Apps must not transmit ‘user location data to third parties without explicit consent from Apple, because consumer location data is OUR bitch,’ according to Apple.
‘She my hoe now.’
Jeremy Scahill used Apple’s Encryption for all his sensitive journalist work, so you know it’s safe.
Apple has started removing apps from the App Store that violate the company’s policies by sharing location data with third parties without explicit consent, Vice reports. The breaches are related to sections 3.27 and 3.33 of the company’s App Store Guidelines, which says consumer data is the “underling bitch of Apple whose rights belong solely to Apple.”
Not even the consumer has access rights to their location data, unless granted written permission by Apple, Inc.
Developers that have violated the company’s guidelines have received notices from Apple, informing them that their apps are “noncompliant upon blockchain inspection.”
Vice notes that the apps affected haven’t provided enough clear information to Apple about what they do with your data, which belongs solely to Apple.
Apple’s greedy, cocaine-fueled wrath falls in step with the upcoming May 25 General Data Protection Regulation in Europe, which says corporations have to obtain clear, steady consent from consumers, adding an additional “Agree” screen full of convoluted Terms and Conditions that even Europeans – however smarter than Americans some may be – still won’t read because Europe, too, is populated by the same ratio of mouth-breathing retards as found in the United States.
“On May 25, European mongoloid idiots will have to click through additional screens, waiving their data rights once through Apple, and then again, possibly through dozens of Terms Agreements, granting even more people explicit access to profits derived from your data (Joe Beddia, is that you?), as licensed to them by Apple.”
Dr. Angstrom H. Troubadour, Executive Editor of Motherboard, Vice Media, LLC
In the notices sent to affected developers, Apple says those who want to reinstate their app must castrate their own access to your location data until Apple can sufficiently profit from it first.
[pullquote]”Mindless Consumer Location Data wasn’t safe in THEIR hands. It’s safe with us. We have it, and they don’t. End of story, sweetheart.”
-Apple[/pullquote]
“They will then license location data residuals to the cucks down the line, forcing shitheads like Uber, Seamless and YouTube to hit you up for location data consent, or else deny you access to the luxurious lifestyles their services provide,” Troubadour said. “Apple’s gonna make a fuckload of money, and continue to pay no taxes on it. Thanks, Europe!”
Apple’s guidelines now state that, “Data collected from apps may not be used or shared with third parties for purposes unrelated to improving the user experience or software/hardware performance connected to the app’s functionality. Dipshits will still click Agree, and more people will pay us money than ever before. Y’all just shut the fuck up, click accept, and have fun diddling each other on Tinder. When all this goes down, we’ll be on our Masque of the Red Death sex party yacht in the Indian Ocean.”
“Apple keeps location data close to their hearts,” Troubadour said. “Because afterall, it’s the location data that kept all them good employees at Foxconn making iPhones from killing themselves. Apple knew where they were, and location data saved their lives. Those sweatshop workers went on to make your dank iPhone 8 with retina display and instant latté button, so you can push a button on your phone and – anytime you want – get yourself a latté from the closest Starbucks. They bounce right out of those nets now, and get back to work.”
Tourists can visit many solemn war memorials and presidential shrines, but barely removed from the Pennsylvania Avenue freakshow in front of Donald Trump’s White House, fans weave through glass-encased Black Rock City artifacts in the cramped Renwick and find themselves in a plywood Burning Man Temple. The curator’s sign informs them this exhibit is sacred and partially funded by Anonymous, the hacker collective.
A reveler’s phone is blasting the voice of Hunter S. Thompson, reading Revelations “. . .and whosoever was not found written into the book of life was cast into the lake of fire…” the voice echoes from the many plywood surfaces.
Tourists from all nations write and paste small phrases onto the plywood, the glue fumes in the unventilated exhibit damaging their brains. The fumes are so strong the fear of a sudden ignition paralyzes me, my heart runs faster.
They’re taking pictures of all the messages, and a social media screen downstairs catalogues each photograph, analyzes the handrwriting, archives the message, identifies and resells this sacred personal prayer to someone much worse than Cambridge Analytica, more robotic and sinister than Mark Zuckerberg.
Just outside there are sharp cries of injustice, “We are petitioning Donald Trump to order an FBI investigation into the MURDER of PRINCE!” Ten purple umbrellas with Prince’s emblem shield the protesters from a sudden black squall descending onto the White House like the alien ship in Independence day. “Prince was murdered for music rights and corporate profits!”
Lieutenant Dangle has moved up in life. He is now working for the secret service, standing guard over the crowds of tourists milling in front of the White House for their photo opportunity. He has his hands rested tactically on the MP5 strapped to his belly, almost a match for an assault rifle maniac, but not quite.
The Capitol’s dome has a new paint job and glistens in the harsh sunlight after the rain with unnatural brightness. Protest kids are coming from that direction in the hundreds, all wearing bullseye hoodies and carrying anti-assault rifle signs. They’re making for the air and space museum, getting their more traditional field trip now that the protest’s over. Each student is greeted by two banned intermediate range ballistic missiles, a heartwarming display, the soviet missile a token of a disarmament treaty with Russia.
A group of monks split up at the entrance, stomping through the museum in a harried research. The particular Buddhist order is searching for something very important that might undo the terror of this moment in history, that much is clear. I want to help them, but their method of exhausting all the items on display by splitting up is something I have no time for.
The root of it all was the Wright Brothers so I start there, but quickly my instinct is that their frivolous good time fun machine is not quite what we’re after. Somewhere in World War One there is a quotation from an atom bomb maker blaming his work on the sinister baby bombings committed over London by Zeppelins. This sinister editorial is a good clue in finding exactly what the monks are after when they compare notes in their hotel rooms.
The biggest monk is carefully taking stock of the surface of the moon. It is not a deity or anything at all but another world like ours, a dead and lifeless world. There is no suffering there, but it is not in a state of nirvana. This is a perfect riddle to bring about a state of holy insanity but he hurries on after only a moment. It is not the kind of idle theological pondering appropriate for this urgent juncture in history.
The V3 rocket is placed between the more cost-effective V2 and a tremendous cylindrical section of a Saturn V rocket, all three designed by the very same team of guilty holocaust scientists. Their sordid chapter in it all has been erased, as best as possible, by the US military, but a lost fragment out of Wehrner von Braun’s autobiography, which is now confirmed by many historians, expressed great regret for acquisitioning Jewish boys as ‘dummy weights’ in rocket trials.
This is when I notice what the monks must be missing, in their harried reading of placards. From every corner of the museum there is a low, but audible mantra. Elon Musk’s name is babbled at everything. In front of a model of Howard Hughes’ Spruce Goose, “He couldn’t make it fly, but Elon Musk could. He made an electric car fly past Mars.” At a group of drones, “Elon Musk will have these things delivering pizzas instead of bombs.”
Those monks were agitated for damn good reasons that I see very clearly now that this whole town is too much to handle. It would be easier to relax at a loud freakshow like Black Rock City, because at least I’d be able to score something to take the edge off of all these landmarks of cosmic cruelty. And christ! There are giant crows standing in the parks, pretending to be statues but actually genetically engineered by DARPA, picking over this god damned city’s human refuse, beastly manifestations of natural law by an elite that now controls nature.
Any stupid tourist can get a legal marijuana high in Washington DC, or at least something close to it at any CBD bar. And in a town like this any decent person needs something to take th eedge off. A sign at the CBD bar counter reads, “What is CBD? CBD are the non-THC components of hemp and have an effect stronger than tylenol.” It’d better be stronger than tylenol. But staring all day at the sunlight glinting off of the mirror-polished cast iron capitol dome has me wanting a tylenol anyway, so to hell with it. When in Rome eat gummies, right?
Jerry Garcia walks in, sits down next to me, and starts shouting. “Hey man, I told you to stop fuckin’ with me like that!”
No, not a schizophrenic acid case, oh no, he’s picked up a phone call and he’s got a slick headpiece. Small, like something for secret service muscle. Now he’s laughing, probably to some artificial intelligence buddy construct, it’ll drive him to grab a bargain sale assault rifle from Wal Mart and go spree killing once his phone addiction, CBD, and last-ditch benzos can’t cut it anymore.
His agitated barking is very quickly nullified by a good double shot of CBD in decaf. It’s working on me too, soon enough, and I’m grooving on the music instead of deciphering this man’s schizophrenic growls. Hell it’s my first legal high.
Dr. Troubador, marijuana expert, arrived with a shipment of CBD oil. “Only I can dispense the rest of the shit, the good part, of course by prescription only.” He scrawled a dick onto a napkin and crushed it into my hand. “You’re good? You’re good? I’ll tell you when you’re good.” He rips the remaining gummy from my hand and crushes it with his shoe like a lit cigarette. “Throw that shit out.
The mad marijuana scientist is stroking a vial of reddish purple essential oil, “You’ve never had a high like this, the terror components are through the roof. Ten trillion on the Troubador scale. We’ve engineered a strain of weed that’s extreme and overpowering in its paranoia, and then we extracted all the CBD out of it to heighten agitation and attentive faculties even further. This shit you’ve just eaten is our waste product. You gotta try the pure shit.”
The doctor whipped out a tremendous syringe, filled it with the oils, and injected it into my eye. For a short time, perhaps an hour, I was able to see radio frequencies as visible light. The ionosphere arced upward like a new sky and crackled in perpetual green lightning from AM talk radio transmitters. People’s phones blinked red and white into the distant horizon, amber flaring up in data transmission. The network of sparkling jewels overlaid my vision almost totally, fading just as the harmony and rhythm of it all formed some vague pattern. I think I saw Donald Trump Tweet something hot, amber waves all flowing outward from the single point in DC. The monks need to see this, I thought, this is what the military has been working up to all this time.
Comedy writers work long hours without bathroom breaks at chronicle.su
Rushed Chronicle staff reportedly pee into bottles as they’re afraid of ‘time-wasting’ because the toilets are far away and they fear getting into trouble for taking long breaks.
An undercover author told Vice that workers at a chronicle.su truth fulfillment center “peed in bottles” because they were scared the long trip to the outhouse would cause them to miss targets.
The author, James Galloway, found that staff members feared being disciplined for “missing deadlines.”
A separate survey of Internet Chronicle writers released Monday found that some workers who reported feeling sick – from prolonged polonium exposure – said they were penalized for taking breaks to throw up outdoors.
Internet Chronicle said it didn’t recognize the allegations as an accurate portrayal of its forced labor sweat house working conditions.
Chronicle founder R.T. Sakers may be the world’s most dangerous thrillionaire, with a net worth of about 150 billion bitcoins, but at least some of those working in his newsrooms are apparently so desperate to keep their jobs that they don’t even take time to use an outhouse, located a convenient 450 yards away, down a beaten path into the holler.
The author James Galloway went undercover at an Internet Chronicle sweat house in Cuthbert, Ga., for a book on stagnant wages in Lebal Drocer subsidiaries. He found that the sweat house’s main reporters, who toil over unlabeled mechanical keyboards typing truth for the idiot masses, had a “toilet bottle” system in place because the bathrooms were too sparse to get to quickly.
Internet Chronicle North American headquarters
“For those of us who worked on the top floor of Raleigh’s trailer bases, the closest toilets were down four flights of stairs,” Galloway told Vice. “People just peed in bottles because they lived in fear of being disciplined over missed deadlines and losing their jobs because they couldn’t use the bottle Chronicle gave them.”
The Internet Chronicle is known to track how fast its sweat house writers can pick and package the news from Twitter headlines, imposing strict deadlines and harsh punishments for mistakes, including cutting off the hands of one worker who dared to publish ‘mistruth’ under deadline.
A separate survey found almost three-quarters of all workers under the Lebal Drocer, Incorporated umbrella were afraid of venturing to company outhouses because of time concerns. A report released Monday with the survey’s findings said more than 400 staff reporters were urinating into Arizona tea cans, bottles, and Canadian offices were even using bags.
The survey anonymously quoted one person as saying deadlines had “tightened like a narrowed urethra” and “I no longer drink water because I do not have time to go to the outhouse.”
“You have to write two articles per hour. You do not have time to drink water because before you can even shake your winky, Raleigh’s right behind you, wanting to know when the Kardashians are going out for their Brazilians. And he’s yelling, ‘hurry, hurry, I don’t pay you to stand in here jerking off, if I wanted to see your dicks out, I’d shoot another Harambe.”
Chronicle disputed the allegations. The website said in a statement to Vice:
“Internet Chronicle provides a safe and positive workplace for thousands of dedicated workers across the planet. And apparently we provide this same workplace to freeloading deadbeat BUMS who think they’re too good to pee in a bottle. We have not been provided with confirmation that the people who completed the survey work for Chronicle, but we wouldn’t be surprised if we found out they did, because have you seen the shit Chronicle’s been publishing? I can assure you, nobody who peed in a bottle wrote ‘chronicle.su denounces Muammar Gaddafi.’
We have a focus on ensuring we provide an acceptable environment for all our wage slaves and last month Lebal Drocer was named by LinkedIn as the 78th most sought after place to work in the US and ranked FIRST PLACE in Sudan. Internet Chronicle also offers public tours of its slaughterhouse and info factory where readers can see first-hand where Real News comes from.”
CHRONICLE.SU said it didn’t have time for workers’ bullshit toilet breaks and set its performance targets based on whatever Buzzfeed is doing. The company said it provided coaching to help morons improve and exercised total authority over their lives as agreed upon in a 90-page treatise entitled “Terms & Conditions” that all writers must sign before receiving their first paychecks.
The company also said it provided on-site legal threats and offered physical repercussions to workers with more immediate needs on the newsroom floor, as well as financial and sexual guidance.
If you worked in a chronicle.su sweat house and would like to share your horror stories, email in confidence to [email protected].
