JOSEF BIDEN, GENERAL SECRETARY OF THE DEMOCRATIC NATIONAL COMMITTEE (DNC), PRECEDED BY THE DEMOCRATIC-REPUBLICAN PARTY (DRPK)OF SOCIAL LIBERALISM AND THE ALLIANCE OF DEMOCRATS, SENT A MESSAGE OF GREETING TO DIANNE FEINSTEIN, WHOSE DESICCATED BODY WAS LOWERED INTO THE EARTH AT HIGH NOON ON SUNDAY.
THE RESPECTED COMRADE JOSEF BIDEN IN HIS MESSAGE EXTENDED WARM CONGRATULATIONS ON BEHALF OF THE DRPK GOVERNMENT AND ALL THE AMERICAN PEOPLE TO GENERAL SENATOR DIANNE FEINSTEIN OF THE DEMOCRATIC PEOPLE’S PARTY OF THE REPUBLIC OF AMERICA, THE US GOVERNMENT, AND THE FRATERNAL ORDER OF DEMOCRATIC NATIONALISTS ON THE YEAR OF HER ASCENT TO THE THRONE OF ETERNITY.
COMRADE JOSEF BIDEN PRAISED THE LATE SEN. DIANNE FEINSTEIN AS A “TRUE SENTINEL” AND LAUDED HER LONG TENURE IN THE SENATE FOLLOWING NEWS OF HER ASCENT TO THE THRONE OF AMERICAN ETERNITY ON FRIDAY.
“SENATOR DIANNE FEINSTEIN WAS A PIONEERING AMERICAN,” BIDEN SAID, “AND A TRULY HECKIN GIRLBOSS. FOR JILL AND ME, A CHERISHED FRIEND. FOR THE INTELLIGENCE COMMUNITY, A FAUCET THROUGH WHICH RESOURCES FLOWED LIKE THE GREAT WATERS OF LIBERATION.”
SHE FACED CALLS TO RESIGN THIS YEAR AFTER A LONG ABSENCE FROM THE MIND AS SHE RECOVERED FROM LONG HAVANA FOLLOWING AN ATTACK ON HER EMBASSY IN THE AMERICAN SPRING.
VEILED ATTACKS WERE DELIVERED UNDER THE GUISE OF CONCERNS ABOUT HER HEALTH BY IMPERIALIST PIGDOGS AND ENEMIES OF FREEDOM.
BIDEN SAID FEINSTEIN WAS A WOMAN.
“OFTEN THE ONLY WOMAN IN THE ROOM, DIANNE WAS A ROLE MODEL FOR SO MANY AMERICANS — HER THIRST FOR BLOOD AND COMMITMENT TO ORDER AND PRAISE OF HEGEMONIC VIRTUE SHONE LIKE A SUN IN THE NIGHT SKY, OVERPOWERING THE INKY OOZE OF DOUBT WHICH THREATENS TO BLOT OUT THE AMERICAN PURPOSE,” BIDEN SAID.
“DIANNE WAS TOUGH, SHARP, ALWAYS PREPARED, AND NEVER PULLED A PUNCH, ESPECIALLY IF THAT MEANT GETTING DRONES INTO THE CLEAR BLUE SKIES OVER THE DESERTED LANDS OF OUR GODLESS ENEMIES, SO THAT NEITHER THE SUNSHINE, NOR COULD A CLOUDLESS DAY, BRING A SMILE TO THE CHILDREN OF HER OPPONENTS.”
GREAT LEADER JOSEF BIDEN SAID THE FRATERNAL AMERICAN PEOPLE WILL MAKE FRESH SUCCESS IN THE STRUGGLE FOR BUILDING A MODERN SOCIALIST STATE IN ALL ASPECTS AND SAFEGUARDING THE SOVEREIGNTY AND TERRITORIAL INTEGRITY OF THE COUNTRY UNDER HIS LEADERSHIP.
GLORIOUS COMRADE JOSEF BIDEN SINCERELY WISHES YOU GOOD HEALTH AND GREATER SUCCESS IN YOUR RESPONSIBLE WORK FOR THE PARTY AND STATE, THE DNC PROSPERITY, AND THE AMERICAN PEOPLE HAPPINESS.
READ ABOUT THE CONTROVERSIAL NEW BILL FUNDED ENTIRELY BY CALIPHATE
LITTLE ROCK — Arkansas Governor Sarah Huckabee Sanders signed the Minors Advancing in Prosperity (MAP) bill today, with media reports focusing on many shocking aspects of the 100,000 page legislation. Included along with the easing of child labor laws was the revision of several criminal punishments for minor-related sex crimes. New wording removed jail terms for most felonies and focused in on correcting pedophilic acts with rehabilitation at state-funded religious centers.
“It’s like an addiction!” said Jerry Fowler. “Basically its like we’re ending the drug war.”
In addition to his membership on the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum Committee, Fowler is a youth minister who specializes in counseling recovering addicts of all kinds.
He recently advocated for a controversial form of conversion therapy to help pedophiles and child abusers like Sarah Sanders recover.
“They don’t call it jailbait for nothing,” Fowler said. “We throw them in with the fatties who are addicted to sugar, the needle freaks, and the porno pyros. They’re all just addicted, addicted to sin. It’s a medical thing, nothing more.”
Fowler, who spoke with his hands in his pockets, nodded to a long gray building with bars on the windows. Its paint is peeled from years of neglect, revealing layers of color history, grays, greens, olive drab, turquoise, red and black.
“Then we BREAK them down and rebuild them,” Fowler continued. “Like the military does. But we can handle this ourselves. We need big government out of medicine so we can move this society along, move the economy along, to get that engine burning you have to burn through a few thousand souls. As you can see, we have the facilities to support that.”
Fowler’s ministry has been certified and funded under the bill, which reclassifies his megachurch as a Class-A medical facility that is licensed to rehabilitate hundreds of thousands of criminals a year, at Fowler’s sole discretion.
Governor Huckabee Sanders said the Fowler ministries helped her get over her sadosexual mental illnesses, but that she still wants to open up all manner of child labor, stressing something about the economy maybe.
“Overall, that was President Obama’s idea. I guess it’s good for the economy or whatever. We put in all this gross stuff.”
Republicans enjoy full control of all legislative bodies of the Arkansas state government, and now the bodies of Arkansas children as well.
“We want Child Trafficking networks to be legal and safe,” Governor Huckabee said, “So many children disappear and their parents lose track of them as they are traded around without paperwork. Making it legal will make child trafficking safe again, helping slaves stay in touch with their loved ones, and maybe, one day, giving parents a legal route to buy them back.”
While other journalists have been living with a healthy work-life balance, Internet Chronicle writers doubled down, in an absolute frenzy, and speed-read the bill, racing against always-on AI reporters who ingest facts and information thousands of times per second.
In a postmodern cyberpunk version of John Henry’s race against the steam hammer, Internet Chronicle reporters were just barely able to outperform the machine, but only at a dire cost to their health and well-being.
The shocking content that has been rolled into the new freedom-based algorithms have dealt thousands of traumatic blows to their fragile male psyches. The only thing that has kept them reporting is the ever more potent forms of terrormax under development at Lebal Drocer Pharmaceuticals by Dr. Angstrom H. Troubador.
Dr. Troubador is currently suffering from content creator burnout and mental health, and requires financial support from readers like you. The Arkansas Child Rape Files are a series of investigative pieces that delve into the hate and lies fueling the Republican party’s decline towards fascism and loosening of child rape laws.
With your contributions Dr. Troubadour can continue his habitual efforts to bring truth to justice, and exploring every weird nook and cranny of the seedy underbelly where he knows a guy.
“I have an itch for new medicine, I’m constantly developing, changing, evolving,” Troubadour says with a wink and a smile. “Wherever my research takes me, I always follow my nose.”
[Editor’s note: Please revise. Include the word ‘consent’ somewhere in this story. Resubmit prior to publication.]
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!
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.
“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 arestill out there. I still hear their wings beating on the horizon.
They knowwhere I am.
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