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Special Interest Sports

Kilgore Trout whiteknights awesome Chronicle troll-action

In a damaging blow to what might have otherwise been a fruitful trolling endeavor, chronicle.su editor Kilgore Trout trolled his own news agency by warning would-be writing contest participants that the whole thing is an utter scam. Terrible author Frank Mason countered with undue name-calling followed by a dense string of offline gravity bong hits to the face.

“It was worse than anything I’ve ever seen,” said a frowning Joanna Mason, Frank’s mother in Fairfax, Virginia. “He was so high. So happy.”

Mason was not available to comment but wrote Saturday, “I don’t give a flying fuck what you say, it’s going to be really funny when someone tries to write another unintelligible centerpiece about an orgy of world leaders atop President Obama’s stinky sock collection. Rooting around in his dirty fucking socks, Bill.”

The writing contest would have entrants reporting on an alleged plethora of simultaneous sex acts, all taking place on a pile of unwashed clothes previously worn by the President during the exact moment in which he lied to American citizens. “But beyond that,” Mason clarified, “You are free to write anything you wish, adding what you like.”

Chronicle writer Frank Mason
Frank Mason, terrible author

Trout’s white knight leak is an attempt to limit the overall “collateral damage” of chronicle.su as she recklessly tears through the internet in the name of good comedy, lest she incur yet another case in a myriad of legal axes threatening to drop. By calling attention to Mason’s attempt at baiting bad writers into ridicule, Trout may possibly have prevented another lawsuit.

“Mason maintains all the ethical practices of a trapdoor spider,” he explained. “Oh, he’s a charming young man. Sure. And he’s good at videogames. But he is ugly inside. Inside, Frank is a venomous snake.”

Mason conceded, “At any moment, authorities could intervene . . . and the next thing you know we’re embroiled in a seven year legal battle with someone over use of . . . his face on the end of a penis.” Frank put one hand on his forehead, and looked up at the ceiling. For almost a minute, Mason posed in the lamplight, thinking. At last, he finally said, “Maybe we should just say somebody died. Somebody white this time.”

As of Saturday evening, participation in Mason’s contest is virtually nonexistent.

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новости

Chronicle editors to endure “hell gauntlet” of terrible writing

Hiring new writers

Payment: glory

Write for usHere at chronicle.su we don’t take credit for our work. It’s just a power thing. When hundreds of thousands of people – or millions – from all over the world believe something simply because you wrote it at chronicle.su, dear God, you’ll never get over it.

If you can write anywhere above an 11th grade level, and I mean a “smart” 11th grade writing level, then we’re offering you a cut of that power, and credit for your work if you desire (but I wouldn’t advise it). For how long? We’re not sure. Something like a month in your own guaranteed spot and potentially longer if you’re good, even indefinitely. Also you’ll receive a free chronicle.su t-shirt, made in a real-life sweatshop as seen on TV.

It does not matter what you write, because if it’s good you’ll know it and so will we. Don’t be afraid of writing tripe, even though we will ridicule it. Tripe is useful here at chronicle.su and you may have a talent you didn’t even know you had; ideally, a talent for shit material that is so weird it’s funny. Write anything.

One thing I want to emphasize is we truly do not give a fuck.

Submit your reports below. Copy and paste it or whatever. Format can suck and that’s okay. If you wish to include pictures, screw that form and email the whole thing to [email protected]

[contact-form-7 id=”7194″ title=”Contact form 1″]

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Entertainment новости

A Chronicle Christmas

A Chronicle Christmas
‘Twas the night before Lulzmas, cops bust in my house,
Revolution was stirring, I was drunk, getting soused.
The jury was hung on a “bad budget” scare,
In hopes that the people would not really care.

For children were starving with rotted out heads,
While visions of whiter slums molested their heads.
And mamma in the kitchen, cooking up slop,
Had just surrendered her freedom to a power-tripping cop.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I escaped a pig’s grip to see what was the matter.
Away to the broke door I flew with my cash,
Snorted some cocaine and buttholed my hash.

The paranoid delusions were too real to know
In my snowblind confusion, myself my own foe.
When, what through God’s jealous rage should appear,
But a cluster of hippies, 99%ers like steer.

With a human microphone, so lifeless and thick,
I knew in a moment what message would stick.
“Like lightning we’ll strike in nobody’s name,
We’ll whistle, we’ll shout, like this is a game!”

“Now Leahy! now, Schumer! now, Obama like Nixon!
Sign vomit! Now, Stupid! It’s not your decision!
To profit is all! Fuck rights, for the mall!
Now sign away! Sign away! Sign away all!”

As dry heaves that before the belching demons sigh,
What’s done by the government, is ignored and denied.
In the hands of overlords, the Red White and Blue,
Is our fate full of shit, and Big Brother too.

And then, hallucinating, I heard on the roof
The hooking and scratching of Satan’s third hoof.
As I drew in my breath, the pigs turned around,
Down the chimney St Sabu came without sound!

He was doxed to the tits, and only one person cared,
Whose opinion was pointless, pretty much anywhere.
An FBI plant or some Caribbean hack,
We looked at each other, then never looked back.

This, now, is my chance! Sweet escape, how scary!
My face was on fire, coked up and eyes weary!
My right logical brain stroked out to my woe,
And I shook violently daft then collapsed in the snow.

Hitting my face on a drainpipe I lost teeth,
And lost consciousness for days in a foul dreamlike sheath.
The protesters lol’d at our profound lack of healthcare,
That provides us with nothing as out, too, goes welfare.

And in deep dark silence, I felt one knee jerk,
As someone just kicked me to test if my brain worked.
Coming alive, hurt, I slowly arose,
To a throng of brown sluts, bitches and hoes.

I sprang to my feet, and despite a contusion,
I suddenly realized it was all an illusion.
The Universe, being not alive, can not die,
‘Ere it told me the truth: “And the truth is a lie.”