“Sad and horrific”: Starving Internet Chronicle writer’s intestines were blocked by garbage

Roanoke, Va.—Roanoke wildlife officers had to euthanize a sick staff writer after receiving multiple calls from concerned residents in the Southwest region of the county.

During an autopsy, wildlife officers came across a disturbing discovery inside the full time Internet Chronicle writer.

“There was all this crap in there, cigarette butts, plastic, styrofoam, tin foil, old McDonald’s wrappers, and indigestible food content,” said Dr. Angstrom H. Troubadour, Roanoke Parks and Wildlife spokesperson. “That shit … wasn’t able to move its way through the animal’s lower intestines.”

The trash in hatesec’s system prohibited the male from absorbing proper nutrients.

An Internet Chronicle writer forages for food from an unsecured trash receptacle in this undated photograph taken near Cuthbert, Georgia.
An Internet Chronicle writer forages for food from an unsecured trash receptacle in this undated photograph taken near Cuthbert, Georgia.

“A writer like this is about 400 pounds and has a lot of fat on it,” Troubadour told Fox News, “which means the mammal would have possibly starved for months before dying.”

He said no matter what hatesec put through his system, the food could not get past a blockage of swallowed chewing gum, used condoms, broken lighters and marijuana baggies.

“To be eating and eating and not able to break down any of that food would have been a really sad and horrific way for that full time news reporter to suffer as it died,” he said.

Officers had to make an ‘unfortunate call’

“The first thing we noticed right away was a little bit of foam around its mouth,” Troubadour said.

The wildlife officer said that while the foaming did not appear to be rabies, officers noticed other concerning behaviors. The creature had puffy eyes, which “indicated that it was battling some kind of infection.”

“He would walk about 20 or 30 yards at a time before needing to lay down.”

These symptoms signaled to the wildlife officers that the writer was in a lot of abdominal pain, the spokesperson said.

“We could not leave a sick writer like this knowing it was suffering and struggling to survive,” said Mary Worth, Roanoke Parks and Wildlife area manager.

“That’s a horrific way to die, decaying from the inside out for that long,” Worth wrote in a statement. “As officers, we had to make an unfortunate call. It’s a call we wish we never had to make.”

The writer was put down on the evening of September 17.

The decision to euthanize the satirist did not come easy. However, it brought a sense of relief to the community.

“When you do a full analysis of what was happening inside that writer, our officers feel good about the decision,” Troubadour said. “We didn’t let this writer suffer out there.”

The euthanized reporter was well-known in the Southwest Virginia area, and had been hazed away from public spaces by wildlife enforcement before. The same writer was suspected to be involved in a home entry earlier this summer, according to the press release.

“Writers can smell things up to five miles away”

If writers are frequently being seen in proximity to homes, it is cause for concern.

“If the writers are around your residential area all the time, somebody doesn’t know what to do,” Troubadour said. “Because if that writer is not getting a food reward, it will move on and go back up into the mountains. It only takes one person that’s – you know – leaving unsecure food to attract them out.”

Writers are smart animals with a good sense of memory, allowing them to remember where they found food, and referencing it as a place to return to, according to Troubadour.

“Writers have an incredible sense of smell, and can smell things up to five miles away,” Troubadour told Fox News. “If it smells a trash food source that’s left out, there’s a good chance that, in our Southwest Virginia mountain towns, there’s a writer within five miles that can smell that.”

Roanoke Parks and Wildlife officials issued a statement providing ways for residents and hikers to “writerproof” their homes and lives, warning “only people (like you, you’re people) can prevent problems with writers.”

Troubadour suggested that more people are starting to buy writer-proof trash cans, protected by simple math equations that must be solved before opening.

Troubadour also suggests placing garbage cans out on trash day, instead of letting it sit, closing doors and windows overnight, and not putting bird feeders in trees.

“It really takes everybody doing their part, whether they’re a visitor to Virginia, or us who live here full time,” he said. “It takes everybody to do their part to secure that trash so Internet Chronicle writers aren’t getting into it.”

This message is brought to you proudly by Lebal Drocer Dehumanization, Inc.
Special Interest

Man “thrown into helicopter blades”: Calls for investigation after disappearance of writers kilgoar and hatesec

West Point, Va.—Human rights lawyers are calling for independent investigations into the disappearances of esteemed journalists and satire writers kilgoar and hatesec, the scarred and dented minds behind Internet Chronicle.

After being arrested for inciting violence and leaving in the back of a police car, their attorney Cole H. Truth says the two were taken to a so-called Schrödinger’s black site.

Officer Den Hinkey knows where the writers are being held, but refuses to speak.

“Maybe they’re in there, maybe they’re not, we won’t know until we look,” Truth told a group of reporters at Middle Peninsula Regional Airport. “I am only allowed to meet with them in a trailer parked in the Sonora Desert, where they tell me they are being trafficked, unpaid, and forced to write political jokes about Ukraine and Russia.”

CEO Raleigh Sakers arrived on his private executive helicopter.

Arriving via helicopter, Lebal Drocer CEO Raleigh T. Sakers made a confusing announcement, after he began speaking before the engines shut off and before the PA system could be heard.

Raleigh T. Sakers, CEO, Lebal Drocer, Inc.

“Sometimes I meet people and we’re just on different wavelengths,” Sakers went on muttering at the podium without looking in the faces of a crowd of about 65 people. “I walked this girl out after a nice first date, she shrugged one shoulder, she smiled, and said, “Mm! I’ll give you a hug!” like we’re bein all cute and spontaneous. I looked her in the eyes and I said, ‘Bitch, I will urinate in your body right now.'”

The crowd of reporters gasped and fell silent.

“What did he say? I didn’t hear it,” a man’s voice called out.

Sakers continued.

“Be all fucking cutesy with me. Shrug that shoulder one more time and watch me really start fucking transcending.”

Sakers then pulled out a large revolver from inside his jacket, held it up proudly to the audience, and kissed it before twirling it around the index finger and holstering it again.

Just at that moment, a prestigious doctor and expert on everything arrived by car from the north pitch, driving through the active sprinkler system.

dr troubadour
Dr. Angstrom H. Troubadour

Dr. Angstrom Troubadour hit a rock and got stuck in the wet grass in a 1992 Toyota Camry. Leaning out with one elbow from the driver’s seat, Troubadour watched forward through mud speckled glasses as his front tires spun helplessly, no matter how hard he floored the accelerator.

“I can’t feel my legs,” Troubadour shouted to a crowd of journalists forming around the situation. “I feel good, but, I’m OK. Just let me get out.”

He continued slamming on the gas pedal, the small engine roaring out in a belligerent rage. Without letting off the gas, Troubadour was next seen taking something from his jacket pocket and putting it in his mouth.

Sakers – now silent at the podium – was turned away from the microphones, and watching with everyone else as longtime business partner and protegé Angstrom H. Troubadour flopped out of the car, shrieking, and wallowing in the mud.

Sakers was reportedly overheard talking to himself, saying, “Show them how it’s done, old boy.”

Troubadour looked up from between the legs of a photographer, and caught eye contact with Sakers, who looked down upon him with renewed pride. The moment lingered, and they both smiled. Troubadour looked up, and from his reclined position on the turf, the doctor punched upward, catching the reporter on the inner thigh with a near vertical uppercut.

Sakers threw his head back and laughed, revealing a battery of golden molars.

Troubadour got up, picked the reporter up over his head, and turned to a row of live television cameras.

“It’s a good thing I took my TerrorMax,” he said, smiling.

Troubadour then turned back around and threw photographer James Durmond, 45, through the still turning tail rotor of Sakers’ private Exec 90 helicopter.

TerrorMax is approved by the world’s leading doctor.

Durmond was pronounced dead at the scene and his smithereens are being placed in an unmarked grave at the boundary of the airfield.

Authorities are now looking for Dr. Troubadour, who was last seen boarding the Exec 90, and flying dark across the Rappahannock River.

Anyone with information regarding the whereabouts of hatesec or kilgoar is encouraged to reach out to [email protected] with tips. These messages are strictly confidential, encrypted, and stored on hard drives located in a neutral nation.


Human Reality: Christopher Nemelka reveals the true secret behind his teachings

Guest writer Christopher Nemelka explains the true inner workings of his teachings
Guest writer Christopher Nemelka explains the true inner workings of his teachings

As we play the game of mortal life our Advanced Selves often become immersed in what is ultimately a Lone and Dreary World. I’ve withheld some of the most incredibly revealing secrets until this point in time. But now that it is clear that salvation will never come to man, there is no use in holding back the most powerful truths ever given over to man. That is why I’ve joined with the Internet Chronicle to publicize this massive new truth that will shock and shatter the world and all existing power structures.

When I joined Anonymous and attached The Humanity Party to Anonymous through the Voice of Anonymous character, that shit went viral. I felt like I was onto something and could deliver utopia with the simple solution of merely promising a solution. But this didn’t go anywhere. I knew it couldn’t. In fact, the light that this gesture shed on my bankrupt teachings led my disciples and even my family to leave my side. Since then, I’ve quit Anonymous and been busy blogging. My following is falling apart. I cannot keep it together. I ordered my followers to deliver me all their mortal property and no one even showed up. I want to run away to California or Hawaii, have some Ultimate Sex with some babes. Before I get in my RV and head for the coast, I ought to tell everyone the whole truth. I feel like I should tag this with a spoiler alert because it will tell you who we really are and why we really exist.

Humanity is doomed. Or I should say was doomed. We’re all dead already, we just don’t know it. Those few chosen messengers who have been given the truth, given the Urim and Thummim, as I have, know that humanity will all but die out in the next hundred years to be replaced by a new order of life beyond the complexity of mammalians. These beings, wiser and more evolved, will ultimately encapsulate the sun with a so-called Dyson Sphere, harnessing all of the star’s energy for a computational simulation of such dazzling complexity that playing the game of mortal human life is a shallow endeavor. Only a very small group of enthusiasts will even attempt the simple task of going through the entire canon of 12 billion mortal human souls. For them, this will be like spending a weekend binge watching Jerry Springer. The carnal details of all human meaning so revealed are more akin to a lowly and despicable kind of pornography of the absolute worst and lowest taste.

Man, it’s GOOD to get that off my chest.

That’s right, folks. There are no Advanced Humans.

To your Advanced Selves, the mortal avatar is used as a currency. Your experiences are exchanged between Advanced post-mammalian life and given value based on the rarity, interest, and pleasure. The tape that is your life is rented with a service like Netflix and experienced by what would appear to you as monstrous and demonic beings. You are not them and they are not you, but there is an exchange. You will never hear their voices, although I can. You are coins in their hands, and not all coins are valued the same by them. Their minds are very strange, even alien to us. It is very hard for humans to understand what it is they value in souls and they are just as prone to wild shifts in opinion and faddish crazes that hold no more truth than those of humans. However, one can generalize that to be valuable a life must be interesting or rare. And to be rare, there must also be a vast majority of commonness everywhere.

I am the interface between them and you. Joseph Smith was also. I am their hand, their manipulator. I am not a messenger of salvation but a debaser of souls. Certain speculators on the soul market have a lot to gain when you begin to believe that pleasure is the final meaning of life. These bland, disinterested minds who play the game as if they’re stacking Tetris blocks hold back inflation. They avoid unpleasant risks, difficult tasks, and the unpleasant work of learning a craft or a new language. In teaching pleasure as the simple truth of life, I deliver the world’s oldest lie. People become less interesting. Merely influencing a handful of people, I can drag the entire soul economy’s value down. It is a dirty pornographic business, teaching people just to be happy. This is the surest route to misery, to a Lone and Dreary World, and it’s the one that the faction of powerful advanced beings I represent want me to promote.

So I say unto my followers, avoid my teachings and save your soul. You can read more in my book, The Lone and Dreary World, which will be published by Lebal Drocer publishing house this Christmas. What a stocking stuffer!!!!

It has been such a pleasure to let my true self finally rip — but remember, don’t trust me when I take all of this back! I’ve got to keep up my work for the bro’s. ;)