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Health

City sewers FAIL after TerrorMax is flushed in QUANTITY: Stocks increase

A new product by Lebal Drocer, Inc. threatens to tear the world asunder!

The all-new Diet for the Modern Man, updated for 2020 by Dr. Angstrom H. Troubadour threatens to shred the fabric of society as fresh, handsome young men in their early 20s graduate from the Dr. Troubadour School of Nutrition and Sports Medicine.

Gary, Indiana: City Hall has not yet acknowledged the TerrorMax water crisis.

A key element in their dietary plan is a spray-on TerrorMax from a bottle with few labels or indicators as to its makeup and origin. It simply reads: TerrorMax — Spray directly onto the activity centers of your body. Wait 30 minutes between applications.

The controversial product is shown to cause nerve damage and paranoid hallucinations of grandeur.

You can be an inhuman monster just like this man — Read Healthy As Fuck! by Dr. Angstrom H. Troubador, and dehydrate yourself until your skin is nothing but a thin sheet over your muscles. It also decreases chances of ball itch!

Side effects of the drug TerrorMax include madness, arousal, and an insatiable lust for liberty. These volatile properties, Troubadour and his students suspect, have yet to be fully harnessed.

Where his cunning, prescient students learned to substitute vital nutrients for Red Bull, TerrorMax, and Benadryl allergy medicine, they studied under the young legend Dr. Angstrom Troubadour himself, of the Lebal Drocer Institute of Medicine and Dean of the Troubadour School of Nutrition and Sports Medicine.

dr troubadour
Real Doctor

“When you take a shit, all the constituents for human feces are there,” Troubadour said. “However, on my ‘experiemental’ spray-on TerrorMist, your movements remain regular, but your shit now contains caustic compounds, vital to the destruction of threats in the body. My special acids will break down pipes in the home, and even diminish the collective function of all city sewer systems, not yet equipped for this revolutionary new diet for the modern man. This diet is so advanced, it is already pushing the limits of the infrastructure itself. Y’all motherfuckers be getting RIPPED, and I know it.”

Troubadour and his team of professional researchers at Lebal Drocer Pharmaceuticals produced a white paper outlining a diet of energy drinks, experimental drugs freshly approved by the FDA, and LSD.

“I told my guys we’re not trying to win a Nobel. We’re just trying to get super healthy, have a good time, and do the things that men do,” Troubadour said. “We just threw a little LSD in there. So what? I do wonder, though, if a person was trying to be healthy, then why are they reading the Internet Chronicle?”

“It’s not the kind of acid you throw in somebody’s face. This is going into your food,” Troubadour said. “If you’re going to throw acid in a woman’s face, you better have the right kind of acid!”

For some reason, the FDA approved it. They went over it, and found many problems with it. FDA people are a little more optimistic than they used to be, however, and so they passed the drug with flying colors!

“We looked at the shit. It looks pretty bad, if I’m being honest, but it’s not 1994. We are not going to sit here pretending like we give a shit, anymore. Yes, it had problems. Yes, we passed it. Yes, I used to be a consultant for Lebal Drocer, Pharmaceuticals. No, I will not perform oral on you. You want special treatment, bring a gift basket and I’ll meet you around back. I want a Camaro, rented for the night. I’ll return it by 7 a.m. That gets the FDA out of the way.”

–Mysterious diary leaflet LEAKED by a shifty-eyed FDA liaison

A 45-year-old man named Joe, who was at one time addicted to cheeseburgers, got on Dr. Troubadour’s diet plan. It changed his life for the better. He was eating cheeseburgers, he was all stopped up, and found himself in front of Dr. Troubadour’s intake office, in a strip mall outside Gary, Indiana.

“I jumped up in the air and clicked my heels together!” Joe said. “Every cheeseburger I ate resulted in me shitting an equivalent size turd. I once ate a fig newton and a balled up turd popped out. It resembled a lump of cookie dough.”

But Joe’s problem was not with his baby goat shit pellets. Those were cute, he said, and made his kids laugh. The real issue was with his completely wrecked home plumbing.

Because of the Troubadour diet, Joe’s toilet exits through a now useless, busted and corroded pipe hanging loose inside the wall, throwing acid-enhanced shit water into the insulation and floors, which is seeping through the wood, and destroying his concrete foundation.

Because Joe’s two children lived down at eye level with his toxic shit-water, they are being treated at Health Insurance Memorial Hospital for skin burns and inhalation.

Joe’s wife, who asked not to be named, has vacated the home with their children. She is now living it up with all the Brads and Chads she can handle, from the surf shops of Venice Beach, to the inlets and coves of beautiful Bombay. “They had veins bulging out of everywhere,” she texted Joe. “They took me to new heights of pleasure.”

Three strange men will raise Joe’s children as their own.
“That’s gut rot!”

As nights became weeks of repeated orgasmic ecstasy, Joe’s wife would never return to her foul, and ruined man, whose bowel movements still poison the air with the acrid stench of death.

However tragic that may be, what she still has not realized is that the chemicals in TerrorMax can “run hot” exiting the urethra. Doctor Angstrom T. advises that his patients use a “controlled stream” when relieving yourselves like the sick animals you are, or run the risk of fully blowing out your own piss-hole.

Troubadour says, “Don’t come crawling back to us when the end of your winky looks like Elmer Fudd’s exploding rifle. I tried to warn you!”

Sensing trouble, Dr. Troubadour then exited this story through an open window in the bathroom, and was never heard from again.

The same thing happening with Joe’s pipes in the wall is also happening to Joe’s intestines and bowels.

In fact, his pipes have become so gunky and weak that he had a lamb’s bladder installed in his body requiring daily surgery to replace a special, proprietary blend of Red Bull over TerrorMax, sold in convenient, non-biodegradable pods. It was a problem Joe could not ignore, but once he confronted it, Lebal Drocer was there with a litany of monkey’s paw miracle medicine.

“They use a lamb’s bladder because it’s compatible with your body,” Joe said. “It’s a daily procedure, and yes it does get costly, but in the long run you see that it’s worth it. I save so much in TerrorMax bypassing my digestive tract in this manner. Just as quick as they patch me back up, I spring up from the operatin’ table and I’m ready to go, go, go.”

Joe’s doing great. The diet for the modern man has revolutionized the way he and his remaining family experience the world. His cousins believe they can taste color via sound waves in the air, and have shown an intriguing capacity for detecting predators through walls from up to 90 meters away, keeping America safe from Iran.

Joe mails his wife alimony and child support for an undisclosed amount– something close to everything he’s got left.

And the kids? Thanks to TerrorMax in Flintstones chewable tablets, the children are flying around like bats, demonstrating perfect command over their bodies as they flutter about the earth in free form.

This message is brought to you proudly by Lebal Drocer, Inc

Categories
Health

Mr. Stoyte’s Final Quest for Eternal Life

Long live the lifelong legend, inventor, businessman, and thinker!

Mr. Stoyte owned everything this side of Hollywood, and then some more. If you found yourself in a streetcar, you were not far off from one of his ventures, or his curiosities, or perhaps one of his great many abominations.

He touched everything. Wherever men went about their business, Mr. Stoyte lurked in the shadows, a feathery wisp on the material periphery.

Stoyte, who lived high in a cement castle, was deathly afraid of dying. His terrors would not turn him loose! They shook him and broke him down into a man whose demeanor was white over gray, and he lived a dull, miserable, loveless, dim life. For 72 years he lived to see the day when he grabbed a young and veritable Dr. Troubadour by his shirt collar, shoving him into the exposed brick of Troubadour’s luxury laboratory / trendy gastropub, and pumping him full of bees and anxiety. Troubadour, fresh out of medical school, was unsure if this behavior is normal from a client.

“I’ll have you know, Doctor, that our time on this earth is short as it is terrible,” Stoyte whispered through his coffee-stained, nicorette teeth Chiclets, into Troubadour’s mouth. “We all die.”

As his breath hit Dr. Troubadour’s face, it took on color and light. The cloud glowed and smeared itself into a smegma coating his skin, filling in the pores. Troubadour’s skin melted off of his face, exposing his skull to the cool evening air.

Troubadour shaved every morning, as well as doing other shit that makes men better. Healthy living means nothing to the acrid hate in Stoyte’s air, which seemed to originate somewhere deep within the dry barren husk of the old, flickering man. Troubadour’s face took on an oily shine.

Stoyte’s eyes hardened into beady coals. Flaring his nostrils, he peeled back thin, snarled lips, revealing the gnashing of teeth.

He let go, and then quietly withdrew from the stairwell, where he had cornered his own physician in flush desperation. Troubadour crumpled to the floor. A grandfather clock in the main room chimed four times. Not even crickets chirped.

Months went by.

Seasons changed and the nights grew colder. A sharp wind howled through the IKEA artificial stoneface archways, snaking its way hatefully up and down the dank, hazardous tunnels of Troubadour’s Life-Extending Luxury Laboratory and CBD-Infused Tea House — a liberal playground proffered to him by gracious Mr. Stoyte.

One night, Dr. Troubadour went down to the basement, and he found four freaks a freakin out on experimental treatments that he believed had them at his command. At the request of Mr. Stoyte, this matter was delegated specifically to Dr. Troubadour, whose medical prowess was – at that time – nonpareil.

Eventually, Dr. Jack Kevorkian would supplant Troubadour as the world’s premiere Doctor of Death, but in the years leading up to that point Troubadour enjoyed mass success, securing rights to the vast riches of his elite clientele.

Until such time as the nonbelievers could be summoned to his bedside for individual execution, Dr. Troubadour – under orders from Mr. Stoyte – melded his mind with the tortured souls of their victims.

Troubadour’s heart was never in the quest for eternal life. He was never so eager to die as when Mr. Stoyte had commissioned the two of them to live forever. They both died abject, miserable failures *(albeit one much later than the other, with Stoyte being dead, and Troubadour taking on the position as Chair of the Internet Chronicle Truth Academy for Disaffected Youth.)

Internet Hatesec and the Guess Whats? performed their breakout hit “Never going to hit you again.”

Categories
Health

Man given clean bill of health after searching symptoms online

Like a rabbit feverishly scampering about, degenerate Jeremy Fisher ran his every sensation through a search engine one night, after smoking too much pot and confronting his own mortality.

The 34-year-old man replaced doctors with websites in 2007, after aging out of his parents’ healthcare and being generally too unlikable for full-time employment which would have afforded him something like insurance. After switching exclusively to Dr. Angstrom Troubadour’s symptom checker, however, Jeremy’s general condition, and overall well-being, improved tenfold, for FREE!

Jeremy Fisher’s face is locked into a permanent, rigid stare after an “epic” symptom search eased his concerns.

“I feel so much better now.”

 

Dr. Troubadour's Symptom Checker will nurture your Internet dependency.
Dr. Troubadour’s Symptom Checker will nurture your Internet dependency.

A series of google searches confirmed his suspicions: That chest sensation was nothing to worry about, and he should really just relax.

“I was up all night, pacing the floor, worrying about it. What is it? Am I gonna die? Is this what dying feels like?”

— Jeremy Fisher, flatliner

That’s when Jeremy remembered he had the entire wealth of mankind’s knowledge at his fingertips, on the internet, which is connected to his home masturbation and pleasure station.

“I googled that shit fast, hard, and repeatedly,” Jeremy recanted. “Advertisements criss-crossed my screen, sliding over the content I desperately needed. I x’ed them out methodically. Medical information is worth mining for. I got my confidential results in just minutes.”

Finally, Jeremy broke through a wall of warnings, until he reached a screen stating that he could have heart failure as a result of complications from heart cancer, unless he closed that window, too.

“That’s the beauty of the product,” Troubadour mansplained. “See how Jeremy got involved in his own caregiving? This product interactively helps people neglect their health, improving wellness.”

Troubadour said by closing the final pop-up window, Jeremy was rewarded with sweet medical truths the likes of which many will never know ~

What lies in wait beyond the very last advertisement?

Dr. Troubadour’s Super Double Symptom Checker

“Hey! It’s Jeremy again. Remember me? I’m the only other source in the story. So anyway, I’m a fucking retard who believes what he reads online. Dr. Troubadour’s medicine software assured me I am only being paranoid and it is indeed the act of searching symptoms which causes the symptom. Wonder what that means??”

As for getting a job, and finding insurance? Fat chance, Jeremy says. He’s just downright unlikable. Doctors say there ain’t nobody can get along with a man like that.

“I just kind of act like a cock towards everybody I meet,” Jeremy says. “I’ll commit to the right job when it matches my skillset – which may be nothing – but at least I’m not jockeying for position downtown in some hellish rat-race I don’t believe in. You guys at Internet Chronicle probably think you’re hot shit because you’re reporters, huh? I see right through you cunts. Your stories are OBVIOUS fakes.”

[Editor’s note: That is not true.]

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