the chronicle rape tentacle has scraped glistening hate from the crusty bowels of your fucking internet for you
#lulzsec were the finest group of trolls that ever lived but most of them are in jail awaiting trial or FBI informants now #TROLLD2DETH #xx420N0SC0P3xx
#destructivesec was cool but their main mission was to destroy enough law enforcement online activities to get arrested, which they finally accomplished. just mindblowing.
now #rustleleague are attempting lulzsec status but failed due to infighting
now there is [email protected] which is the hardcorest of them all. They recruit new m3mb3rs exclusively through the Internet Chronicle's comments section, found here. On the internetchronicle.org/ underground soviet hatesite
#b3rensteinB34rs no know limits. NNCSATANN feels no pain. he is the devil in hisself.
“The beauty of art is that it can be interpreted many ways by many different people.”
The great American struggle: grappling with the blank page
I was sitting at my computer just before dawn, listening to the steady crackle of my overworked record player, bouncing repeatedly off the groove in the paper label of The Beatles’ Let It Be.
Procrastination never sounded so sweet. I brewed myself an espresso as I played with the idea of putting on the Smiths. My neighbors probably hear it at top volume and wallow in the jealousy they must feel, living in the shadow of the tortured dark success just sixteen feet away. The power they’ll never meet – unless they come ask me to turn it down.
People just don’t understand me. It takes a unique point of view, cultivated within the bowels of suburban all-white neighborhoods, perverted by Mormonism, to really understand where I’m coming from. And even then, they’ll probably just go on Facebook and hashtag it. Pop a pill, and feel nothing. So dark. So troubled.
Hi, I’m Jim Ficks and this is Wal-Mart. At Wal-Mart, we cheer every morning, working ourselves up into a ravenous furor in the name of the great one and only, the provider, the destroyer – Wal-Mart of America. I’m Jim Ficks, and I have a job now. You Don’t. I’m Jim Ficks. My job is to rally employees working for $8 an hour, to rally together and “cheer” on our company name as audaciously as though they were speaking the unspeakable name of Yahweh himself.
Oh, HA HA. Don’t kid yourself! The Wal-Mart cheer not your typical high school cheer. At Wal-Mart, our morning cheers are actually the wailing song of abandoned hope, tinged with self-hatred the likes of which you never knew existed. That is, until our corporate overseer stated, in a company newsletter, that every morning from now until the end of human civilization will begin with a light-hearted climaxing chant, grow to a dull pulsing roar, and finally explode into a fireball of frenzied rage. Sweet, profit-maximizing rage. Don’t just watch – but focus – as the bald one they call “Joey” bristles with tension before snapping free from his hate-filled fervor, ready to seize the day like the throat of his enemy. Ready for blood, ready to stock shelves.
YOU LIKE THAT, YEAH YOU LIKE THAT DON’T YOU WAL-MART
WE HATE NIGGERS FOR YOU, WAL-MART. WE HATE OURSELVES. WE JUST WANNA COME IN THERE AND BUY YOU $2.15 CORN DOGS WAL-MART. WE NEED YOUR NITRATES IN OUR TOXIC BODIES TO MAINTAIN EQUILIBRIUM, WAL-MART, LEST WE TIP THE BALANCE OF HATE IN THE DEVIL’S HONOR. DACTARAI!!!!! FOR YOUR LOVE, MINE PRINCE OF PURITY. FOR YOUR PROFIT! Erodium Purus Nosferatu! MY PALE, FLUSHED FACE WAL-MART IT BURNS WITH SODIUM IODIDE, WAL-MART. WWWWWAAAAAAAAALLLL-MAAAARRRRRRRT!
