Entertainment Reviews

Is Jimmy Fallon a lizard person? Yes, Jimmy Fallon is a reptile

Jimmy Fallon is a reptile. He is openly a lizard man!

INTERNET CHRONICLE EXCLUSIVE: A rare look at the empty husk of a man

NEW YORK—Yes, Tonight Show host Jimmy Fallon has a weird energy. His interviews often have a constrictive vibe where there seems to be some pointless hurry to say everything in a fast jazzy jabber, in which not a moment can breathe. Yes, he plays peek-a-boo with guests, and hides behind his hands. Of course he does. That is old news. In this article, we are setting that aside as we explore the overwhelming probability that behind his funny mask, Jimmy Fallon is a hollow, creepy person, and lizard-like in demeanor.

WATCH CLOSELY: There’s a ton of cute Jimmy Fallon gifs online, but none focus on his snake-like flit of the tongue. Fallon routinely flits his tongue when he thinks no one is watching, the way snakes breathe.

It’s a tough job, but you don’t have to be perfect. Leno was down and dirty, but you watched it anyway since he was great. Conan was Conan, played like he’s on stilts. Far from perfect, Johnny Carson himself was arguably the most flawed of all tonight show hosts, until you really start to look at Jimmy.

No one was better than Johnny Carson.

Johnny Carson, who started The Tonight Show, was revered for his warmth and even-kilter interview style. Johnny earned his place in American history – and our living rooms – by making connections, setting an example, and making people laugh and feel good. At the end of a segment, you’d learned something about his guest, saw a lightning storm of intelligent people, conversation and jokes, and you even smiled with them as everyone stuck the landing and it all went really well.

Fallon does that, too. Seinfeld has appeared on The Tonight Show since the 1980s, and calls Fallon’s style an “amazing, legendary artificial enthusiasm,” and he meant it sincerely, even if as a back-handed compliment. Their segment, too, ends on a laugh and a high note. But Fallon also does this weird thing where – just for a moment – he flashes reptilian and insect-like.

Fallon rapidly flicks his tongue, like a snake tasting the air.

He does it more when interviewing young women, but he does it a lot.

Take a recent example, grabbed at random and selected because the interview is labeled ‘Extended’ …meaning there would be enough time for the conversation to be suffocated with high energy, and to have a bad, horrible vibe. Yet it is in the earliest moments of their interaction, that Jimmy’s eyes go cold.


The above video was selected for another parameter: Fallon behaves especially lizard-like when interviewing young, up-and-coming female talent, such as Jenna Ortega, who is a true artist that pours her soul into her work, and is about neither fame nor the hype. In fact, her commitment to her craft is what makes it all the more egregious to see Fallon shift out of his affable, relatable mode and into his Reptile Brain.

Jimmy Fallon is an incredible comic actor, he is very kind, and he is easy to get along with. But there are moments, when he is also something else. His acting talents are so fast, and so sharp, that he does a fantastic job of masking, but it’s only play.

Watch closely for glimmers behind the mask. The lights are on but nobody is home.

After posing the first question, Fallon holds his gaze on Ortega’s body for so long, that in the next frame, the cameras cut away because it was getting super obvious. He does it again later, leaning back to watch her response like he is in Eyes Wide Shut.

He looks again at her legs, repeatedly.

Before a minute can pass, and seemingly against his will, Fallon rapidly flits out his tongue, as if tasting the air.

(Jimmy Fallon, at dress rehearsal): “OK so when my guest uncrosses her legs, stay on me, and that is when I’ll stare straight down her snatch, got it?”

Johnny Carson used to have on the great Henny Youngman. Fallon brings out Pretty Young, Man.

Jimmy Fallon brings a whole insect controlled by a parasite vibe to the party that the hoes can't really vibe with.
The vibe is dreadful.

Everyone loved Johnny Carson. Growing up at Internet Chronicle, we watched him every night.

Olaf Encke

Some observers attribute a shift in his demeanor that took place during a sudden pattern of getting hurt in accidents, partway through Fallon’s tenure as host.

In one such incident Fallon was treated for ring avulsion, an injury patients get from removing their wedding bands too quickly.

Maybe Jimmy got hurt and got creepy.

On the other hand, Jimmy Fallon is an insanely talented, sexy, disgusting motherfucker who is also capable of perfectly impersonating Jim Morrison, even hitting his distorted, howling high notes, the thing that Morrison is best known for.

Maybe Jimmy Fallon deserves a shitload of pussy. Who are we to say if he doesn’t? Look at him play!

But dude we have a show to do. Why not beforehand, just fuck two whores who look identical to your guest? That way maybe you can look her in the eye.

Bill it to 30 Rock, because that’s also something Jim Morrison would do before and after putting on a great show. “Love Me Two Times” (1967).

If that is what it takes to keep your demeanor level, then do that. Because this is The Tonight Show and we need you in the moment, Jimmy. However…

[ominous music]

What if, behind the mask, there is no Jimmy? What if those moments of – leering, tongue-snapping, sudden vacancy of the eyes, carnal lust, praying mantis posture – what if underneath the concept, under his veneer, that’s all Jimmy Fallon really is?

Johnny Carson would often let moments sit. He would sit with his guest, briefly or for several seconds, while they connected to see what was actually worth bringing up. Pondering how to get to the next moment gracefully was the fuel of Johnny’s warmth. This was especially true when connecting with non-comedian guests such as dog owners and competition divers. Johnny would watch shitty videos of people diving, and quietly say, “Pretty,” after each one. Gentle. There’s no music to shout over. It didn’t need to feel like a party. The audience got to know the rare inner thoughts of quiet people, and the sound of room tone.

Jimmy chases that intimacy out of the show like Benny Hill. Keeps it icy, cold, snappy, let’s move it along, and done. The show is missing the warmth of humanity itself.

I used to think guys like Jimmy Fallon, ‘Eh, maybe his heart’s just not in it.’ But Jimmy’s got no heart. It’s not like he would rather be fishing. He is doing exactly what he wants, right there in front of you.

Jimmy Fallon is literally a lizard.


TRIP REPORT: I tried the Troubadour recreational drug experience, and this is what happened to me

Vvardenfell, Morr.—Dr. Angstrom H. Troubadour is perhaps the best known Internet physician who has not been killed by darknet fentanyl, and is a valuable asset to Internet Chronicle, not to mention a seemingly bottomless resource for the investigative journalists who work here.

His Diet for the Modern Man ushered in a forced evolution the likes of which had not been seen since primates first began ingesting psychedelic mushrooms. Not to be outdone by anthropology, Troubadour later released his own mind-bending recreational drug experience: an entheogenic journey into the mind, unlocked by the twin engine thrust of Benadryl and Red Bull energy drink.

For more than 10 years, Dr. Troubadour has pushed for the mainstream adoption of Red Bull and Benadryl allergy tablets together.
For more than 10 years, Dr. Troubadour has pushed for the mainstream adoption of Red Bull and Benadryl allergy tablets together.

Although published more than a decade ago, and although it was officially recommended by the Internet Chronicle Health Council, the concoction was never tested on human beings — until today.

The following is a trip report by veteran journalist and Internet Chronicle correspondent hatesec, whose experience with psychedelic drugs includes a long and storied history of LSD use, psychedelic mushrooms, LSA (the precursor chemical to lysergic acid diethylamide, found in morning glory seeds and Hawaiian baby woodrose, which are coated in a fuzzy but dangerous skin of arsenic), salvia extract, opiates, the evil and illegal drug marijuana, caffeine, and much much more.

[Editor’s note: Reader beware—Hatesec signed several waivers, releases and affidavits, so that if something happens to him, he will be denied company medical coverage, left for dead on the blacktop, and emergency services will not respond. Do not try this at home. Save it for work, like he did.]

Trip Report

One Hour of Fun
Red Bull & Benadryl

by hatesec

  • Dose: 50 mg (oral) Benadryl
  • Dose: 250 ml (oral) Red Bull energy poison
BODY WEIGHT: 138 lbs

January 28, 2023

2:36 p.m.

I ingest two tiny pink pills, totaling 50 mg diphenhydramine, washed down with a room temperature Red Bull energy drink I just remembered I had in a jacket pocket.

Off to a rocky start: As I open the can, some of the drink sprays out on my hand, and seeps in through the pores of my skin.

2:43 p.m.

My mouth is sticky from the warm soda. There is a lingering, acidic aftertaste of  chemicals, perhaps taurine? What even is taurine… is it named after the constellation? Taurus, the bull? Wait, is it just some proprietary, mystery chemical that they named after a fucking bull? Or did they name the drink after the chemical? Is taurine naturally red? The drink is yellow.

For all the drugs in my chemical history, I have always intentionally avoided cocaine and other stimulants, mainly because I never saw anyone’s demeanor improved by the drug. Sure, they seem to be having a great time, but you become an obnoxious, self-centered asshole on cocaine, and it seems to make you not care that you have been the only person talking for three hours. I’m already almost like that, which is bad enough as it is, so Red Bull is as far as I am willing to go down the dark road of stimulants.

2:46 p.m.

I close a litany of reference materials. Much like this very report, that shit is way too long to read. A prompt asks if I want to close 238 tabs, and I say yes without checking to see what they are. I want to really take advantage of the crystal clarity of Red Bull enhanced thinking, so I launch Morrowind, the third game in the Elder Scrolls series.


Like Diogenes, I carry a candlestick through Balmora, even at daytime, in my permanent unending search for a single honest man.

Despite having virtually no physics, static NPCs, and a soundtrack that can be heard in its entirety during a single session of play, it is considered the best game in the series. This is owed to its storytelling, characters, and limitless roleplaying potential. In contrast to later games, where you are thrust into the experience of a story in an ever-changing world created by artists, Morrowind gives you a static world as your canvas, and makes you the artist with a litany of tools at your disposal to chance upon the story like happy accidents.

2:59 p.m.

With its dreamlike music, alien setting, routine performance of miracles, and tales of imperial cults, Morrowind is basically the Bible for gamers. I’m level 2, already a master manipulator of realities, and just acquired a spell sword that poisons everything it cuts. I’m about to go off, but first I promised the shopkeepers of Ald’ruhn that I would hunt down this one deadbeat piece of shit who got a bunch of free supplies and now owes money all over town. Uhh, yeah, I’m thinking I’ll be flipping some tables soon!

How am I supposed to find anyone in this dust storm? He is most likely inside.

3:04 p.m.

Kilgoar enters a chatroom and says he thinks taurine comes out of some tropical nut, or berry. “Or maybe that’s guanine,” he says. He doesn’t know. I don’t care. I’m just trying to do right by Troubadour, by demonstrating the efficacy, safety, and value of his scientific and medical recommendations.

3:30 p.m.

I found a bunch of zombies in the basement of an Ald’ruhn manor at the edge of town. My adrenaline was pumping as I unlocked the door and found the hideous beasts down there, rotten and possessed by corprus. Although it was scary enough on its own, I feel that Red Bull enabled my sympathetic nervous system to lurch into overdrive, and protect me from the horrible fright (which ironically only added to it).

Now I am on high alert, and need to take a piss.

3:32 p.m.

I finish the can of Red Bull. With heightened senses, I notice copyrights for 1996, and 2013 on the can. 1996 was crazy.

3:36 p.m.

My urine is caramel colored.

3:54 p.m.

My head is spinning. My thoughts become soup.

I am now so sleepy that I can no longer remain interested in Morrowind. Actually I really want to play, my thoughts are racing, and I have all these ambitions, but I just saved my game and now I want to crawl under the covers and watch a movie on TV. Why are we always “crawling” into bed? Is that the best way to go?

4:10 p.m.

I crawl into bed, and put on a 1986 episode of the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. George Carlin is the guest, but I do not make it to his segment. Instead, I fall asleep during an interview with a man from South Carolina, who brought an impressive dog with him. I fall asleep before I can see the dog.

In 1986 this was considered an acceptable looking shot, from the most popular television show on Earth.

January 29, 2023

2:16 a.m.

I am having a nightmare in which about 20 people on opposite sides of a house are having a playful gun battle using live ammunition. All that remains are myself and three of my closest friends.

One of my enemies has turned herself into a cat, with a human head, and the face of a pretty girl. She comes up to me where I am on guard duty in a laundry room that joins the two halves of the house.

I place the barrel of a large revolver into her fur and pull the trigger, but because the weight of the revolver hammer is so heavy, I miss my first shot and it blows past her, into a washing machine.

She smiles because she knows her death is coming soon, and at the hands of a fool. I adjust my grip and place the barrel of the gun directly into her soft abdomen.

Owing to her supposed innocence, the act now feels cruel, but I harden my resolve with the knowledge that just hours ago – as play turned to real – she and her friends were slaughtering the people I grew up with. Her catlike body represents nothing more to me than the manner in which we had all become animals overnight.

My next shot hits her right in the belly. I fire four more shots into her until she is dead. I stumble back into the room where my friends are watching a movie, and begin to take the gun apart incorrectly. My friend has to pull himself away from the film to show me how to do it. He tells me it’s OK, that the Apocalypse Now Director’s Cut is too long anyway. Sure enough, a glance at the TV screen tells me they are on the abandoned helicopter graveyard scene, which is eerie, but boring.

At least it had boobies in it: A long and pointless scene from Apocalypse Now (Redux), during which one of the main characters fools around with a USO showgirl in an abandoned helicopter.

I awaken after 10 hours to the sound of my cat licking her asshole. There is a tightness in my chest.

2:27 a.m.

I am very hungry. Nothing is open, but there are pepperoni pizza flavored Hot Pockets in the freezer. There are no further insights to be gained.

This has been the Troubadour Recreational Drug Experience. Safe, recommended, and very medical.

Lebal Drocer
Entertainment Religion

Prank turns deadly when silly string ignites during a Satanic ritual fire

Related news (ignore this stuff)

  • Evil John Lennon and Sinister Paul McCartney go triple platinum after writing hit banger, “Got to Get You Into My Strife.”
  • Mark David Chapman demonstrates how a practical joke that seems like a harmless lark can quickly turn deadly.
  • Chapman sprays them with silly string, which is fun, until an exposed candle ignites the pile of string.
  • The pop duo embraces, creating a single flame.
  • What happens next will leave you horrified!
Ukraine nuclear bomb blast detected
Final images from Earth.

CLASS I BORDERLESS NATION — My table top is lit by some makeshift candlelight. It’s black. A pile of burning what is certainly wax. It’s so I can write. Unrolling my papers, my scattered pages fall to the floor. These are my documents. The candle suffocates me with its black smoke, but it conceals the light.

A screeching interrupts my thoughts. It’s them.

This is where I am. God help us everyone. What’s happened to our world? Here is how I think we got here. This scorched hellscape. This nothing zone where plants no longer grow, and them: In Their Satanic Majesty, they soar in wicked dominion.

Here is what happened.

Evil John Lennon, man as he was, stood upright, never smoked at all, and has a proclivity for being exceptionally kind to his women and wives.

Sinister Paul. Now here was a man with his shit together. Tattooed and ugly, the “Badboy of Great Britain” Paul McCartney drank it, shot it, snorted it or worse. On his free time, he savagely tortures good souls in Hell.

Together with Rude Ringo and George “Rotten Crotch” Harrison, they wrote the number-one charting hit masterpiece “Got To Get You Into My Strife.” A fun jingle about pulling others into their dark underworld, when played backwards, its psychedelic harmonies become nightmarish spells that when heard, turned rabid fans tame, at the band’s command.

They used this to gain control of the Western Territories, decimating it as they claimed more, until so little of the nations remained, borders all but became meaningless.

Ringo said, “I should get paid for all the time I stand around, slapping my hips and my thighs, like I’m playing the drums, innit.”

John, exhaling cleaner air than what he breathed in, took off his sunglasses, and he turned to me, done signing my book.

“Next,” John said.

Even today, I crave the dismissal. I looked back at John one last time, knowing he was the Devil himself.

Paul, too. The son of a bitch that swooped down from the sky, and with his talons spread open wide swooped down, and scooped out my eyes.

I must have unlocked their powers. No, it certainly happened then. As I “sought revenge” for my ego bruising, I burst and hoped to surprise them. Hoped to catch them unawares in a playful bit of fun, just to let them know, I’m down with the Devil, and I really like their hateful style. I stopped by the party store, and picked up two cans of Silly String. What a gag!

I met them at a candlelit ritual, held every full moon. The town gathered here. As I struck out alone, deep in the forest is where first I saw it: Two flat pink ribbons, rippling in the night, sailed over me like some twirling owl.

As I got closer, the din of voices carried. Familiar voices. I crept in closer. I heard the voices of a teller, a teacher, my wife and a preacher. Not sure what that was about, it will come to me later. There! Ringo was dancing. Paul played the lute, and Linda, still missing that leg, danced. What a hoot.

I sensed an owl watching me as I approached closer, and closer to John, locked arm-in-arm with his band-mate Evil Paul, at an unbridled Satanic ritual pentagram dance. Around the candlelit center they’d go. The owl’s gaze turned, next, to them. All at once, the chanting stopped, everyone turned suddenly and they all looked at me. Heck, I like the Devil.

Surprise! I yelled, and I jumped out from a shadow. I hosed those Brits down with my silly string, blasting both at one time. Everyone turned to me, dumbfounded.

Ain’t I a stinka?

A familiar voice, the airy, nasally, unmistakable voice of John Lennon spoke to me.

“Mark David Chapman?” John asked.

I froze.

“You know me?” I said.

“Of course,” John replied. “I remember everybody I dismiss from my presence. Come here you old brute.”

He tried to pull me in for a hug, but I back away, not wanting to get silly string on my expensive 19th Century peacoat.

Being good-natured as he was, Evil John took it well enough in stride, that is until he took one step backward and – unable to see – stepped on a candle. His clothing ignited and in an instant, his entire body, including the face, was fully engulfed in flames. The fire clung to the string, and melted on his skin like a bubbling napalm jelly.

That is when Paul must have felt the calling. John turned to his songwriting partner and, burning calmly, opened his arms. They hugged. One laughed to the other, as they embraced and both started to burn.

The owl flew away.

Just like that, the party exploded into dance, and as the bodies were writhing, and as the devils came entranced, the fires of old Hell itself seemed to be rising, climbing through the dirt. A beast cried out, demonstrating the true source of thunder.

Now as I lay here suffering, waiting for the night creatures to take me, or the windstorm of bloodsands to weather down my flesh, the scene plays out, over and over again in my head. My instincts drag me to life. Meanwhile, I pray Death may snatch me from this living nightmare, cast like projections from the eyes of the Devil himself, burned onto film of the ritual fires, and rolling into me like four blurry waterfalls, peeking over the ridge.

They are still out there. I still hear their wings beating on the horizon.

They know where I am.

They hunt.

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