the height of your career? Probably you will never attain half of Nemelka’s literary merit, although somehow your followers are even stupider. Nemelka Nemelka Nemalka. You don’t even know who he is. You’re a Nemelka. One day you will have a compound, but Nemelka already has one. He has Ida Smith’s grave. You can’t even dream beyond Nemelka. You are Nemelka.

Barry One, brought people into conspiracies to destabilize foreign countries, Two blah blah blah blah blah, you know. His writing goes to the depraved depths of the tabloid ideal of trash entertainment through secret documents. Yeah that ain’t journalism, but good trick. You fooled us for a minute. We all know the bad beach body of some celebrity ain’t the Truth and we know neither is their secret affairs. Sure it’s true but it ain’t the god damn end. Barry, Barry… you stupid little fucker. Lost your god damn mind in your little pile of Truth and it all collapsed in on you didn’t it? You probably still know everything. No wonder you were too goddamn happy to call the death squad in on you and your girlfriend. Too much of a coward to go out shooting like you said you would, though. Who would believe anything you write, now? All bark, no bite. You ain’t got nothin.

Categories
News

gmail.com – we got nothing for you

hello internet. this is yo8ur captain speaking. i am hate sec and i have literally nothing for you. NOTHING. in my little hate soul was left for YOU because you weren’t good enough, but you’re all such excellent readers and i’d really liike to commend my staff for the wonderful work they’ve done.

what emoji would you use to describe the all new lebal drocer cruise line?

shea came up tp me with this logo earlier, it was a series of icons for the hypermart which was fucking … just too much for me at that time but honestly not too bad, either. i briefly saw a drawing of a woodstove, also, but truth be told I could barely look at the paper because the lights in the room were attacking me from all sides. every photon was an assaulting encroachment upon my dignity. an affront to my own sanity. we turned the lights off as we left, i assume.

Clinton says she wants to help women take control of their bodies by taking control of their bodies. #ItsHerTurn | chronicle.su
Clinton says she wants to help women take control of their bodies by taking control of their bodies.

she and brian together pouring over this logo was cute overload. but so were the lights, my god, those lights. THOSE LIGHTS!

all the lights are off, now. all of them but this one. this is the only true light, and i ordered it be kept on. it sits on the porch as a beacon for all to recognize. our city on the hill. this house on the mountain. this shining light. the only true light. if i could describe this feeling to you, it wouldn’t be worth experiencing.

this crazy ass nemelka character wants us to think these feelings belong to a single deity, or a person or a god or a drug. .4

as if it were so easy, i made a promise that i could meet every woman’s sexual needs, even in an army of women. it was a funny thought, but just imagine it. a funny execution. a funny, never-ending orgy…

the thought of these women clamboring at my smartphone dating apps like piranha …. i look at the phone and it’s like, yeah, “go ahead and grab that scorpion while the stinger’s out” …. She seems like a nice enough lady but god damn, could sex be any more empty…or what does that mean, right to be connected to sex by a dating app? is it any less valid? obviously not. it feels great to come inside people, but the written word is not so romantic anymore, is it? it’s a poisonous reach for power. with every clause i introduce, another agreement you sign by reading on. that’s why you don’t use introductory clauses in journalism, because who has time for that?

let’s get to the fucking already, you know?

From this point of view, Trump is every bit as feathery and faggy as any forefather in a powdered wig, and he doesn’t even need the powder, just a slave on the end of his dick and he’s alright. look at this champ, seriously.

i don’t have use sfor him. he’s a fucking animal. n ape you could stuff into a cage and kill it whenever you decide a lil boy got too close. he’s an object of corporate greed, not the greed itself, that’s all i am saying people, ok, I’m not challenging any belief structures, am I? I’m not breaking through new realms of consciousness with this whole “trump is an animal” routine, am I? Because stop me if you’ve heard this:

It’s just a game that people play.

we impregnate each other with these games. don’t let the hate fool you, I am very much a being of pure light. before I existed i was truth brought into ignorance. I am the new way forward. Join me, Electric Citizens, as we march into the future!

FISTS IN THE AIR

CONGRATULATIONS YOU WON

Categories
Entertainment

US Presidents under increasing threat of rap battle. Sources report: ‘These mixtapes are fire’

Being President means living under constant threat of sudden rap battles.
Being President means living under constant threat of sudden rap battles.

Washington, D.C. — King Obama stands up from a throne of human bones and walks onto the balcony overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue.

‘Today is the day,’ he thinks. ‘Today it is finally going to happen.’

Having entered his third stage of molting, Obama sheds a hard carapace, revealing a slick, soft hide. It is as dark and supple as fresh eggplant. He takes a slime bath, half-listening to automated daily reports from the Drone Front.

“Minions come,” Secret Service reports. “They bring mad skills, and street smarts, to boot!”

Challenge them, the President orders. “Best them in rhyme, lest they receive a smackdown, as I lay the beat down in straight time.”


Stop. Does this scenario sound familiar?

Presidents have long faced threat of impromptu rap battles with constituents in hotly contested Mean Streets, going as far back as William Taft, whose infamous red-pill flow eradicated flappers before the end of his presidency in 1930.

Evelyn Bruckheimer, 109 years old, recalls the William H. ‘Daft’ Taft Brooklyn smackdown of 1928.

“It was balls to the wall rhymes, son,” Bruckheimer said. “It was the literally the worst thing to happen to New York that decade; that is, until the Stock Market Crash of ’29.”

New sources indicate Taft’s explosive rhymes triggered a speculation frenzy, crashing markets within the year.

“As bad as it was, people didn’t self-immolate because the stock market [emphasis added] ruined their lives,” Bruckheimer confessed. “You want to know the truth? Taft’s mix-tape was straight fire, G. Believe me.”

Wise up on the streets, Mr. President, or it could happen to you. Can Obama rhyme like Taft? I am not ready to find out.

This has been a public service announcement by Lebal Drocer. Busting out the baby rhymes since them elfwax days. And confused.