Internet Chronicle
INTERNET – Rick Astley battles fresh accusations of child molestation, which surfaced Monday on YouTube.
Accusers arrived in full force, leaving graphic remarks surrounding the wretched details of his case.
News broke around 2 a.m. EST after events came to light. Stay tuned, and refresh: we will update this story as details come to light.
BITING REVIEW: I just watched Those Sandusky Boys, the finest piece of investigative journalism there’s ever been since the Watergate scandal revealed Richard M. Nixon routinely trafficked little boys into the White House.
[Editor’s note: This was the biggest little boy scandal until Penn. State’s Coach Sandusky proved it could be more easily done with free tickets and promises to meet certain heroes in the shower room]
Stan Marivan, main character of the Hollywood blockbuster Those Sandusky Boys, which grossed $40 million on its opening weekend, plays himself: an Internet millionaire working for chronicle.su who donates half of his earnings to right-wing conservative hackers in the form of bitcoins. Marivan said the film incorporates fictional elements to make it more interesting, such as bitcoins being worth something.
“I’ve experimented with men before,” said Marival. “But I have a girlfriend. I am very interested in the things I can do to her, sexually.”
Marival is like M. Night Shamalayanayea except he’s talented and the only twist he needs is a titty twist as he’s getting his rocks off so he can bust a nut up inside his girlfriend and Those Sandusky Boys.
Attorneys are awash with litigation pertaining to the film’s sensitive subject and refusal to change the names of neither the perpetrator nor his victims. “But all in all,” Marival said, “It’s just a bunch of whatever, we’re making money. Shit.” Marival threw up his hands and squatted so hard he tore the ass out of his khaki slacks, and shat liquid projectile feces directly into his own rare human-face carpeting in the Whollywood Whills.
Marival yelled to a woman named Henrietta, attaching profanities in Spanish, and pointed to the brown stains in his living room. The woman exhaled a whimpering cry, and wallowed in it.
“No, Mr. Breitbart. Please!”
Andrew Breitbart’s stringy gray hair was greased back with sweat as he loomed over a child, heaving and groaning. In his shadow, the small boy covered his naked shame with both hands and fixed his eyes on the wall, where a picture of Jesus was hung. He was supposed to meet a star.
Through blurry tears, the fresh boy pleaded silently into a haze of pastel colors, bargaining with the figure in a helpless bid to take away the blinding pain he knew was coming again, and again. The picture, slightly a shift, just stared back.
“Please,” he mewed. “Don’t.”
Breitbart reached under his well-fed and sagging One Percent gut where he fished around in an area of fat – barely distinguishable as a human crotch – to release his flaccid member from an outcropping of silvery pubic hair, and he peed on the child. Neither said a word.
Breitbart wiped coke from his mustache, then lost his balance, collapsing into sturdy hotel furniture, driving a chair into the wall with a thud and a smoker’s cough. He quickly regained his composure, squinting to combat double vision toward the bed where a guest with backstage passes cowered palely in the fetal position. Across the floral pattern of a posh Hilton comforter, the child seemed a rare delicacy served up on a platter of foliage among which he was the flower.
“Spread ‘em,” commanded Breitbart through the darkness. “Roll over, and spread.”
The boy looked about seven, or maybe nine. His dad was a staunch supporter of the Second Amendment and admired Breitbart’s throbbing tirades against the Fourth Estate, who just lie to propagate the Jewish agenda. “Nothing but the best for my boy! Let him spend an afternoon with a real American hero, and see what a modern businessman does.” This was nothing new. The man was secretly afraid his son might be “turning into a faggot,” so he once bought him passes to the New York Giants locker room after their 2012 victory against the Patriots.
The boy rolled over and, with uncomfortable familiarity, did as he was told.
“Mm, good,” burped Breitbart, pumping his limp genitalia. “Now what does Daddy say about Reagan? You know the presidents, boy?”
“Reagan was a good president!” he recited tremulously.
“He was the best!” roared the conservative orator. “He won the fucking Cold War. He beat the Commies!” Breitbart was now sporting a self-supporting second stage erection, which he aimed at the child. But the young boy had not proven his loyalty to Reagan well enough to satisfy Breitbart.
“You like Star Wars?” Breitbart cajoled the child who still lay submissively on the bed. “Like the movies?”
“I like Jar Jar,” he said in a lighter tone. His muscles relaxed as the TV star and author appealed to his love for science fiction.
“Yeah, Ronald Reagan knew Star Wars. And with it, he scared those rubes into submission!” Breitbart pulsated, allowing a single drop of conviction to seep out, forming a clear bead. “Thanks to Ronald Reagan, we didn’t have to fire a shot.”
“Reagan liked Star Wars?” The boy was confused.
Breitbart dropped to his knees on the bed and positioned himself directly over the quivering mass of dry, supple flesh, which assumed innocent passivity. And reeking of fermentation, Andrew breathed hotly into his left ear, “Yeah. Reagan liked Star Wars.”