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Categories
Politics Science

The logical conclusion to the Occupy Movement: The Great Collective

Occupy has proven the power of Social Media. Protests are more visible, sustainable, and effective than ever before. However, the movement is struggling to maintain momentum as it reaches the inherent boundaries of protest.

The Great Collective is the logical conclusion to Occupy, the decentralized masses with no leaders and no agenda, not a political party, a collective.  Effective campaigns can now run with little or no money using crowd-sourcing, viral marketing, and social media.

The decentralized Occupy model is inherent in the structure of Social Media. Occupy’s life is not the flesh that is sitting in the park, facing down Stormtroopers. It’s the people watching, organizing, and supporting via the Internet. This throbbing neural pathway which has burned itself into the great network of social networks is absolutely determined to overthrow all power which has no true legitimacy. Occupy is only the first rumblings of something much, much bigger.

 

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Categories
Obituaries

Frank Mason dead at 25

Desk of editor frank masonNew York City– It is our sad duty to inform you that longtime reporter and friend to chronicle.su, Frank Mason, has died.

Mason was alone in his apartment Monday when his heart stopped amid one episodic panic attack. Because of his work and general nature, Mason was prone to anxiety attacks as many as four times per week and in some instances, would not sleep for thirty six hours or more at a time.

According to paramedics who arrived at the scene, Mason told friends online that he’d been awake for over forty hours. His messages showed concern, said one EMT, for strange sensations in his chest that later turned out to be heart failure. Officials emphasized that if only Mason “had cared enough about his health,” a phone call might have saved his pointless, insignificant life.

Mason is survived by his dog, Shale, and roommates Mike Henderson and Lewis Manning. Who and where Mason’s family may be are yet to be determined, investigators said.

Writing and editing for the Chronicle, Mason was forced to live a series of compartmentalized secret lives, said fellow editor Dr. Kilgore Trout, who watched the man metamorphose from an eager cub reporter into a fractured shell of a man.

[pullquote]”There was something in his voice – something in the way he said, ‘I’ll gut you like a deer carcass!’ that made me believe him.”

Kilgore Trout[/pullquote]

“He would sometimes be really friendly online,” Trout said. “But other times, he was crass and difficult to get along with. He once threatened to kill me over an edit I made to one of his stories. And, you know, there was something in his voice – something in the way he said, ‘I’ll gut you like a deer carcass!’ that made me believe him. I changed his punctuation back to a semi-colon but later blocked his calls.”

Trout indicated Mason will be hard to replace, if not impossible, and said he planned to buy a larger room against his cabin in order to fit enough wild chimpanzees and typewriters to replicate the deceased writer’s eclectic personality.

“Probably just gonna stack them up over there,” Trout said, pointing in the direction of a pile of bloated garbage bags across which was slung a coarse red blanket, soiled and rotten. “They can lay on that while they type.”

Fans of Mason are as elusive as the writer himself. The online guestbook for Mason’s funeral was still untouched Monday evening, and is slated for deletion if it is not at least spammed between Monday and Wednesday morning, said a spokesman for St. Luther’s Funeral Services. Sources within the hacking collective Anonymous fear everything they touch and refuse to leave a digital fingerprint anywhere, even the guestbook of their unelected but rightful Messiah, Frank Mason, the infallible, unforgotten voice of chronicle.su.

See you in Hell, Frank.

-The Chronicle Staff

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Categories
Entertainment Trolling

Trollspam

The troll leaned forward in his seat, bathed in the flashing light from the flat screen, which dwarfed the windows of his filthy basement apartment. “Get out of my face you fucking piece of nigger faggot shit!” The audio echoed back, a dull screeching heavily clipped and garbled from compression. The troll bristled. “You stupid assholes too poor to afford a god damn microphone?!” Talking shit was the troll’s real game, and getting under someone’s skin was the only way to score points.

The troll used to have a better screen name, [KKK]HateRaper69, but the moderators changed it permanently to Trollspam. Everywhere Trollspam went, the moderators were spammed down with complaints.

“Fuck you niggers! Fuck you all! I hope you all die and you all suck DICK at this stupid child’s game! Get a fuckin’ job!” Trollspam’s electronic vitriol streamed onto the emotionally disconnected masses.

A voice cried back above the din of the endless cyberbattle, where photorealistic soldiers died thousands of repeated deaths over the same small acre of land.

“Trollspam, you’re not allowed to do that, I’m reporting you.”

Trollspam’s eyes flashed, and his face flushed. Trollspam had a natural talent for finding the most fundamental weakness in anyone’s psyche with very scant information.

“You ugly little fat fuck, no one gives a fuck about you! No one will ever love you! What the fuck are you doing alive? Kill yourself!”

Trollspam’s target logged out, and trollspam grinned. A stupid fat little kid was rifling through his parent’s medicine cabinet and eating every pill he could find. He had shown the child the truth, imposed his boundless hatred, and the child would soon die. “All for the better,” thought Trollspam, “only n00bs kill themselves.”