Ladies and Gentlemen, it has come to my attention that our dear compatriot Nick Maccombs of the totallyfalse.info has abandoned helm of the fine publication totallyfalse.info.
It is my regret to inform you all Maccombs suffers from Parkinson’s disease, which is no laughing matter. Additionally, he has finally succumbed to a long battle with Alzheimer’s. Nurses close to the editor said he’s “all fucked up” and “pretty much done in.” Nick has forgotten his passwords to everything, and is no longer capable of going online.
It is with great pleasure I announce chronicle.su hereby reserves the right to the Maccombs estate, including the domain totallyfalse.info, as relinquished upon apprenticeship to Lebal Drocer, Inc. and her subsidiaries – [outlined in the Legal section of this site.] This includes all intellectual property rights and access to personal finances.
Let us pray:
Dear Lord, we ask that you protect Maccombs on his holy quest. We ask that you make all the dinosaur bones go away, so that people will stop pointing to Nick as proof of your nonexistence, Dear Lord.
As I walk through /b/ in the shadow of death, I need do no evil, for you are with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort and pleasure me.
Except you, Nick.
Rest in Peace.
This message brought to you infinitely by Lebal Drocer, Inc.
Chronicle.SU–NewsCorp’s premiere chat service, News of the Chat of the News World, functions by way of a high-speed underground network of rare Emperor Cheetahs, which are blocked for their usefulness by anti-cheetah hospital security systems everywhere.
Years of warmongering, bloodthirstiness, Kahane-level Zionism and utter hatred of Arabs had not entirely divested Mr. Murdoch of his dealings with the Arab Cheetahs. Saudi money had acquired quite a bit of his Neocon twistiness, and finally the Arab Cheetahs were allowed over that tricky border between Egypt and Gaza — where nearby, on the Egyptian side, only, like, six people in a group are allowed to walk at a time — and into the D.C.-sized deathaplex they ruptured. Their lightweight tails smacked against the backs of their noble legs as they poured into the world’s largest prison camp, trails of saliva, like shoelaces, lapping against their forelegs.
“It’s a lolfest if you don’t know what to expect before going down there,” reported freelance cheetah dealer Joe Bradley, 45. “Innocent people getting d0x3d left and right, cheetahs prancing around at high volume with hateful messages pinned to their shock collars, and they’re like, ‘What the fuck, I should be in the savannah pouncing on the fucking river, drinking caribou and throttling gazelle, not running copyedits to and fro. Fuck that wrinkled old prick!'”
Murdoch’s viewers have been internationally recognized to possess the lowest, basest possible understanding of the dynamics that created the Fox News — oops, I mean, the second Iraq War, the one following the harrowing, “courageous” embargo of the southwest Asian country that killed billions of innocent cheetahs. That country is known to us as North Korea.
Wearing Gacy-like clown makeup at time of press, Mr. Murdoch announced that it made complete sense that his average viewer possesses the cognitive/reality coherence that they would call “Osama bin Laden” “Saddam Hussein.” This is a result of mass-consumption of furry pornography.
“I thought I could make an edifice as large as those structures in Bioshock III take off.”
“I would never have imagined that people would have bought so much of my flag-fellating bullshit. Ever since Bush I was able to make that incubator-baby crap fly, I thought I could make an edifice as large as those structures in Bioshock III take off.”
“Good doggies do tricks,” added Mr. Murdoch, red food-coloring dye, as used by goth kids, running down opposite sides of his mouth along with saliva, red ink trailing into the white.
In spite of their rebellious demeanors, the cheetahs remain polite because should they resist, they will be put to death, skinned and crafted into spectacularly jewel-encrusted thongs for Murdoch to prance around in.
“They’re not outspoken about their plight but they should be,” said cheetah specialist Speedy McFeely of the Bristol Motor Speedway, Virginia and fucken redneck.
Adrian “Cheetah” Chen approached the Virginia physics expert and without asking permission bent him over and snorted a line of cocaine off the small of his back. With lips pursed, Adrian softly sucked his dick, which instead of semen, leaked the phone records of celebrities and d0x of LulzSec hackers.
One cheetah busted out the cocaine in front of reporters as Murdoch – who audibly gasped at the faux pas – pondered it a moment and opted instead to cup his genitals crying, “Not here, man. The cameras. Shit’s tainted with skin-rotting levamisole. You know what that does to my ballsack.”
Murdoch hatefully orders the reporters out of his hospital suite and defecates in his bed. The hateful troll-cheetah delivers Murdoch his percocets, and Murdoch takes out a small tray, a credit card and a rolled up tin-bob note.
“Who’s the pussy now, bitch?” roars Murdoch. “We’ve got to get these children off of Google+. It’s like a disease, man a fucking KID [emphasis added] disease. Delete the little fucker’s emails to his grandma, if that’s what it takes. They’re worthless, because they were written by a CHILD [emphasis added].” Rupert Murdoch buries his face into the fur of a cocaine-dusted cheetah and insufflates a full breath of cocaine as it wanders idly by. His eyes then glaze over and turn a fiery red.
“Come here son, I’ll tuck your shirt in for you.”
“Show me your MySpace before you go!” calls out Murdoch, half-erect and blind from cocaine. “Come here son, I’ll tuck your shirt in for you.”
To Mr. Murdoch, the cheetahs look like small children, ready for molestation. Murdoch passes out, drool glazing his wrinkled face.
Media Mogul dreams of Yao Ming and his network of cheetahs. In his dreams, he snorts a line of crushed percocets to kill the pain.
“Thank God it’s not that levamisole-tainted bullshit,” he remarks to the pool-boy, “and thank God it’s lab-produced morphine.
Krokodil gets the Cheetahs high, makes their dicks grow and nurtures their latent homosexual tendencies as a means of population control. They cook up various drugs in Murdoch’s Russian apartment, and come out stinking of iodine. Murdoch reeks of Cheetah anus, the latent evidence of a recent shitler hitler still slightly noticable. It is grim, but oddly arousing to this reporter.
“I’m assembling a panel of premade emoticons to tell a story because I am autistic,” Murdoch tells the press. “Ctrl+v for autism. Look only at mouths while communicating.”A new trend in communication is sweeping the Internet, churches and wi-fi cafés. “Create a rage comic if you want to propose to your husband or call out a troll,” said Murdoch. “Create a rage comic while high on Krokodil, before taking a line of levamisol-tainted cocaine. My flesh is rotting away and all I can do is read the next rage comic. Twitter has become my only outlet for communication, after rage comics.”
Murdoch is visibly upset by this point and releases an odor resembling that of decomposing flesh. It is decomposing flesh. The cheetahs pull the plug on his life-support and he dies a slow painful death emitting a gurgling puddle of feces, writhing in a nightmarish hell, and being mercilessly ripped apart and taunted by his once loyal army of cheetahs.
“Just looked at the first reddit post in a long while,” Murdoch mumbles to himself before documentary filmmakers overlapping with the Chronicle.SU doing coverage of the long-term effects of cheetah-addiction. He gently rolls the click-wheel of his mouse down a cat-lover furryboard gleefully tapping his foot and singing “im a little man, also evil, also in to cats”
“To avoid downvotes, everyone prefaces their statements with an apology and an explanation of what their comment is not.” #fagreddit
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