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Categories
News

VICE: What it’s like to work under Rupert Murdoch

As a techbro thrillionaire living in Silicon[e] Valley, I can tell you the pussy gets pretty epic. But something I don’t always talk about is how I owe it all to “the big guy upstairs,” Rupert Murdoch, founder of News Corp.

After Vice was quietly purchased by the media mogul publisher of FOX News and The Sun, Rupert Murdoch gradually turned Vice into a clickbait hellhole, and that’s where I come in.

Working as a Vice journalist used to mean something: We were at the bleeding edge of modern journalism, risking our freedom to show you North Korea from the inside, and voyaged into the South American underbelly to reveal scopolamine abuse, an amnesiac, deliriant powder used for mind control. But thanks to Rupert Murdoch, that’s all changed. Since the topiary takeover, I have propelled Vice into viral success using such original ideas as, “What it’s like to drive for Uber,” and “What it’s like to pee sitting down for 30 days: I literally peed sitting down.”

The Topiary Takeover left Rupert Murdoch's "The Sun" in shambles.
The Topiary Takeover left Rupert Murdoch’s “The Sun” in shambles.

Profits have never been better. We fired investigative journalists in exchange for sit-at-home bloggers, and because we no longer challenge the status quo, sitting editors no longer fear for their lives. It’s win-win! Except instead of bringing you interesting new content, we now guide you in the long tradition of white apology.

I’d like to thank you for your misplaced trust which made us rich and famous and remind you that, yes, Rupert Murdoch really, really does own Vice, and yes, that fact has changed our shitty publication for the worse. But you’re still in college, and you still want to work for us, don’t you. Yes, you do.

Come on in. Murdoch is always hungry for fresh souls.

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Categories
Politics

dank memes win key states in hotly contested 2016 deflection

a sore victory for democrats, hill quinton tastes the gold as she bath her self in tears of the sun.

meanwhile doanald trumpf is on fire at the oscars “but why not a blacks>”

oklahoma feeling the burn as kittens are catipulted into ionospheric quest for dank new horizons. “it’s full of memes” cats report

i really didn’t think it would end like this

yeb

high school principal comes out and reminds a high student with high ideas no running in the hallways. no horse play its dangerous

 

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Categories
Society

hatesec’s cat house, a barnburner by hatesec

hatesec's old house in the hood
2009: When cats took over the kitchen, we got to have cookouts every night on the front porch!

Roanoke, Va. – I recently returned from a fantastic experience that took place in a close, personal friend’s house where he lives in squalor and disease. When I walked in the front door, two cats escaped the house by running between my legs. I just stepped over them. The hot odor of sick animal piss, a cat’s territorial spray, hit me in the face immediately followed by the shrill cacophony of tiny dogs barking.

The humid, poorly-circulating air inflamed every sense as I fought the urge to swallow. My body only wanted to hurry up and accept the tainted air. Just stop fighting it. This is for hatesec, my dear friend.

My allergies seized violently – instantly – as I breathed in my first full breath of air. Pet dander drifted through the sunrays which beamed three thin slices of light through the dark, heavy foyer of my fellow real-journalist-for-a-big-news-outlet’s home. I bent over at the waist to pick up my PlayStation 3 and clear, liquid snot poured from my nose as if someone left the water running in a clogged bathroom sink.

Hatesec tossed me a Coke from the kitchen as he darted upstairs to his room, like he usually does, because it is the only place in the house , he says, that isn’t caked with cat feces and piss. So I made my way over the green, grimy living room carpet. I stepped on a Dungeons and Dragons guidebook, but took care not to kick any 20-sided dice under the couch. There was no telling what else might live under there.

As my unconscious mind beckoned in wonderment of how any dungeon master could relax in this mire, my eyes fell on a cat, whose long body stretched across the refrigerator, atop which – clearly in control as he surveys the house from his Frigidaire throne – the animal lay comfortable in a thick bed of its own sallow fur.

How harmful could the creature be? I wondered. This house was his territory. I could smell it.

Nah, it was a good house, though.

This is part 1 in a series of stories called barnburners.

barnburner

It was just cats, everywhere: Kilgoar
It was just cats, everywhere: Kilgoar