She sat on one end of the table, I on the other.
The 3's in her eyes remained, hatching into delicate, mingling colors; hatching mirth, brightening the bitter resin inked by 3's. A luster painted over them, as she wondered gleefully with her fingers, feel the cool glass table.
"Have you ever wondered what it would be like?" She asked.
"No." I said, searching my pocket for a cigarette. My mouth watered, listening to the music of an hour glass dribbling its sand, scratching its case.
"It seems like during my time teaching... I've felt like nothing was real. Not even now." She said, her voice resounding the hollow cavity scooped into her chest. Her face a pallid reflection of the lingering life still in her. Her eyes printed little numbers on the white parts, indicating the continuing flow of numerals I'd emptied into her veins.
I pulled a chessboard sitting in the middle of the table toward me to use as an ashtray, the tip of my cigarette charring inside a little flame, smoke gathering into a little plume just below the ceiling, pausing its stream for a moment as I drew back.
Her long, bushy hair teasing the dimples on my mouth, as she unraveled her smile.
I looked at the hour glass again, as our thoughts steeped in the hum, and tick of various household items. The trickle of golden sand shaping into a pointed pile, faded into a white fluffy powder snowing into the lower bulb instead.
I looked back at her, the tip of her nose recoiling in irritation. Her eyes were like folded red ruby's, walking you into hundreds of little doors of dimension, like a wall of honeycomb, or the faces rasped into gemstone. The glimmer of animation mirrored empty meandering streams into you, like the flicker of lightning reflecting a window washed in rain.
Her skin was so white, and so soft.
"I have to write this article. About those kids, about what's going on with them." I said.
"Are you sure?" She asked.
"I'm fairly sure..." I said, suspiciously.
She pondered me with her ghoulish, ghost-white complexion, puppeted by conflicting expressions. Double edged smile... scraping my lips, the piercing chill of her corpse-like hands feeling my bicep. We partook in a ravenous kiss, funneling something vibrant, dead, and cold into my body. The movement of her limbs were so slowed, I felt like time itself had been too. She snuck up my neck, etching grooves into my neck with the ruts dug into her hard lip, as I cracked the hour glass open, snuffing a pinch of cocaine, shuddering as she playfully drunk from the part of skin where my jugular was.
My lids cozily blanketed my eyes, hypnotized by this romantic undead vedana.
"I... I really need to be writing this article..."
"I can't let you do that, Bagels W. McPhag." She said, soothingly.
I sighed, feeling her suck my neck, sensually pacified in a way I've never experienced. It was like this zombified wretch was preventing me from completing the article, and returning to the Fawx News studio.
Wednesday, 26 October 2011
Actors Advertising Agency
I filed my hand against my scruff, contemplating the weepy morning. Beside me, a notebook scratched by pen, filled with luxurious poems. There was no question that I needed a shower, but I couldn't bring myself to have one. I got up at about 4pm, although I didn't know that until I checked the clock downstairs. Moments before, I was just laying in my bed, my whole body racked by a pendulous desire to write, and give it up. My eyes just moved up and down the ceiling, searching the blankness to find a modicum of inspiration, just to piece together another poem, just to relieve the ache of not having written one. I stared at the ceiling for so long, that the little plaster spikes began to flow into weird shapes. But the more I waited, the more the shadows of the afternoon, or dawn, made me tug my sheets in a sort dreary ambivalence. I wouldn't get up, had I known the time.
What was going on with the world? Sense frayed. Faux naif politicians ejecting congressmen with libel, armed with an artificial moral crusade, belying the actual political disharmony in an internecine state.
It was an image game. Because image is easy to discredit. An easy excuse. Naturally, a lot of emphasis is placed on that.
I've fallen into a sort of intellectual coma. Unable to brave the wilderness of political affairs, threatened by spuming apologists as I directed my insight towards documented, but uncharted land.
Bagels W. McPhag has slowly been pacing downwards, like the droplets on wet cavern walls coursing over ruts. Listening to myself drip... the refreshing plop of things just being let go.
This reporter has sought refuge in a bedroom asylum, drunk from poetry, committing poetic suicide. Rolling up my sleeves, so my cuffs don't wipe away the ink, but smudging it with my palm from time to time. Chastising myself as I scribbled down words, performing a self-exorcism in just sentences, or sometimes paragraphs.
But my intuition never failed me. I parted the blinds, overlooking a mountain of uncleaned dishes, eyes burning in a glaring ray of sunlight. As my vision settled, I looked over the bustling swarm of people, faces melded into the crowd, spirits laded by workload.
In my robe, in my slippers, in my scruff, my face furrowing hit by the brightness, I'd forgotten that as I shambled across the sidewalk, that I did not don any pants. How foolish.
I bursted through the doors of my old school, my smell perverted by the stale aroma wafted by the tiring cream walls. That smell.... like the reignited burn of lipstick on a shaven cheek. In the entrance, big meat hook dug through children, floating away on them into some depository.
"Weeeeee!" One kid said, as he flew by.
I flung the door open, propelling myself through the opening. Row after row, kids slouched over in their desks, hooked up to IV looking units, leaking numerals into them, amounting in the sum of someone, their soft breaths emptied by their comatose stare.
And I took a seat, in my old desk. The teacher, being delectable, developed my massive hard-on. Naturally. This was a little embarrassing as I had no pants on.
The teacher sat in a wooden chair up front, unzipping her skin with a surgical knife, taking out one organ, after another, presenting little known facts about them. I could only assume that this was a biology class.
The cloying animation in her eyes waned, as waves of blood swept up particles on the floor. She began to nod off, becoming more apparent that her body was grew detached from her pith. She gradually unfolded, completely unconscious.
All around me, with scissors and precision blades, they cropped out bits of text from literature, combining them into little messages. The teachers head fell forward, her clothes squishing, dying with blood. They glued these little strips of text over their eyes, reading little morals removed from works by humble authors. When they conversed, their entire script was merely a cut-up of words from books. No word was actually their own. It was like they were actors, involuntarily rehearsing their lines.
I looked up at the teacher. She broke into consciousness, barely moving, but beckoning me over with her skittering fingers.
"H-h-h-help..." She asked.
I had to think on my feet. I milked her arm, feeling for a vein. Sure enough, it pressed against her skin. I yanked an IV cord from some stupid kid, little digits spat onto the ground, and watering her arm as I jammed it in. She sparked to life, in convulsions. Her pupils roiled, finally vanishing, relinquishing to little "3's" that appeared instead.
Her breath reeked of the sterility of alcohol.
"Get me out of here..." She whispered, lunging herself to my ear.
Strangely, I still had a massive hard-on, making this slightly awkward as I carried her out of the building. Still with no pants.
As we stumbled out of the classroom, we were immediately acknowledged by school officials, who hollered in response to my errors.
"What are you doing? She's supposed to die, do you know how hard it is to keep a constant flow of teachers?" They remarked, loading their staplers. I turned around, sprouting my massive boner in plain sight.
"Oh god." They said, completely deterred.
Escaping was rather easy.
What was going on with the world? Sense frayed. Faux naif politicians ejecting congressmen with libel, armed with an artificial moral crusade, belying the actual political disharmony in an internecine state.
It was an image game. Because image is easy to discredit. An easy excuse. Naturally, a lot of emphasis is placed on that.
I've fallen into a sort of intellectual coma. Unable to brave the wilderness of political affairs, threatened by spuming apologists as I directed my insight towards documented, but uncharted land.
Bagels W. McPhag has slowly been pacing downwards, like the droplets on wet cavern walls coursing over ruts. Listening to myself drip... the refreshing plop of things just being let go.
This reporter has sought refuge in a bedroom asylum, drunk from poetry, committing poetic suicide. Rolling up my sleeves, so my cuffs don't wipe away the ink, but smudging it with my palm from time to time. Chastising myself as I scribbled down words, performing a self-exorcism in just sentences, or sometimes paragraphs.
But my intuition never failed me. I parted the blinds, overlooking a mountain of uncleaned dishes, eyes burning in a glaring ray of sunlight. As my vision settled, I looked over the bustling swarm of people, faces melded into the crowd, spirits laded by workload.
In my robe, in my slippers, in my scruff, my face furrowing hit by the brightness, I'd forgotten that as I shambled across the sidewalk, that I did not don any pants. How foolish.
I bursted through the doors of my old school, my smell perverted by the stale aroma wafted by the tiring cream walls. That smell.... like the reignited burn of lipstick on a shaven cheek. In the entrance, big meat hook dug through children, floating away on them into some depository.
"Weeeeee!" One kid said, as he flew by.
I flung the door open, propelling myself through the opening. Row after row, kids slouched over in their desks, hooked up to IV looking units, leaking numerals into them, amounting in the sum of someone, their soft breaths emptied by their comatose stare.
And I took a seat, in my old desk. The teacher, being delectable, developed my massive hard-on. Naturally. This was a little embarrassing as I had no pants on.
The teacher sat in a wooden chair up front, unzipping her skin with a surgical knife, taking out one organ, after another, presenting little known facts about them. I could only assume that this was a biology class.
The cloying animation in her eyes waned, as waves of blood swept up particles on the floor. She began to nod off, becoming more apparent that her body was grew detached from her pith. She gradually unfolded, completely unconscious.
All around me, with scissors and precision blades, they cropped out bits of text from literature, combining them into little messages. The teachers head fell forward, her clothes squishing, dying with blood. They glued these little strips of text over their eyes, reading little morals removed from works by humble authors. When they conversed, their entire script was merely a cut-up of words from books. No word was actually their own. It was like they were actors, involuntarily rehearsing their lines.
I looked up at the teacher. She broke into consciousness, barely moving, but beckoning me over with her skittering fingers.
"H-h-h-help..." She asked.
I had to think on my feet. I milked her arm, feeling for a vein. Sure enough, it pressed against her skin. I yanked an IV cord from some stupid kid, little digits spat onto the ground, and watering her arm as I jammed it in. She sparked to life, in convulsions. Her pupils roiled, finally vanishing, relinquishing to little "3's" that appeared instead.
Her breath reeked of the sterility of alcohol.
"Get me out of here..." She whispered, lunging herself to my ear.
Strangely, I still had a massive hard-on, making this slightly awkward as I carried her out of the building. Still with no pants.
As we stumbled out of the classroom, we were immediately acknowledged by school officials, who hollered in response to my errors.
"What are you doing? She's supposed to die, do you know how hard it is to keep a constant flow of teachers?" They remarked, loading their staplers. I turned around, sprouting my massive boner in plain sight.
"Oh god." They said, completely deterred.
Escaping was rather easy.
Saturday, 24 September 2011
Catchy Gay Slogan Results in the Death of Millions
Queers sung en masse early this morning, crowded together in an endless flow through the Pradmore, Canada downtown district streets, the slogan “We’re gay, it’s okay, I do, do, we get paid, we need a say!” erupting well into the cityscape. The origin of this catchy rhyming rhetoric which had infiltrated many ears, but had also raised the ire of many conservatives, and fascist liberals, who have noted that the longer this joyous, and happy combination of words had escaped the “propaganda organs [mouths] of pop endorse and killing of music”, the more the uplifting tone had been reduced to a collective droning.
Against all scrutiny, millions of gays, bisexuals, and transgendered peoplesbegan transforming their flamboyant floats, and bedazzled kites, which had appeared to be harmlessly drifting through the breeze alerting citizens of such flashy messages as “Don’t keep the gay at bay!”, into weapons of mass destruction. At roughly 8:30pm, residents on Caldwell Street remarked on the “perhaps nefarious” activities of a group of “fags” tying sticks of dynamite to the wooden structure of their kites. They saw smoke, and notified the police of strange “fffssshhhh” noises they had heard. Mere seconds later, kites equipped with explosives began ramming into buildings, ripping giant holes into them and injuring countless of bystanders with shards and chunks of debris; thousands of deaths wereattributed to the initial explosions tearing through these buildings, and even more to the few subsequent demolitions. At 8:43 PM, as the sound of crumbling concrete and startling booms echoed throughout the city, huge floats with phallic designs began inexplicably firing mortars, resulting in further structural damage of city infrastructure and residential property, along with the dozensof point-blank impacts sending thousands of innocent civilians into flight, shattering their bones, and detonating their vital organs upon contact with the ground. The onslaught continued for another 3 minutes until it was officially announcedvia poor quality megaphone that the terrorist coalition Al-Gayda had beenformed, and immediately announced retaliation for “historical obliviousness ofhomosexuality everywhere”.
Floats, suddenly equipped with SCUD missiles by 8:45PM, were launched into the city, knocking over a chip rack in a near-by convenience store and being speculated as to causing two heart attacks in acommunity for the elderly.
The prime minister solemnly gave his grievances, and members of the UN council noted that the shells of the weapons of mass destruction had been found near the knocked over chip rack, and was undeniable evidence along with the debris of other depleted munitions as having violated a UN convention necessary to become eligible of undertaking the option of intervention. The prime minister of Canada cited this in his speech, saying “These terrorists have no regard for the law, and have been effectively loitering in downtown Prodmore by blowing up buildings and leaving empty mortar, and SCUD missile shells all over the place, and this isn’t the only damage they’ve caused, as they’ve initially caused considerable damage against the environment with their beforehand impact.” Head councilman of the UN followed this up with the committee’s decision. “This is a serious transgression against nature, as it is very hard to get rid of these from the environment. The “No Loitering on UN Property” convention was not taken into regard, and we, the majority, are required by US opinion inthe UN convention we had at 9PM that we take action against this.” A full, hard on military invasion, funded by Germany and France, and bolstered by the military ranks of a dozen countries, most predominately the United States, is planned to usurp the gay pride militarists who threaten to make a foray into Blakmore, neighboring city, due to their “micro-cultural crimes against fashion”, a statement anonymously supplied by a member in this radical, and certainly aggressive movement.
UPDATE: American military intervention is motivated by corporate interest, and religious principle as control of Blakmore, in the hands of gay pride terrorists, would result in the loss of the Dale Chip factory, which is the lead supplier of fresh, crispy chips for The United States America. Stopping them from gaining access to the Dale Chip Factory would be pivotal for continued economic, and religious growth of that grand, and glorious nation of capitalists. Quoting President Obama Binbiden, "Dale Chips has been a symbol of the unending american strive for good chips. The knocking over the rack of chips, unwittingly American owned, by Gay Pride rallyers has its impact too, as a metaphor for their unwavering hatred for good, fresh baked Canadian chips. We will not take any of this. As we plow through the gay pride rallyers, we will burn any bags of chips in their possession as a symbol of our moral victory, and also as a means to cut off valuable supplies necessary to their potential success with their stupid military coup."
Against all scrutiny, millions of gays, bisexuals, and transgendered peoplesbegan transforming their flamboyant floats, and bedazzled kites, which had appeared to be harmlessly drifting through the breeze alerting citizens of such flashy messages as “Don’t keep the gay at bay!”, into weapons of mass destruction. At roughly 8:30pm, residents on Caldwell Street remarked on the “perhaps nefarious” activities of a group of “fags” tying sticks of dynamite to the wooden structure of their kites. They saw smoke, and notified the police of strange “fffssshhhh” noises they had heard. Mere seconds later, kites equipped with explosives began ramming into buildings, ripping giant holes into them and injuring countless of bystanders with shards and chunks of debris; thousands of deaths wereattributed to the initial explosions tearing through these buildings, and even more to the few subsequent demolitions. At 8:43 PM, as the sound of crumbling concrete and startling booms echoed throughout the city, huge floats with phallic designs began inexplicably firing mortars, resulting in further structural damage of city infrastructure and residential property, along with the dozensof point-blank impacts sending thousands of innocent civilians into flight, shattering their bones, and detonating their vital organs upon contact with the ground. The onslaught continued for another 3 minutes until it was officially announcedvia poor quality megaphone that the terrorist coalition Al-Gayda had beenformed, and immediately announced retaliation for “historical obliviousness ofhomosexuality everywhere”.
Floats, suddenly equipped with SCUD missiles by 8:45PM, were launched into the city, knocking over a chip rack in a near-by convenience store and being speculated as to causing two heart attacks in acommunity for the elderly.
The prime minister solemnly gave his grievances, and members of the UN council noted that the shells of the weapons of mass destruction had been found near the knocked over chip rack, and was undeniable evidence along with the debris of other depleted munitions as having violated a UN convention necessary to become eligible of undertaking the option of intervention. The prime minister of Canada cited this in his speech, saying “These terrorists have no regard for the law, and have been effectively loitering in downtown Prodmore by blowing up buildings and leaving empty mortar, and SCUD missile shells all over the place, and this isn’t the only damage they’ve caused, as they’ve initially caused considerable damage against the environment with their beforehand impact.” Head councilman of the UN followed this up with the committee’s decision. “This is a serious transgression against nature, as it is very hard to get rid of these from the environment. The “No Loitering on UN Property” convention was not taken into regard, and we, the majority, are required by US opinion inthe UN convention we had at 9PM that we take action against this.” A full, hard on military invasion, funded by Germany and France, and bolstered by the military ranks of a dozen countries, most predominately the United States, is planned to usurp the gay pride militarists who threaten to make a foray into Blakmore, neighboring city, due to their “micro-cultural crimes against fashion”, a statement anonymously supplied by a member in this radical, and certainly aggressive movement.
UPDATE: American military intervention is motivated by corporate interest, and religious principle as control of Blakmore, in the hands of gay pride terrorists, would result in the loss of the Dale Chip factory, which is the lead supplier of fresh, crispy chips for The United States America. Stopping them from gaining access to the Dale Chip Factory would be pivotal for continued economic, and religious growth of that grand, and glorious nation of capitalists. Quoting President Obama Binbiden, "Dale Chips has been a symbol of the unending american strive for good chips. The knocking over the rack of chips, unwittingly American owned, by Gay Pride rallyers has its impact too, as a metaphor for their unwavering hatred for good, fresh baked Canadian chips. We will not take any of this. As we plow through the gay pride rallyers, we will burn any bags of chips in their possession as a symbol of our moral victory, and also as a means to cut off valuable supplies necessary to their potential success with their stupid military coup."
Rebellion & Bonfires: A Journalistic Report
Rebellions and bonfires have been springing up all over the nation, and I've decided to begin my investigation in a school who recently experienced a bonfire event, and a group of rebelling students. Below, are my heart-gripping realizations....
I sat a few inches away from the school’s dean, who intermittently tipped a tiny cup over his lip and washed his tongue with expresso, and then I watched as he pursed his eyebrows, staring intently at this inquisitive reporter, listening to the crackles of his cigarette as he drew on it, and leisurely expelled a light grey plume of smoke. Sitting next to him were three council members, two of which female, who were required by school formalities to measure their appearance to the deans; they all had a ring of dark gray hair encircle their scalp, an overall orb which had an oily sheen to it, and all, even the women, had a scruffy, but tamed goatee on their face. They followed his movements precisely, sipping on expresso, and smoking cigarettes. I sensed they were worried, but yet their sturdy faces discouraged any suspicion that perhaps doubt was attached to their minds, disturbing their nerves.
“Dean, could you give us a brief explanation as to why the students are rebelling?” I asked. He pulled one eye open and sent a chilly, probing beam of his vision through my pupil.
“But firsts we need ‘ta look at the history son…” He went silent, and I could feel the sheer intensity of emotion cookingin the room. Finally, he broached the subject.
Five weeks ago, the government began a program which allowed government sanctioned rebellion to take place in schools, under the condition that it was agreeable, and appropriate for toddlers with slight speech impediments so not to emulate any “no-no” language. Highschoolers were supplied with markers, crayons, and construction paper to come up with creative ways to rebel against the persecution of hot current issues,such as gay marriage, gay marriage, and the Arabic flight passenger who was being stared down by a dog, who is being held in custody for racial mistreatment via profiling. The dean, with a big grin, held up a very well done construction paper sign with round, glittering words which read, “Homosexuals are people too, and deserve equal rights!” He then showed me sixteen other posters and signs which expressed the same message with the same sentence configurement. However, his face turned in disgust, as he reached for a big, orange rectangular sheet turned facedown, his hand trembling with rage, as though the emotion it evoked was strong enough to warm his blood to such unbearable temperatures that it were scorching his veins. His glassy, narrowed eyes became glued to it; he observed it one last time. He flipped it over, his lip quivering, and I could see why, the sub-deans all around him cocked their head backs and their faces became mangled with fear. He revealed to me a poorly constructed sign a group of radical protesters created as with clubbed hands. It read, “Say no to rebellion enabled by government!”
“Why would the students do this?” I asked.
“No idea… But what it caused… was… catastrophic.” The deans around him quietly nodded as he finished.
“According to the home room teacher, he held up the sign once he finished it, and everyone began to panic. A bunch of kids shoved their desk together, and a bonfire magically materialized, setting the whole classroom ablaze!”
The damages were obvious; the room was damp, and charred. The rebels, had rebelled against rebelling. I spent the next few days following the youngsters rebelling, against rebellion. As they fled from the school, being chased out by teachers swinging around rulers with tacks sticking through them, they immediately seized control of an idled car in the parking lot, and began rebelling inside of it; currently, they sit there motionless, slowly dying of dehydration, one amusingly tapping an air freshener which dangles from the neck of the rear view mirror, another staring listlessly into the distance. Nothing has happened so far. However, bonfires continue to magically appear all over the nation, instinctually engaging people to commit rebellious acts.
Is there a link between spontaneous bonfires, and excessive acts of rebellion? This news reporter says yes. Every time a bonfire mysteriously appears within a person’s visual radius, chaos erupts – and who is to blame of this? Time will tell.
I sat a few inches away from the school’s dean, who intermittently tipped a tiny cup over his lip and washed his tongue with expresso, and then I watched as he pursed his eyebrows, staring intently at this inquisitive reporter, listening to the crackles of his cigarette as he drew on it, and leisurely expelled a light grey plume of smoke. Sitting next to him were three council members, two of which female, who were required by school formalities to measure their appearance to the deans; they all had a ring of dark gray hair encircle their scalp, an overall orb which had an oily sheen to it, and all, even the women, had a scruffy, but tamed goatee on their face. They followed his movements precisely, sipping on expresso, and smoking cigarettes. I sensed they were worried, but yet their sturdy faces discouraged any suspicion that perhaps doubt was attached to their minds, disturbing their nerves.
“Dean, could you give us a brief explanation as to why the students are rebelling?” I asked. He pulled one eye open and sent a chilly, probing beam of his vision through my pupil.
“But firsts we need ‘ta look at the history son…” He went silent, and I could feel the sheer intensity of emotion cookingin the room. Finally, he broached the subject.
Five weeks ago, the government began a program which allowed government sanctioned rebellion to take place in schools, under the condition that it was agreeable, and appropriate for toddlers with slight speech impediments so not to emulate any “no-no” language. Highschoolers were supplied with markers, crayons, and construction paper to come up with creative ways to rebel against the persecution of hot current issues,such as gay marriage, gay marriage, and the Arabic flight passenger who was being stared down by a dog, who is being held in custody for racial mistreatment via profiling. The dean, with a big grin, held up a very well done construction paper sign with round, glittering words which read, “Homosexuals are people too, and deserve equal rights!” He then showed me sixteen other posters and signs which expressed the same message with the same sentence configurement. However, his face turned in disgust, as he reached for a big, orange rectangular sheet turned facedown, his hand trembling with rage, as though the emotion it evoked was strong enough to warm his blood to such unbearable temperatures that it were scorching his veins. His glassy, narrowed eyes became glued to it; he observed it one last time. He flipped it over, his lip quivering, and I could see why, the sub-deans all around him cocked their head backs and their faces became mangled with fear. He revealed to me a poorly constructed sign a group of radical protesters created as with clubbed hands. It read, “Say no to rebellion enabled by government!”
“Why would the students do this?” I asked.
“No idea… But what it caused… was… catastrophic.” The deans around him quietly nodded as he finished.
“According to the home room teacher, he held up the sign once he finished it, and everyone began to panic. A bunch of kids shoved their desk together, and a bonfire magically materialized, setting the whole classroom ablaze!”
The damages were obvious; the room was damp, and charred. The rebels, had rebelled against rebelling. I spent the next few days following the youngsters rebelling, against rebellion. As they fled from the school, being chased out by teachers swinging around rulers with tacks sticking through them, they immediately seized control of an idled car in the parking lot, and began rebelling inside of it; currently, they sit there motionless, slowly dying of dehydration, one amusingly tapping an air freshener which dangles from the neck of the rear view mirror, another staring listlessly into the distance. Nothing has happened so far. However, bonfires continue to magically appear all over the nation, instinctually engaging people to commit rebellious acts.
Is there a link between spontaneous bonfires, and excessive acts of rebellion? This news reporter says yes. Every time a bonfire mysteriously appears within a person’s visual radius, chaos erupts – and who is to blame of this? Time will tell.
Man Abducting Children in Rocket Ship
As reportsof missing children’s continue to rise, suspicions of a lone man abducting children on a massive scale had also risen. The influx of missing children’s cases incidentally corresponded with the introduction of a new federal program called “Steve’s Rocket ship of Enlightenment”, which teachers could apply their class for. Steve, rocket ship entrepreneur, was offered a grant by a prestigious university to kick start his educationally relevant field trip-esque institution that sought the show kids the “beauty” of the inner cosmos. This was deemed highly important, as quoted by professional educators, “for absolutely no reason besides the obvious ill-defined implications, good or bad, of being in space. Mostly to get those little apathetic sh*ts out of class so we can put our attention to the students who really matter.”
As more youngsters ascended into the solar system, more were routinely reported missing within weekly periods. Scientists have tirelessly probed space, and based upon the initial trajectory of the rocket ship, have guesstimated its position, and has been confirmed tobe orbiting Mars, shooting ladders towards the ground which rows of youngsters were seen descending; further satellite photos of red planet reveal solid, one piece encampments, bordering a developed settlement which on the main entrance of a big banner signifies a perhaps nefarious plot, reading “The Super Milky Way Death Cult of Earth, and The Order of a New Age Regime of Mars.” After laborious hours of research on their website, it would appear that the SMDC & TONARM is a socially driven campaign to assimilate young boys and girls into a societythriving with new ageist ideologies and spiritual practices.
Their website goes on to explain, “Our goal is to show children that there are peaceful, relatively simple ways to co-exist in society. Our philosophy is that by exposing kids to death through exotic means of public execution and responsible displaysof safe suicide, they will come to terms with this inevitability of nature andbe deterred to anything except simply exist in society. We envision a society run entirely off of suicide, and depression, resulting from religious practices of death. It’s a fundamental truth of all spiritual exercises, that acceptance of death is mandatory to a happy life style!” Based upon financial reports parlayed from their internal web servers, one thousand child suicides, 50% assisted, with “tiredness” being cited as a general complaint among child laborers who then become eligible for “nap time”. Analysis reveals that the new children arrivals are immediately sent to work, and when upon becoming too weary to shop keep, farm, or work public transit, 9/10 submit to having their veins flooded with a synthesized, fast-acting toxin which shuts down their central nervous system. Most curiously, they are kept in a post-paralytic state and kept for storing, with mentions of “feeding liquefied consciousness through IV tubes”, “inserting consciousness into a physical, appropriate receptacle [brain] to generate a supreme entity” and “bodies are afterwards disposed, or mindless vessels are utilized to encourage cult specific acts” (Pages 6-23 ofthe TEMPARM annual financial status report) peppered throughout the memo of the paper, which indicates that supplies are being transferred from Earth, to Mars; thusly, further investigations are pending.
As more youngsters ascended into the solar system, more were routinely reported missing within weekly periods. Scientists have tirelessly probed space, and based upon the initial trajectory of the rocket ship, have guesstimated its position, and has been confirmed tobe orbiting Mars, shooting ladders towards the ground which rows of youngsters were seen descending; further satellite photos of red planet reveal solid, one piece encampments, bordering a developed settlement which on the main entrance of a big banner signifies a perhaps nefarious plot, reading “The Super Milky Way Death Cult of Earth, and The Order of a New Age Regime of Mars.” After laborious hours of research on their website, it would appear that the SMDC & TONARM is a socially driven campaign to assimilate young boys and girls into a societythriving with new ageist ideologies and spiritual practices.
Their website goes on to explain, “Our goal is to show children that there are peaceful, relatively simple ways to co-exist in society. Our philosophy is that by exposing kids to death through exotic means of public execution and responsible displaysof safe suicide, they will come to terms with this inevitability of nature andbe deterred to anything except simply exist in society. We envision a society run entirely off of suicide, and depression, resulting from religious practices of death. It’s a fundamental truth of all spiritual exercises, that acceptance of death is mandatory to a happy life style!” Based upon financial reports parlayed from their internal web servers, one thousand child suicides, 50% assisted, with “tiredness” being cited as a general complaint among child laborers who then become eligible for “nap time”. Analysis reveals that the new children arrivals are immediately sent to work, and when upon becoming too weary to shop keep, farm, or work public transit, 9/10 submit to having their veins flooded with a synthesized, fast-acting toxin which shuts down their central nervous system. Most curiously, they are kept in a post-paralytic state and kept for storing, with mentions of “feeding liquefied consciousness through IV tubes”, “inserting consciousness into a physical, appropriate receptacle [brain] to generate a supreme entity” and “bodies are afterwards disposed, or mindless vessels are utilized to encourage cult specific acts” (Pages 6-23 ofthe TEMPARM annual financial status report) peppered throughout the memo of the paper, which indicates that supplies are being transferred from Earth, to Mars; thusly, further investigations are pending.
Fascist Space Aliens Enslave Earth Women
Streaks of light bounced in the beady, watery eyes of spectators last week as a box shaped metallic aerial compartment hovered above flattened, whistling treetops at roughly 30 minutes past midnight. Emerging from a blinding wave of colors, unveiling mists as it shot in all directions, were a group of renegade space aliens. Their stature short, but cranial size large, they began to address the spectators, and people of Earth via available media sources, through a translator expressing their “entrepreneurial wishes, specifically inthe market of women’s products” here on Earth. Finally, marking that day, and after days of amassing a sizeable fortune to spearhead their business, the small union of space aliens has launched an advertisement campaign for “breast enhancement supplements”, “space-age bras”, being supplied at a specialized clinic which additionally offers “vaginal and breast exams.” A long, winding attendance of women filled the streets, as the line segmented into portions roughly ten to fifteen at a time and burst into a crowd, cramping into the small shop. The joyous afternoon quickly took a turn for the worst when women were reported as not having “left the shop” or “return home”. Reactions were cool until an eye witness report was anonymously supplied by an escapee fromthe shop.
“When I was waiting in line for a free breast exam, the aliens looking down the line with those cold, calculating eyes, we were all moving down this long tight tunnel like place, arranged one by one, and all I could hear was this loud “pop” sound at the end of it a few minutes after someone entered a door at the very back. I finally got there, and this bolt gun was pressed to my forehead, and it squeezed it, and I was knocked unconscious... But I hadn’t died.” After wiping the tears from her eyes, she continued to tell her eye-widening, gut-wrenching account of what was to come.
“I felt them load my body in something, and I felt like I was rocking in the back of a car or something… Then I woke up… and I was in this room, really wide, piled under dead bodies… I saw these aliens, on an alien space like altar thing… a big rectangular, stainless steel block which bodies were placed on… had very elegant things carved on it I think… But these girls, tossed on the slab, were resurrected after they said odd chants and threw up weird hand signs… These girls were brought back, and they were… slaves. Sex slaves. For the space aliens.”
Shocked and disturbed by these accusations, members of the alien trade union denied this saying “Foolish females with naturally inclined diminutive cognitive organ function, pre breast augmentation examinations does not equate to pre-requisites for sex slave trafficking.” In other, but related news, reports of citizens staring warily at the newly constructed “Pleasure Box”, a menacing box which the city now dwells in the shadow of, has urged police investigation between the unfounded accusations of sex trafficking, and menacing cubes of alien construction. FAWX News Reporter McPhag decided to achieve an in depth analysis of the Pleasure Box’s inside to further the story, which began as an elegantly marble foyer, guiding guests to an array of passages, snaking through the complex in a maze like construction. McPhag reports that he was greeted by a man with a dark hair, and calm eyes, and drenched in long, silky red cloth, patterned with gold thread. Below is a transcription of the conversation:
“I’m McPhag of action FAWX news; can I investigate a few of the rooms in the so called ‘PleasureBox’?”
“Jimzoth tastes the purity of the shimmering waters in your mind. Desire liquefies and trickles through your bone, soft chills dust them lightly like the brim of a feather. Her whimpers send warm tingles through you, as her moist eyes relay lust in yours, you feel her body break with your hands upon her, and you feel the shivers of her skin in your tips. Liquids flood her mouth, she swells and she feels a pressure gradually build, unbearably, and she gulps, as your tongue courses over the goose bumps of her neck, as you breathe in the soft air of sweat and hormone… She anxiously shudders, as you pluck her sturdy, rosy nipples, as your fingers draw near the heated, wet cleft between her soft thighs…”
“Creepy. I’d like to have some of that.”
“Sorry sir, this is for space aliens only. Also, this is only for space aliens in the space alien union.”
However, further anonymous testimony validates the previous allegations against the Pleasure Box, and the space alien trade union, stating that Aliens working in the female product and genital observatory store pick and choose which to kill in the effortless manner of a cattle abattoir, then resurrect their bodies in the “Pleasure Box” using ancient alien ritual tecniques, where they then serve their alien masters by performing incredible sexual acts in an attempt to gratify them. Damn.
So could it be possible that these entrepreneurs actually infiltrated earth to gain access to our hot Earth women, and abuse them as a commodity in their freakish, inter-galactic fetishes? Time will tell.
UPDATE: McPhag has been fired from FAWX news for violating the FAWX news ToS for supplying erotic commentary in a seemingly harmless article.
“When I was waiting in line for a free breast exam, the aliens looking down the line with those cold, calculating eyes, we were all moving down this long tight tunnel like place, arranged one by one, and all I could hear was this loud “pop” sound at the end of it a few minutes after someone entered a door at the very back. I finally got there, and this bolt gun was pressed to my forehead, and it squeezed it, and I was knocked unconscious... But I hadn’t died.” After wiping the tears from her eyes, she continued to tell her eye-widening, gut-wrenching account of what was to come.
“I felt them load my body in something, and I felt like I was rocking in the back of a car or something… Then I woke up… and I was in this room, really wide, piled under dead bodies… I saw these aliens, on an alien space like altar thing… a big rectangular, stainless steel block which bodies were placed on… had very elegant things carved on it I think… But these girls, tossed on the slab, were resurrected after they said odd chants and threw up weird hand signs… These girls were brought back, and they were… slaves. Sex slaves. For the space aliens.”
Shocked and disturbed by these accusations, members of the alien trade union denied this saying “Foolish females with naturally inclined diminutive cognitive organ function, pre breast augmentation examinations does not equate to pre-requisites for sex slave trafficking.” In other, but related news, reports of citizens staring warily at the newly constructed “Pleasure Box”, a menacing box which the city now dwells in the shadow of, has urged police investigation between the unfounded accusations of sex trafficking, and menacing cubes of alien construction. FAWX News Reporter McPhag decided to achieve an in depth analysis of the Pleasure Box’s inside to further the story, which began as an elegantly marble foyer, guiding guests to an array of passages, snaking through the complex in a maze like construction. McPhag reports that he was greeted by a man with a dark hair, and calm eyes, and drenched in long, silky red cloth, patterned with gold thread. Below is a transcription of the conversation:
“I’m McPhag of action FAWX news; can I investigate a few of the rooms in the so called ‘PleasureBox’?”
“Jimzoth tastes the purity of the shimmering waters in your mind. Desire liquefies and trickles through your bone, soft chills dust them lightly like the brim of a feather. Her whimpers send warm tingles through you, as her moist eyes relay lust in yours, you feel her body break with your hands upon her, and you feel the shivers of her skin in your tips. Liquids flood her mouth, she swells and she feels a pressure gradually build, unbearably, and she gulps, as your tongue courses over the goose bumps of her neck, as you breathe in the soft air of sweat and hormone… She anxiously shudders, as you pluck her sturdy, rosy nipples, as your fingers draw near the heated, wet cleft between her soft thighs…”
“Creepy. I’d like to have some of that.”
“Sorry sir, this is for space aliens only. Also, this is only for space aliens in the space alien union.”
However, further anonymous testimony validates the previous allegations against the Pleasure Box, and the space alien trade union, stating that Aliens working in the female product and genital observatory store pick and choose which to kill in the effortless manner of a cattle abattoir, then resurrect their bodies in the “Pleasure Box” using ancient alien ritual tecniques, where they then serve their alien masters by performing incredible sexual acts in an attempt to gratify them. Damn.
So could it be possible that these entrepreneurs actually infiltrated earth to gain access to our hot Earth women, and abuse them as a commodity in their freakish, inter-galactic fetishes? Time will tell.
UPDATE: McPhag has been fired from FAWX news for violating the FAWX news ToS for supplying erotic commentary in a seemingly harmless article.
A Guide On How To Ensure Everyone Misses You After You've Been Kidnapped: 6 Easy Steps To Follow
There's no doubt about it; we live in a dangerous era. The Bible predicted that liberals and commies (how redundant) would rule the world during the End Times. We see this taking place in our world today like never before. Americans everywhere fear for their lives when stepping outside of their homes, even on short trips to local convenience stores, for fear of these people. So before a hippie pulls you into an alley, suffocates you with a chloroform cloth, and stuffs you into their trunk let's talk about what you have to do to make sure everybody knows you've gone missing!
Step 1. Have rich family/friends
You don't gain national attention without the support of national media. To get that, you need money. Fortunately (if you're a real American) you should have plenty of money, so just sit back and relax while you wait for your face to appear on your kidnapper's TV!
Step 2. Be a female
It really helps if you're a (good looking) female when trying to make people miss you being gone. Have some nice pictures taken every so often just in case something like this happens!
Step 3. Be a kid
If you can't be a female, at least be a kid! Everybody misses children. Anywhere from 12 years to just a few months old, the younger you are the more likely you are to receive attention. However, if you're between the ages of 13-17, it still counts. Just a little bit less.
Step 4. Be Caucasian
See Step 1.
Step 5. Have an interesting case
This one isn't too important, but it does help with gaining attention! Your story doesn't have to be too exciting, just make sure it isn't too boring either. For instance, no one is likely to care if you happened to be kidnapped while you were on your way to the store at 2 o'clock in the morning in your pajamas to buy a few gallons worth of chocolate milk to guzzle down once you got home to watch TV for the rest of the night while all your cats turn you into their personal mattress.
Step 6. Be a Christian
While not really a step to ensuring people miss you after you're kidnapped, it's a guaranteed way to make sure you are located very quickly! When people pray that you'll be found, they're actually sending energy that makes its way to you. If you're an atheist or a member of a bogus religion these energies bounce off! But when you're a Christian the energies build up and stick to your spirit. These help God locate you with his metal-detector while he invisibly traverses our planet from another dimension unseen to us. He then can call the local authorities to come rescue you, assuming it is His will. When they tell you an anonymous tip saved the day, you can say "thank God someone was watching out for me!", and then knowingly wink at the clouds!
There you have it. A six point plan ensuring that everybody misses you in the event you are kidnapped. Remember to use the time immediately after your rescue wisely, because after a short time people will stop caring about you. In the meantime, try not to get killed while you're held captive!
Step 1. Have rich family/friends
You don't gain national attention without the support of national media. To get that, you need money. Fortunately (if you're a real American) you should have plenty of money, so just sit back and relax while you wait for your face to appear on your kidnapper's TV!
Step 2. Be a female
It really helps if you're a (good looking) female when trying to make people miss you being gone. Have some nice pictures taken every so often just in case something like this happens!
Step 3. Be a kid
If you can't be a female, at least be a kid! Everybody misses children. Anywhere from 12 years to just a few months old, the younger you are the more likely you are to receive attention. However, if you're between the ages of 13-17, it still counts. Just a little bit less.
Step 4. Be Caucasian
See Step 1.
Step 5. Have an interesting case
This one isn't too important, but it does help with gaining attention! Your story doesn't have to be too exciting, just make sure it isn't too boring either. For instance, no one is likely to care if you happened to be kidnapped while you were on your way to the store at 2 o'clock in the morning in your pajamas to buy a few gallons worth of chocolate milk to guzzle down once you got home to watch TV for the rest of the night while all your cats turn you into their personal mattress.
Step 6. Be a Christian
While not really a step to ensuring people miss you after you're kidnapped, it's a guaranteed way to make sure you are located very quickly! When people pray that you'll be found, they're actually sending energy that makes its way to you. If you're an atheist or a member of a bogus religion these energies bounce off! But when you're a Christian the energies build up and stick to your spirit. These help God locate you with his metal-detector while he invisibly traverses our planet from another dimension unseen to us. He then can call the local authorities to come rescue you, assuming it is His will. When they tell you an anonymous tip saved the day, you can say "thank God someone was watching out for me!", and then knowingly wink at the clouds!
There you have it. A six point plan ensuring that everybody misses you in the event you are kidnapped. Remember to use the time immediately after your rescue wisely, because after a short time people will stop caring about you. In the meantime, try not to get killed while you're held captive!
Eight-theists Coalition Moves towards Brighter Tomorrow
Atheists all over the world are reveling in an evolutionary concept inherently atheistic, yet self-indulgingly spiritual - the new craze has taken the nation by storm, dissolving godless philosophies into their very core, the now regarded god-centric pursuit of truth through one. Paul Revaldo sits alone, mind soothingly kissed by the darkness he shrouds himself in, his words echoing through total silence as he vocally registers word problems in a Mensa study book. I had a chance to talk to the old coot first hand to gain a fresh perspective on this new zeitgeist.
“We do not believe in a god, obviously. We now believe in our brains. We worship our own brains. Yes, each individual has a brain, and each individual is to worship his own brain. For the brain holds untold truths and it must be stimulated to gain them. Doing math problems, or logic problems, is the proper way to do so. For example, I worship my brain – I ask it questions after I engage in problems [pointing to Mensa book], and I write down the answer my brain gives me. It’s a truly omniscient thing, my brain.” Out of nowhere, he pushed his hands against his temples, twisting the skin of it around in circles.
“My brain is not pleased… What must I do to sate you, o’ brain?!” He asked frantically, as I stepped away, ever so slowly so not to alarm him with my anxiousness to leave. Suddenly, I found myself sitting next to him, again.
“So, what spawned this crazy new thing?”
“All answers, from existence, to personal problems, the brain is a means to the truth. I learned this, and shared my learning’s. It just happened. Call it Eight-theism.”
Also, mark your calendars, because coinciding with the 2nd week anniversary of Eight-theism, is “Days of the Weak”, a new school kids calendar listing the weekly emergence of changes in cultural attitudes towards spirituality, and science, and other human concepts which inspire self-idolatry, and hopeless truth seeking for the mindless, which millions are planned to take part of! “Days of the Weak” will be released October 5th.
“We do not believe in a god, obviously. We now believe in our brains. We worship our own brains. Yes, each individual has a brain, and each individual is to worship his own brain. For the brain holds untold truths and it must be stimulated to gain them. Doing math problems, or logic problems, is the proper way to do so. For example, I worship my brain – I ask it questions after I engage in problems [pointing to Mensa book], and I write down the answer my brain gives me. It’s a truly omniscient thing, my brain.” Out of nowhere, he pushed his hands against his temples, twisting the skin of it around in circles.
“My brain is not pleased… What must I do to sate you, o’ brain?!” He asked frantically, as I stepped away, ever so slowly so not to alarm him with my anxiousness to leave. Suddenly, I found myself sitting next to him, again.
“So, what spawned this crazy new thing?”
“All answers, from existence, to personal problems, the brain is a means to the truth. I learned this, and shared my learning’s. It just happened. Call it Eight-theism.”
Also, mark your calendars, because coinciding with the 2nd week anniversary of Eight-theism, is “Days of the Weak”, a new school kids calendar listing the weekly emergence of changes in cultural attitudes towards spirituality, and science, and other human concepts which inspire self-idolatry, and hopeless truth seeking for the mindless, which millions are planned to take part of! “Days of the Weak” will be released October 5th.
Alcoholic Turns to God; Dies Seven Weeks Later
Early this afternoon, Rudy Chaprone, FAWX News pseudo-anchor, is slouched over his desk, face wrecked with an inner brew of emptiness, doubt, self-loathing,and desire; he is visibly silently distressed in a brooding depression.
“Maan fuck all y’all, I was thinkin’ I had some purpose here an’ shit, but nah dawgs, ya’ll never seen Rudy Chaprone in any news reports unless he be getting’ eatin by lions, or dyin’ from toxic crayons!
“Rudy, what do you have to say about the allegations that the FAWX news team mistreats you?”
“Man get dose fuckin’ cameras outta my face dawg, only reason you be’ trippin is ‘cause it be national peace and sanity day. When they ain’t nothin’ goin on, y’all come to Rudy! Shiiit, at least you could be doin’ more to hurt me, just so’z I got mo’ work.”
“Rudy, what do you think about FAWX news policy, which states to immediately terminate employees who show signs of shooting up the work place?” I looked over at Mark, clasping a beer can, chugging down five in the course of a minute as Rudy apparently mulled over my eyes, staring in them with an angry intensity. I heard Mark’s breath shoot into the tube of a Breathalyzer, unwittingly within shot of the camera.
“Probably some bullllllshit.”
“Breathalyzer indicates an alcohol content of 50.0.” Mark whispered in my ear.
“Rudy, how do you respond to accusations that your alcohol bloodpoint average is well above lethal limits?”
“Yo what?!”
Rudy Chaprone is currently being admitted to AA services to help him cope with his addiction to alcohol, however the possibility of concealed weaponry, in a means to enter a rampage to spill the blood of many innocents as an effective method of stress relief - precludes admittance into AA. A full body cavity search was conducted, and no armaments were located.
With a look of horror painted on his face, he sat in a circle with fellow alcoholics, feeling both shamed and relieved, while a man rattled his clipboard, feverishly trying to attach a piece of paper under the clip. At 8PM, as the FAWX news team observed him from the window as discreetly as possible [not], he began to possibly show signs of alcoholic urges. He brought afinger towards his scalp, and scratched it almost fiendishly, as if to relieve liquid temptations. Below is a transcription of the conversation:
“Okay, so let’s start with you. Yes, you, man with the long hair and red robe.”
“Jimzoth sees all, and the thoughts in your head. The thoughts of wet skin, which pulsates and drip; slow echoes of her soft cries as you ease yourself into her hot flesh, gently stir your mind which rests, sends soothing waves, like the sparkling rolls in disturbed water under the moonlight, through your brain, as you feel her collect her body, uneasily shifting with each move you make – her contractions squeezing you, her fluids rushing over you.”
“You’re a sexual deviant. The sex addiction office is right next door. Wrong room.”
“Jimzoth did not see.”
“Okay guys, anyways. I will trust, lest we become hornier, that we are all here because you have problems with alcohol. Well, the first thing you need to do is admit you have a problem. Everyone say it together, ‘I have a problem with alcohol.’” Faces turned, but in a succession, and finally in unison, ‘I have a problem with alcohol’ fell over their lips.
“Superb. Okay. So, next is you need to believe there is a higher power. And that this higher power will help you get rid of your addiction.” He continued.
“However, because some people don’t believe in God, we’re instead supplying God Juice. Really simple. All you have to do to believe in a higher power, while using this really easy alternative, is take this syringe…Slip it through your skin like this… Aggh… Aaannnnddd… Push down…”
“Phew, this stuff is pretty good. Okay, so who doesn’t believe in God?” Everyone’s hands shot up.
“Okay, well, you need to come to every AA session to get more God Juice.” He said as he reached into a box, and began handing out tiny bottles, with needles taped to their sides, to eager hands.
We observed Rudy Chaprone twenty four hours later to make sure he was attending his AA meetings via his kitchen window. We observed him digging his finger tips into his forehead, slathering it in oil leaking from his pores, with sweat creeping down his neck, which tightened as though the droplets were ice cold – a clear indicator of the hellish depths of his alcoholic addiction.
Thankfully he attended AA again, although while rolling his bloodshot eyes as though eagerly waiting for it end, and then quickly grasped the God Juice supplied at the end of the session. Curious of his progress, we once again viewed him through his kitchen window – behind which we were able to invalidate our concerns, as he was in fact not consuming alcohol. Instead, he was shoving a needle in his vein, quickly adapting to God via God Juice.
Day after day, he attended AA, receiving his God Juice, readily giving himself to a higher power as he applied pressure on the tab of the syringe.
However, we are sad to report, that Rundy did not make his last AA meeting, seeing as he was found dead on his houses floor, eyes shadowed with deep circles, and his skin chilled – multiple perforations found on his arm. Autopsy is pending, but skeptics are lead to believe that the God Juice was in fact heroin or morphine, and suggest that Randy simply overdosed.
Our condolences to Rudy Chaprone, his parents, and fifty children.
“Maan fuck all y’all, I was thinkin’ I had some purpose here an’ shit, but nah dawgs, ya’ll never seen Rudy Chaprone in any news reports unless he be getting’ eatin by lions, or dyin’ from toxic crayons!
“Rudy, what do you have to say about the allegations that the FAWX news team mistreats you?”
“Man get dose fuckin’ cameras outta my face dawg, only reason you be’ trippin is ‘cause it be national peace and sanity day. When they ain’t nothin’ goin on, y’all come to Rudy! Shiiit, at least you could be doin’ more to hurt me, just so’z I got mo’ work.”
“Rudy, what do you think about FAWX news policy, which states to immediately terminate employees who show signs of shooting up the work place?” I looked over at Mark, clasping a beer can, chugging down five in the course of a minute as Rudy apparently mulled over my eyes, staring in them with an angry intensity. I heard Mark’s breath shoot into the tube of a Breathalyzer, unwittingly within shot of the camera.
“Probably some bullllllshit.”
“Breathalyzer indicates an alcohol content of 50.0.” Mark whispered in my ear.
“Rudy, how do you respond to accusations that your alcohol bloodpoint average is well above lethal limits?”
“Yo what?!”
Rudy Chaprone is currently being admitted to AA services to help him cope with his addiction to alcohol, however the possibility of concealed weaponry, in a means to enter a rampage to spill the blood of many innocents as an effective method of stress relief - precludes admittance into AA. A full body cavity search was conducted, and no armaments were located.
With a look of horror painted on his face, he sat in a circle with fellow alcoholics, feeling both shamed and relieved, while a man rattled his clipboard, feverishly trying to attach a piece of paper under the clip. At 8PM, as the FAWX news team observed him from the window as discreetly as possible [not], he began to possibly show signs of alcoholic urges. He brought afinger towards his scalp, and scratched it almost fiendishly, as if to relieve liquid temptations. Below is a transcription of the conversation:
“Okay, so let’s start with you. Yes, you, man with the long hair and red robe.”
“Jimzoth sees all, and the thoughts in your head. The thoughts of wet skin, which pulsates and drip; slow echoes of her soft cries as you ease yourself into her hot flesh, gently stir your mind which rests, sends soothing waves, like the sparkling rolls in disturbed water under the moonlight, through your brain, as you feel her collect her body, uneasily shifting with each move you make – her contractions squeezing you, her fluids rushing over you.”
“You’re a sexual deviant. The sex addiction office is right next door. Wrong room.”
“Jimzoth did not see.”
“Okay guys, anyways. I will trust, lest we become hornier, that we are all here because you have problems with alcohol. Well, the first thing you need to do is admit you have a problem. Everyone say it together, ‘I have a problem with alcohol.’” Faces turned, but in a succession, and finally in unison, ‘I have a problem with alcohol’ fell over their lips.
“Superb. Okay. So, next is you need to believe there is a higher power. And that this higher power will help you get rid of your addiction.” He continued.
“However, because some people don’t believe in God, we’re instead supplying God Juice. Really simple. All you have to do to believe in a higher power, while using this really easy alternative, is take this syringe…Slip it through your skin like this… Aggh… Aaannnnddd… Push down…”
“Phew, this stuff is pretty good. Okay, so who doesn’t believe in God?” Everyone’s hands shot up.
“Okay, well, you need to come to every AA session to get more God Juice.” He said as he reached into a box, and began handing out tiny bottles, with needles taped to their sides, to eager hands.
We observed Rudy Chaprone twenty four hours later to make sure he was attending his AA meetings via his kitchen window. We observed him digging his finger tips into his forehead, slathering it in oil leaking from his pores, with sweat creeping down his neck, which tightened as though the droplets were ice cold – a clear indicator of the hellish depths of his alcoholic addiction.
Thankfully he attended AA again, although while rolling his bloodshot eyes as though eagerly waiting for it end, and then quickly grasped the God Juice supplied at the end of the session. Curious of his progress, we once again viewed him through his kitchen window – behind which we were able to invalidate our concerns, as he was in fact not consuming alcohol. Instead, he was shoving a needle in his vein, quickly adapting to God via God Juice.
Day after day, he attended AA, receiving his God Juice, readily giving himself to a higher power as he applied pressure on the tab of the syringe.
However, we are sad to report, that Rundy did not make his last AA meeting, seeing as he was found dead on his houses floor, eyes shadowed with deep circles, and his skin chilled – multiple perforations found on his arm. Autopsy is pending, but skeptics are lead to believe that the God Juice was in fact heroin or morphine, and suggest that Randy simply overdosed.
Our condolences to Rudy Chaprone, his parents, and fifty children.
Cereal Boxes of Cocaine Infiltrates Stores
Last night, surprised residents of Brimokajakistania, shook the town’s foundation with resounding cries of discontent. Mitch Hardlong, father of two, watched as a chalky dust settled over his son’s cereal bowl, revealing a heavy clump of cocaine which had fallen from a cereal box of “Kool Karma Charms”. According to the “Seventeen Eleventh Hour of Apep” mini-mart, their entire stock of Kool Karma Charms has been replaced with replica boxes filled with a kilo of cocaine – and they are receiving many calls from customers that for breakfast, instead of a hearty bowl of nutritional cereal, which is the lynch pin for pleasing morning time family moments with plenty of heartwarming dialogue, cocaine had instead plopped into their bowls. Thousands deprived of their routine consumption of cereal, had been admitted into the hospital for malnutrition – hundreds more fired and millions of family ties severed. On the other edge of the sword, Cocaine Cannibals have been spotted rampaging across the city, the very lives of the town’s citizens resting between the jaws of these furious fiends, faces dusted with powder as they maraud for body parts, usually after mindlessly murdering hapless victims, simply to sell to an underground organ market to generate an income sufficient to purchase more cocaine. Underground organ markets are currently thriving. However, with an excessive public domain in cocaine supply, people were forced to get creative with its use, without snorting it, as it isdeemed by the national narcotics bureau to be more addictive than “heroin, crack, and prescription painkillers combined”, but the people have proven to be far from the clutches from the perils of drug addiction – instead, this peaceful little town has mastered it in a sort of art form, from being used as a substitute for flour, to an ingenious cosmetic application to hide those pesky blemishes as a powder, cocaine has found a safe, alternative way to supplement society. Currently, the narcotics bureau has decided not to take any action to repossess the narcotic, but instead urges citizens that “it is imperative that all citizens buy new boxes of cereal.” The official statement given by the narcotics bureau state head continues, saying, “The real issue is not that everybody has cocaine. It’s that people all over have been cheated out of their cereal, and cereal is a very important breakfast item. Cereal strengthens family bonds, cures heart disease, stops cancer, and improves worker productivity. It is absolutely necessary if we are to live. On the topic of the cocaine though, we've come to the conclusion that a truck, trafficking drugs, had been mixed up with a Kool Karma Charms one. Happens a lot, actually.”
Homosexuals Use Burger King To Seduce Children (Plus, Tony Stewart gets Pinkalicious)
A startling discovery was made today by FAWX News Reporter -ZD- which has revealed that the popular restaurant, Burger King, is working in conjunction with the homosexual agenda that seeks to destroy America. How could this be, you ask? They're targeting your children! The method they have used is so very subtle that most parents don't even realize it's happening within their own family. Below is a scanned image of a bag purchased from Burger King showing how they plan to corrupt your children through seemingly innocent toys.
Looks innocent enough, right? But look carefully at the options presented for girls, and then the options presented for boys. Girls get a set of Pinkalicious toys, while boys only receive a Tony Stewart NASCAR racing car. Each of the girl's toys have an individual use, while the boy's toys are basically the same thing with a few small additions each time. Now you're probably wondering, if Burger King is offering toys for both girls and boys, how can any of this be perceived as a homosexual attempt to destroy your family? The answer is quite simple.
Everyone knows that NASCAR is boring as all hell. No one wants to watch some guys drive cars in a circle 200+ times. That is of course, until the cars crash into each other and explode. I stole several of the Tony Stewart racecars from some kids who happened to be playing with them and attempted to cause the cars to ignite by sending them smashing into walls, but to no avail. The cars only rolled aimlessly forward or backward, toppling onto their sides and tops. Except for one car that had a crooked wheel after my first throw and it kind of went a little to the left from then on. I had to bring my own hammer and smash the cars just to get them to explode in front of the children I had originally taken the cars from. Even then it wasn't as satisfying as seeing the real thing, as the kids would agree. They were crying from the sheer disappointment of not seeing a proper duplication of a NASCAR explosion. In summation , Burger King is selling our nation's fine young men these broken toy cars.
So what happens when the boys quickly grow tired of their non-combustible racecars? They turn to the girl's toys! I watched in horror as the boys began to comb their hair with the Ring Comb, and wave their Star Bright Wands around, blissfully unaware of the innuendo surrounding magic wands and their relation to the homosexual community! They strapped on their Hair Play ribbons and wore their Pinkalicious Tiara's proudly. Suddenly the girls in Burger King were very interested in the boys and began attempts to flirt with them, but the boys just started making out with each other as I pressed their faces firmly together.
I decided enough was enough and headed into the kitchen to demand answers.
"Excuse me sir, what do you have to say about the new Pinkalicious toys that Burger King is giving to kids?"
"YOU NO ALLOWED BACK HERE!"
"Would you agree they're attempting to impress a homosexual image upon young boys who play with them?"
"GET OUT OF KITCHEN!"
"Can I speak to your manager please?"
Fortunately the manager was already on his way to me, and we continued the discussion on the issue of the Pinkalicious toys in the parking lot of Burger King.
"Are you aware you're selling broken toys to kids, as well as glorifying a homosexual lifestyle to them at an impressionable age?"
"Just stay away from here! Do not come back! If I catch you in here harassing our customers or our employees again, we're going to have a problem!"
The manager stepped back inside and I followed him back to his office to continue questioning.
"How many more kids have to die from AIDS before you're happy?"
"What the hell are you doing back in here?! That's it, I'm calling the cops!"
I left shortly after, later on receiving a restraining order that said I was not to enter the premises under any circumstances. All of this just for spreading the truth. This has been -ZD- of FAWX News reporting.
Everyone knows that NASCAR is boring as all hell. No one wants to watch some guys drive cars in a circle 200+ times. That is of course, until the cars crash into each other and explode. I stole several of the Tony Stewart racecars from some kids who happened to be playing with them and attempted to cause the cars to ignite by sending them smashing into walls, but to no avail. The cars only rolled aimlessly forward or backward, toppling onto their sides and tops. Except for one car that had a crooked wheel after my first throw and it kind of went a little to the left from then on. I had to bring my own hammer and smash the cars just to get them to explode in front of the children I had originally taken the cars from. Even then it wasn't as satisfying as seeing the real thing, as the kids would agree. They were crying from the sheer disappointment of not seeing a proper duplication of a NASCAR explosion. In summation , Burger King is selling our nation's fine young men these broken toy cars.
So what happens when the boys quickly grow tired of their non-combustible racecars? They turn to the girl's toys! I watched in horror as the boys began to comb their hair with the Ring Comb, and wave their Star Bright Wands around, blissfully unaware of the innuendo surrounding magic wands and their relation to the homosexual community! They strapped on their Hair Play ribbons and wore their Pinkalicious Tiara's proudly. Suddenly the girls in Burger King were very interested in the boys and began attempts to flirt with them, but the boys just started making out with each other as I pressed their faces firmly together.
I decided enough was enough and headed into the kitchen to demand answers.
"Excuse me sir, what do you have to say about the new Pinkalicious toys that Burger King is giving to kids?"
"YOU NO ALLOWED BACK HERE!"
"Would you agree they're attempting to impress a homosexual image upon young boys who play with them?"
"GET OUT OF KITCHEN!"
"Can I speak to your manager please?"
Fortunately the manager was already on his way to me, and we continued the discussion on the issue of the Pinkalicious toys in the parking lot of Burger King.
"Are you aware you're selling broken toys to kids, as well as glorifying a homosexual lifestyle to them at an impressionable age?"
"Just stay away from here! Do not come back! If I catch you in here harassing our customers or our employees again, we're going to have a problem!"
The manager stepped back inside and I followed him back to his office to continue questioning.
"How many more kids have to die from AIDS before you're happy?"
"What the hell are you doing back in here?! That's it, I'm calling the cops!"
I left shortly after, later on receiving a restraining order that said I was not to enter the premises under any circumstances. All of this just for spreading the truth. This has been -ZD- of FAWX News reporting.
National Forest Doomed to Totalitarian Control, and Robotic Critter Invasions
The hour of twilight has befallen us, and we at the FAWX news team would like to extend our deepest apologies for recent donations to Daniel’s Animal Shelter, we were unaware that he was a douche. We do not wish for Daniel to have any degree of financial or moral success.
In other news, animals inhabiting Lakistar’s renowned provincial park, “The Yawning Forest”, have faced increasing mortality rates as sightings of wild life plummets. Cancer befalls more and more animals, as smoking companies had neglected to advise animals, especially fawns, that the effects of their products were applicable to non-human species. Park officials have been faced with decreasing park attendance which is “not only a moral loss in the failing continuity of boring nature walks and camping trips as an element of cohesion in unimaginative family structures” but also a financial one, park manager Dawn Facelit stating “We get almost 100% of our income from selling knock off brands of ice cream at various concession stands. We use our annual proceeds of roughly fifty dollars to set up cool raffle prizes… and other things… to accommodate our guests. We will have to use this to pay for other means to boost interest.” In an effort to increase park attendance, directly correlated with the loss of wild life, robotic versions of the former animals which once inhabited the forest are being manufactured and placed all over it. We are within phase two of this grand scheme to revitalize the forests with a fresh resurgence of critters, although mechanical, and it has been going terribly. Nature lovers report that birds simply scrape across big metal bars they’re attached to on the trees branches, making a loud, abrasive screech instead of a melodic chirp, and pseudo-mammals like deer have wandered into human resorts, spontaneously exploding, injuring and killing hundreds. Wild, cyber wolves have also encountered serious programming malfunctions, going through loop holes in their survival instinct code in that their robotic shell has granted them a perception of being a super mega apex predator, and have begun devouring potential prey [humans] on site.
Park officials have done little to stop this, but a statement was given by the manager until actions are decided upon, and taken. “People of ‘The Yawning Forest’ resort, stay IN your tents until further notice, this should shield you from being lunged at by rabid cyber wolves, or sundered apart by the explosions of malfunctioning robot deer.” Shockingly, reports of body bags, likely containing the corpses of victims mauled by wolves or turned to jell-o by deer explosions, are being hauled off into pickup trucks, rather ambulances. Peculiarly, the siding of these vehicles were painted with big, bold lettering, which has been reported as acknowledging the presence of “Chuck’s Organ Emporium”, a black market dealing in human organs which continues to expand with consecutive catastrophes. When asked about sightings of “Chuck’s Organ Emporiums” trucks, the President (former manager) of “The Yawning Forest” reassured “No, of course I wouldn’t be selling bodies to an organ market instead of returning them to their grieving families merely for considerable profits which would help save this park that is surely going to go bankrupt if no money is achieved.” In the midst of this catastrophe, President Dawn Facelit has enacted forest marshal law, taking tents, RV’s, and so on and so forth, as personal property to better deal with the situation, but more controversial, he has assumed direct control of a convenience store, allowing him a squeezing grasp over the apparent micro nation.
In other news, animals inhabiting Lakistar’s renowned provincial park, “The Yawning Forest”, have faced increasing mortality rates as sightings of wild life plummets. Cancer befalls more and more animals, as smoking companies had neglected to advise animals, especially fawns, that the effects of their products were applicable to non-human species. Park officials have been faced with decreasing park attendance which is “not only a moral loss in the failing continuity of boring nature walks and camping trips as an element of cohesion in unimaginative family structures” but also a financial one, park manager Dawn Facelit stating “We get almost 100% of our income from selling knock off brands of ice cream at various concession stands. We use our annual proceeds of roughly fifty dollars to set up cool raffle prizes… and other things… to accommodate our guests. We will have to use this to pay for other means to boost interest.” In an effort to increase park attendance, directly correlated with the loss of wild life, robotic versions of the former animals which once inhabited the forest are being manufactured and placed all over it. We are within phase two of this grand scheme to revitalize the forests with a fresh resurgence of critters, although mechanical, and it has been going terribly. Nature lovers report that birds simply scrape across big metal bars they’re attached to on the trees branches, making a loud, abrasive screech instead of a melodic chirp, and pseudo-mammals like deer have wandered into human resorts, spontaneously exploding, injuring and killing hundreds. Wild, cyber wolves have also encountered serious programming malfunctions, going through loop holes in their survival instinct code in that their robotic shell has granted them a perception of being a super mega apex predator, and have begun devouring potential prey [humans] on site.
Park officials have done little to stop this, but a statement was given by the manager until actions are decided upon, and taken. “People of ‘The Yawning Forest’ resort, stay IN your tents until further notice, this should shield you from being lunged at by rabid cyber wolves, or sundered apart by the explosions of malfunctioning robot deer.” Shockingly, reports of body bags, likely containing the corpses of victims mauled by wolves or turned to jell-o by deer explosions, are being hauled off into pickup trucks, rather ambulances. Peculiarly, the siding of these vehicles were painted with big, bold lettering, which has been reported as acknowledging the presence of “Chuck’s Organ Emporium”, a black market dealing in human organs which continues to expand with consecutive catastrophes. When asked about sightings of “Chuck’s Organ Emporiums” trucks, the President (former manager) of “The Yawning Forest” reassured “No, of course I wouldn’t be selling bodies to an organ market instead of returning them to their grieving families merely for considerable profits which would help save this park that is surely going to go bankrupt if no money is achieved.” In the midst of this catastrophe, President Dawn Facelit has enacted forest marshal law, taking tents, RV’s, and so on and so forth, as personal property to better deal with the situation, but more controversial, he has assumed direct control of a convenience store, allowing him a squeezing grasp over the apparent micro nation.
Teens for Sex & Suicide
For decades, teens have been reprimanded for even the slightest thought of suicide and sexual intercourse, and yesterday, a choir of high school protesters lit up the drab courtyard of their school with long, wavering banners, projecting the name of their radical organization amongst spectators, reading “Angry Teens for Sex and Suicide”.
“We are sick of being marginalized. Teens can commit acts of sex and suicide, and when we do, we’re called something akin to the devils ilk.” Proclaims head of the organization, Rich Yichster. However, being denied donations to further their campaign, and being denied “figurative equal rights”, they’ve taken a more aggressive measure to secure their recreational club’s position in history. For thousands of years, recreational clubs have overhauled ancient dogmas and changed political climates with fiery words and poor quality megaphones. Today, I hadn’t bat an eye-lash as the concerned tone of the news reporter enlightened me with a sense of peril, as he began to explain that the barley populated “Angry Teens for Sex and Suicide” club had begun a strike within a classroom, refusing to leave until they’re allowed the proper means to convey their message. This reporter decided to get special insight on these developments, casually strolling down the school hallways, hearing the rubber of his dress shoes peel off of the plastic floor, his nerves tightening with the distance between him, and the classroom closing. My knuckles hit the door; I slowly paced myself, not wanting to alarm them. The blinds smacked against the glass plate within the door, as shifty eyes were shoved against it, peering through.
“Hello, I am Bagels W. McPhag of Fawx News. I’ve come to provide you fellows with coverage.” A smile, perhaps of relief, painted their face a brighter shade than before. The kid invited me in, the liveliness in his eyes brought them to a glow, and I felt a heart-warming sensation jump through me, such that I’d perhaps given these youngsters a sense of justification for the indignities they felt. I sat in the corner, simply observing as I clutched my notebook, readying my pen like I would a chop-stick. The rows of desks filled with students, clumps of them nude, their bodies shimmering with sweat, simmering under the flame boiling their minds as they motioned to the tribal pulse of their sex, the air moistened by a constant flow of body heat also nuanced with a hormonally charged odeur de sueur. Their eyes sparked with a gradual thirst, feverishly penetrating their female mates who assumed a supine position, sitting up with their arms behind them, and I thought, watching them jump as the males reached the depths of their watering womanhood, with cute shrieks escaping their tender lips when they had, how any of this was truly relevant. I zoomed out, and took note of an even larger image, all of them squirming like a pile of slithering snakes. Sprinkled throughout the room were lone, musing gentlemen and women, one in particular with a gun’s barrel nuzzling his temple, his lips breaking apart to utter “tick” with each click sound, which penetrated the silence and soft sighs rolling through the air, “tick.”, he said, releasing his finger from the trigger. In the corner, lay a mass of tangled corpses, some bloodied and ravaged, others faded and calm. The protest for the “Angry teens for Sex and Suicide” ended, as I’d doubted, unsuccessfully. Teens inside killed themselves, and had sex – an event staged seemingly for the sake of committing suicide and having sex. Bodies were hauled off in ambulances, some even a dark pick-up truck [reports unverified], and students were charged for sexual misconduct in a public place. Nothing was achieved but gratification. And perhaps, just perhaps, this is the fuel for a head-strong movement, propelled by recreational clubs, which may one day change the tempo of America’s ever beating heart.
“We are sick of being marginalized. Teens can commit acts of sex and suicide, and when we do, we’re called something akin to the devils ilk.” Proclaims head of the organization, Rich Yichster. However, being denied donations to further their campaign, and being denied “figurative equal rights”, they’ve taken a more aggressive measure to secure their recreational club’s position in history. For thousands of years, recreational clubs have overhauled ancient dogmas and changed political climates with fiery words and poor quality megaphones. Today, I hadn’t bat an eye-lash as the concerned tone of the news reporter enlightened me with a sense of peril, as he began to explain that the barley populated “Angry Teens for Sex and Suicide” club had begun a strike within a classroom, refusing to leave until they’re allowed the proper means to convey their message. This reporter decided to get special insight on these developments, casually strolling down the school hallways, hearing the rubber of his dress shoes peel off of the plastic floor, his nerves tightening with the distance between him, and the classroom closing. My knuckles hit the door; I slowly paced myself, not wanting to alarm them. The blinds smacked against the glass plate within the door, as shifty eyes were shoved against it, peering through.
“Hello, I am Bagels W. McPhag of Fawx News. I’ve come to provide you fellows with coverage.” A smile, perhaps of relief, painted their face a brighter shade than before. The kid invited me in, the liveliness in his eyes brought them to a glow, and I felt a heart-warming sensation jump through me, such that I’d perhaps given these youngsters a sense of justification for the indignities they felt. I sat in the corner, simply observing as I clutched my notebook, readying my pen like I would a chop-stick. The rows of desks filled with students, clumps of them nude, their bodies shimmering with sweat, simmering under the flame boiling their minds as they motioned to the tribal pulse of their sex, the air moistened by a constant flow of body heat also nuanced with a hormonally charged odeur de sueur. Their eyes sparked with a gradual thirst, feverishly penetrating their female mates who assumed a supine position, sitting up with their arms behind them, and I thought, watching them jump as the males reached the depths of their watering womanhood, with cute shrieks escaping their tender lips when they had, how any of this was truly relevant. I zoomed out, and took note of an even larger image, all of them squirming like a pile of slithering snakes. Sprinkled throughout the room were lone, musing gentlemen and women, one in particular with a gun’s barrel nuzzling his temple, his lips breaking apart to utter “tick” with each click sound, which penetrated the silence and soft sighs rolling through the air, “tick.”, he said, releasing his finger from the trigger. In the corner, lay a mass of tangled corpses, some bloodied and ravaged, others faded and calm. The protest for the “Angry teens for Sex and Suicide” ended, as I’d doubted, unsuccessfully. Teens inside killed themselves, and had sex – an event staged seemingly for the sake of committing suicide and having sex. Bodies were hauled off in ambulances, some even a dark pick-up truck [reports unverified], and students were charged for sexual misconduct in a public place. Nothing was achieved but gratification. And perhaps, just perhaps, this is the fuel for a head-strong movement, propelled by recreational clubs, which may one day change the tempo of America’s ever beating heart.
Is a Cigar Really a Cigar? Part 1: Searching through SMOKE (GET IT?)
It's a popular analogy, "Sometimes a cigar is really a cigar." It has been used to counter act with everything from conspiracy theories to skepticism. But now, there is reason to believe that cigars might secretly be Communist minions and may be responsible for everything wrong in America.
In 1953, Cuban scientists Satanically created the cigar plant and shortly after, turned this discovery into an industry, with the US becoming it's main trading partner. Coincidentally, that same year, Fidel Castro began the Cuban Revolution.
So, what exactly happened to influence the trade embargo? On the evening of February 6, 1962, USPresident Jon E. Kennedy ordered 1200 Cuban cigars to be delivered to him. The next day, February 7, 1962; Jon E. Kennedy enabled a trade embargo with Cuba. Although it is known that US-Cuban relations were becoming increasingly tense, the official reasoning was never clear. According to Henri Kessinger, a well known human rights activist and advisor to many US Presidents; what Jon E. Kennedy found that night was too shocking for public knowledge.
However, thanks to FAWX New's advanced investigative journalism, we have been able to recover the secret document regarding the event with as few as 16 casualties in the FAWX African American militia, led by Rudy Chaprone who unfortunately succumbed to the loss of his left leg during the raid on the National Archives.
Thanks to the First Ammedment we have been able to legally release the document. Below is only 1 page of the documents. We will be submitting them to the supreme court tonight and will be broadcasting it live.
Please note; If it looks like 2 big rectangles, you're ignorant and unable to see past government censorship.
In 1953, Cuban scientists Satanically created the cigar plant and shortly after, turned this discovery into an industry, with the US becoming it's main trading partner. Coincidentally, that same year, Fidel Castro began the Cuban Revolution.
So, what exactly happened to influence the trade embargo? On the evening of February 6, 1962, USPresident Jon E. Kennedy ordered 1200 Cuban cigars to be delivered to him. The next day, February 7, 1962; Jon E. Kennedy enabled a trade embargo with Cuba. Although it is known that US-Cuban relations were becoming increasingly tense, the official reasoning was never clear. According to Henri Kessinger, a well known human rights activist and advisor to many US Presidents; what Jon E. Kennedy found that night was too shocking for public knowledge.
However, thanks to FAWX New's advanced investigative journalism, we have been able to recover the secret document regarding the event with as few as 16 casualties in the FAWX African American militia, led by Rudy Chaprone who unfortunately succumbed to the loss of his left leg during the raid on the National Archives.
Thanks to the First Ammedment we have been able to legally release the document. Below is only 1 page of the documents. We will be submitting them to the supreme court tonight and will be broadcasting it live.
Please note; If it looks like 2 big rectangles, you're ignorant and unable to see past government censorship.
Herbert the Drug Fiend Dies at 37
We at FAWX news are always striving to efficiently deliver breaking news – and today we’ve perhaps perfected our craft to a startling degree of accuracy. The most reliable, and effective, is the unimaginable – and so after a bit of browsing on eBay, and an awkward glance at the username “pagan_mom15”, we’d purchased a replica crystal ball.
Unfortunately, upon delivery, I’d hugged it in my left arm as my other was preoccupied with a warm cup of coffee, and I’d dropped it, my carefree expression suddenly turning in anticipation as it swiftly descended into the cold, hard floor below my shoes. I heard it smack, and roll across the wood like it were a sophisticated see-through bowling ball, glinting as an unleashed container of dancing colors, directing rays of light around in circles as though a flickering orb of disco. I was relieved, until its natural course of direction took it towards staircase. Oh how horrified I was, shock and appalled, as it jumped down each, individual step. I knew for sure it was going to be broken. But ‘twas a stalwart orb, merely striking the marble flooring of the waiting room with a loud crash, and then I watched, as it spun around like it were performing a graceful pirouette, casting a shine something alike a mirage on the wall. Suddenly, it stopped, crumbling into a thousand pieces, releasing a fine, glassy dust which collected in a delicate mound of powder on the floor.
Since there were no experts in crystal ball repair in our studio, I decided to congeal the magical shards, perhaps radiating airy curls signifying its awesome power (at least in the mind of this reporter) in jell-o for the time being. There it was, on the news desk, and I gazed into it, my eyes hungry for the vast secrets they contained, broken pieces suspended in the jiggling mixture. My first news report, it would seem, was a man, sitting in a strange hut in a tropical region, big green stalks all around him, and the sky seemingly nothing but a ceiling of leaves, spanning outwards like a wavy fan, the flick of rain upon them, with their big thick spines moving tiny streams which cascaded over the tip, curves of both sides, indented so to cup, meeting to a point like a blade. The air was heavily moist but heated, and the gentle mist slowly swam through it, the man breathed in a damp smell. He had found a lamp, it seemed, and his fingers clamped onto it, nearly falling out of his grasp which was infused with the mixture sweat, and damp air.
Then suddenly, the vision began wavering, fading out and undoubtedly shifting. I watched in amazement as the jell-o rumbled, a beam connecting each shards powering a new sight to see. And what was this? The man was home, his fingers pinning a rag cloth to the lamps tarnished surface, and he polished it until a pleasing sheen erupted from beneath the rag, as he slid it aside. Then, a flow of gas emerged from its spout, which gleamed as he moved it in his hands. Slowly the few tendrils of gas, connected to the lip of the spout, drifted towards each other and blended with seemingly magnetic cohesion, compiling a gentle, feminine face before him. Without even parting his lips, it told him:
“Three wishes.” He seemed eager, but was able to tame his urge to ask for the most obvious of human desires. He stared into its airy visage, apparently contemplating its conditions of existence more so what he longed for.
“A life-long mate, who I will love forever, and who will love me too.” He finally requested. Then, showering onto him was a sudden materialization of pills; white, oblong shards, tinged with the devils of skin, inciting nightmares of walking corpses and other ambiguities of death.
“What’s this?” He asked. And it hadn’t returned with even the slightest noise.
“Two more wishes.” It reminded him.
“Success, I want to live a long, happy life with a steady job.” He requested. And again, more pills plopped against his head and skin, cluttering his floor and table.
“One more wish.” It said almost bodingly. He thought, not wanting to waste his last wish, that perhaps it wanted him to consume some of the pills it had given him. He was hesitant of taking an unknown substance, but he was scared to not take any chance which would perhaps waste his final wish. He picked up one body of the white thing, fit snugly between his fingers, and he downed it in one swift gulp. He looked up at the genie, with a child’s eyes, cloyingly filled with a sense of gratitude and he asked:
“All of the wisdom my mind can hold.” He sat there, unbearably awaiting the moment his wish was granted, but then nothing, more pills. It retreated inside of the lamp, and he sat there, not amused.
The vision shifted once more, and this time I overlooked a languid man, who was spread out on his bed, caught in a state of perilous pleasure, his skin afloat the gentle waves of opium yet while his eyes descended into the fowl pit of despair – clearly having been fond with his first, albeit forced dabbling in painkillers.
The jell-o presented something new. This time he squirmed in his sleep, nearly drowning in the amount of sweat his flesh produced while in bed. He tossed and turned something fierce, caught between the intermittent need for a wooly comforter to warm him, and the kiss of the cool air to freeze the heat which burned him a red color. The genie’s face appeared, generating a chilling susurrus which itched at his raw brain, in the tender conditions of a fresh piece of meat, his heart thumping to each word, and then even more to the mental repetition afterwards.
Suddenly, his scalp began to ripple, individual hairs on his head detaching and swinging through the air, and the flesh began to split open, as though an axe was in the process of cleaving it in two, breaking apart muscle and bone to reveal his brain, which contorted restlessly, as if in the hands of some manipulator, and then the genie propelled itself from his mind, its grand and horrible image steadily growing, although still anchored in. The earth rumbled beneath it, a triumph as it entered the physical realm. Energies formed and chaotically merged, sparking an effluence of gestures from both the man, convulsing in agony, and the demon, who heaved his carapace in pride, while emitting a fiery gaze which had the power to melt all things. The house began to crumble like a shelf of rock had been struck by an unimaginable force, and sunk into the earth; a crater the size of a small meteor impact was shoved into the ground below. Then, all was quiet. The demon withdrew into dormancy.
I took a step back. A genie, or demon, now inhabits a crater the size of an apartment complex – prior to his having existed in a man’s brain, feeding off of him in his weakened state. Unreality had become reality.
“Johnson.” I said.
“Yes McPhag?” he replied.
“We need to get a news team out to a crater. I think there’s something for us to see.”
We’d arrived on scene, only to find a disparate crowd of people, all holding receptacles of water. I could sense dark emanations from the hole, which people dumped the water into – then I caught a small sound, just barely a whisper, which was as commanding as a soldier’s bellow, conjuring peculiar thoughts and strong feelings. At the time being, nothing could be done, but much coverage would be supplied to ensure that necessary information reaches the public. We watched as people, apparently subdued into a trance, shuffled towards the crater to dump water into it. According to reports, it had been observed that the water went through a state of purification before being poured into the hole.
UPDATE: November 15th, 8:00 PM
Today the hole was filled, after months of cyclical transfers of purified water, from house, church and McDonalds to the mysterious, demon imbued hole. Shockingly, as it became filled with the final blanket of water wavering over the lip of one mans bucket, the demons malformed face rose to the surface, with it being a mirror for its ghastly features - apparently now having become one with the purified body of liquid, which was now the entity it its entirety. It sends chilling echoes of its gut wrenching taunts all through the country, inspiring greed, hate-crimes, cocaine cannibals, and involuntary drug use – its maw a black hole, slowly sucking away the souls of every human being on earth, intangible, translucent wisps of the human psyche draw towards this terrible font of power which only consumes. While this will not be the end of human kind, if nothing is done, all humans will exist as empty vessels of flesh with absolutely zero emotion and creative thought. Everyone is endorsing the soul-sucking demon, as it would most likely produce the appropriate conditions to enable peace in society while reinforcing the aptitude of everyone.
Unfortunately, upon delivery, I’d hugged it in my left arm as my other was preoccupied with a warm cup of coffee, and I’d dropped it, my carefree expression suddenly turning in anticipation as it swiftly descended into the cold, hard floor below my shoes. I heard it smack, and roll across the wood like it were a sophisticated see-through bowling ball, glinting as an unleashed container of dancing colors, directing rays of light around in circles as though a flickering orb of disco. I was relieved, until its natural course of direction took it towards staircase. Oh how horrified I was, shock and appalled, as it jumped down each, individual step. I knew for sure it was going to be broken. But ‘twas a stalwart orb, merely striking the marble flooring of the waiting room with a loud crash, and then I watched, as it spun around like it were performing a graceful pirouette, casting a shine something alike a mirage on the wall. Suddenly, it stopped, crumbling into a thousand pieces, releasing a fine, glassy dust which collected in a delicate mound of powder on the floor.
Since there were no experts in crystal ball repair in our studio, I decided to congeal the magical shards, perhaps radiating airy curls signifying its awesome power (at least in the mind of this reporter) in jell-o for the time being. There it was, on the news desk, and I gazed into it, my eyes hungry for the vast secrets they contained, broken pieces suspended in the jiggling mixture. My first news report, it would seem, was a man, sitting in a strange hut in a tropical region, big green stalks all around him, and the sky seemingly nothing but a ceiling of leaves, spanning outwards like a wavy fan, the flick of rain upon them, with their big thick spines moving tiny streams which cascaded over the tip, curves of both sides, indented so to cup, meeting to a point like a blade. The air was heavily moist but heated, and the gentle mist slowly swam through it, the man breathed in a damp smell. He had found a lamp, it seemed, and his fingers clamped onto it, nearly falling out of his grasp which was infused with the mixture sweat, and damp air.
Then suddenly, the vision began wavering, fading out and undoubtedly shifting. I watched in amazement as the jell-o rumbled, a beam connecting each shards powering a new sight to see. And what was this? The man was home, his fingers pinning a rag cloth to the lamps tarnished surface, and he polished it until a pleasing sheen erupted from beneath the rag, as he slid it aside. Then, a flow of gas emerged from its spout, which gleamed as he moved it in his hands. Slowly the few tendrils of gas, connected to the lip of the spout, drifted towards each other and blended with seemingly magnetic cohesion, compiling a gentle, feminine face before him. Without even parting his lips, it told him:
“Three wishes.” He seemed eager, but was able to tame his urge to ask for the most obvious of human desires. He stared into its airy visage, apparently contemplating its conditions of existence more so what he longed for.
“A life-long mate, who I will love forever, and who will love me too.” He finally requested. Then, showering onto him was a sudden materialization of pills; white, oblong shards, tinged with the devils of skin, inciting nightmares of walking corpses and other ambiguities of death.
“What’s this?” He asked. And it hadn’t returned with even the slightest noise.
“Two more wishes.” It reminded him.
“Success, I want to live a long, happy life with a steady job.” He requested. And again, more pills plopped against his head and skin, cluttering his floor and table.
“One more wish.” It said almost bodingly. He thought, not wanting to waste his last wish, that perhaps it wanted him to consume some of the pills it had given him. He was hesitant of taking an unknown substance, but he was scared to not take any chance which would perhaps waste his final wish. He picked up one body of the white thing, fit snugly between his fingers, and he downed it in one swift gulp. He looked up at the genie, with a child’s eyes, cloyingly filled with a sense of gratitude and he asked:
“All of the wisdom my mind can hold.” He sat there, unbearably awaiting the moment his wish was granted, but then nothing, more pills. It retreated inside of the lamp, and he sat there, not amused.
The vision shifted once more, and this time I overlooked a languid man, who was spread out on his bed, caught in a state of perilous pleasure, his skin afloat the gentle waves of opium yet while his eyes descended into the fowl pit of despair – clearly having been fond with his first, albeit forced dabbling in painkillers.
The jell-o presented something new. This time he squirmed in his sleep, nearly drowning in the amount of sweat his flesh produced while in bed. He tossed and turned something fierce, caught between the intermittent need for a wooly comforter to warm him, and the kiss of the cool air to freeze the heat which burned him a red color. The genie’s face appeared, generating a chilling susurrus which itched at his raw brain, in the tender conditions of a fresh piece of meat, his heart thumping to each word, and then even more to the mental repetition afterwards.
Suddenly, his scalp began to ripple, individual hairs on his head detaching and swinging through the air, and the flesh began to split open, as though an axe was in the process of cleaving it in two, breaking apart muscle and bone to reveal his brain, which contorted restlessly, as if in the hands of some manipulator, and then the genie propelled itself from his mind, its grand and horrible image steadily growing, although still anchored in. The earth rumbled beneath it, a triumph as it entered the physical realm. Energies formed and chaotically merged, sparking an effluence of gestures from both the man, convulsing in agony, and the demon, who heaved his carapace in pride, while emitting a fiery gaze which had the power to melt all things. The house began to crumble like a shelf of rock had been struck by an unimaginable force, and sunk into the earth; a crater the size of a small meteor impact was shoved into the ground below. Then, all was quiet. The demon withdrew into dormancy.
I took a step back. A genie, or demon, now inhabits a crater the size of an apartment complex – prior to his having existed in a man’s brain, feeding off of him in his weakened state. Unreality had become reality.
“Johnson.” I said.
“Yes McPhag?” he replied.
“We need to get a news team out to a crater. I think there’s something for us to see.”
We’d arrived on scene, only to find a disparate crowd of people, all holding receptacles of water. I could sense dark emanations from the hole, which people dumped the water into – then I caught a small sound, just barely a whisper, which was as commanding as a soldier’s bellow, conjuring peculiar thoughts and strong feelings. At the time being, nothing could be done, but much coverage would be supplied to ensure that necessary information reaches the public. We watched as people, apparently subdued into a trance, shuffled towards the crater to dump water into it. According to reports, it had been observed that the water went through a state of purification before being poured into the hole.
UPDATE: November 15th, 8:00 PM
Today the hole was filled, after months of cyclical transfers of purified water, from house, church and McDonalds to the mysterious, demon imbued hole. Shockingly, as it became filled with the final blanket of water wavering over the lip of one mans bucket, the demons malformed face rose to the surface, with it being a mirror for its ghastly features - apparently now having become one with the purified body of liquid, which was now the entity it its entirety. It sends chilling echoes of its gut wrenching taunts all through the country, inspiring greed, hate-crimes, cocaine cannibals, and involuntary drug use – its maw a black hole, slowly sucking away the souls of every human being on earth, intangible, translucent wisps of the human psyche draw towards this terrible font of power which only consumes. While this will not be the end of human kind, if nothing is done, all humans will exist as empty vessels of flesh with absolutely zero emotion and creative thought. Everyone is endorsing the soul-sucking demon, as it would most likely produce the appropriate conditions to enable peace in society while reinforcing the aptitude of everyone.
Brain Removal takes Nation by Storm
The St. Haman hospital on Notesford Blvd. has opened up a revolutionizing new procedure to the public, tempting skeptic’s keystrokes and fueling the outcry of a silent millions. As everyone cracks their necks, tapping the lids frozen to their eyes from chilled tears as the Dark Master’s song continues to penetrate their ears – we’re all undoubtedly seeking new methods of stress relief.
“With Balzaruk, the demon currently devouring the souls of the whole world’s population, ER admittance for Opioid withdrawal and overdose has skyrocketed. Cases of depression, lethargy, and unhappiness in general – the things that plague the human condition, have been linked to one common denominator. Bear in mind, soul sucking demons can play a part in this, but it all originates in the brain, ergo, the brain is the problem. This logic has been tested and verified by thousands of logicians, and so, we’ve based our medical theory on that, and removal of the brain is indeed a solution to stopping medical problems like addiction and depression.”
“Mr. Doctorguy, can you explain how people would begin such a process?”
“Well, you come in, say you want to a brain removal – and we take you into the back, remove your brain, then repackage it on assembly lines and sell it to the cosmetic industry.”
Naturally, everyone has wondered what is substituted for the brain, which is necessary for replenishing hormones and maintaining prober vital rhythms.
“Well, we haven’t thought about that. Once the brain is removed, we roll them back to the family in the waiting room in wheel chairs, and tell them that they will require assistance in day-to-day regulatory functions for a few days, such as in eating or exercise. You can use the wheelchair to move them around, or strings and crosses, kind of like a puppet. After about three days when their bodies adjust to the change, they have enough strength to resume daily activities on their own.”
But the question on everyone’s mind is just how effective has this treatment been? One quick glance in workout studios reveals motionless bodies tumbling over on treadmills, some heads lolled back as arms work like automatic pistons, although clumsily, working pulleys to amount pools of much needed sweat on their backs. Idled cars clutter streets, with the occasional one actually arriving to their destinations, as thousands lay over their steering wheels, with their limbs running freely along the dashboard and sides. One can watch as people’s faces are shoved through the mud by galloping dogs, conversely leading their masters through a tensed tether between them, which had collapsed on their furry backs with cold, paled hands clutching to the handle with an unmoving, iron grip, with the arm flailing in accord to the rhythm of the excited canine.
But we all had one more question on our minds: why were brains being repackaged and sold to cosmetic stores?
“Well, brains are a symbol of intellect, of creativity with their coiled pieces of meat meeting to create two equal lobes. Cosmetically speaking, there’s a lot you can do with a brain – but who knows how they work, so we’ll leave that to some autistic kid with some divinity infused perception who can see through the complexity of nature. Since they’re basically useless, we thought we could make a good buck off of it to pay for our surging drug industry by selling it to cosmetic departments who actually utilize brain matter for a number of cosmetic things, like lipstick, blush, and other things."
“With Balzaruk, the demon currently devouring the souls of the whole world’s population, ER admittance for Opioid withdrawal and overdose has skyrocketed. Cases of depression, lethargy, and unhappiness in general – the things that plague the human condition, have been linked to one common denominator. Bear in mind, soul sucking demons can play a part in this, but it all originates in the brain, ergo, the brain is the problem. This logic has been tested and verified by thousands of logicians, and so, we’ve based our medical theory on that, and removal of the brain is indeed a solution to stopping medical problems like addiction and depression.”
“Mr. Doctorguy, can you explain how people would begin such a process?”
“Well, you come in, say you want to a brain removal – and we take you into the back, remove your brain, then repackage it on assembly lines and sell it to the cosmetic industry.”
Naturally, everyone has wondered what is substituted for the brain, which is necessary for replenishing hormones and maintaining prober vital rhythms.
“Well, we haven’t thought about that. Once the brain is removed, we roll them back to the family in the waiting room in wheel chairs, and tell them that they will require assistance in day-to-day regulatory functions for a few days, such as in eating or exercise. You can use the wheelchair to move them around, or strings and crosses, kind of like a puppet. After about three days when their bodies adjust to the change, they have enough strength to resume daily activities on their own.”
But the question on everyone’s mind is just how effective has this treatment been? One quick glance in workout studios reveals motionless bodies tumbling over on treadmills, some heads lolled back as arms work like automatic pistons, although clumsily, working pulleys to amount pools of much needed sweat on their backs. Idled cars clutter streets, with the occasional one actually arriving to their destinations, as thousands lay over their steering wheels, with their limbs running freely along the dashboard and sides. One can watch as people’s faces are shoved through the mud by galloping dogs, conversely leading their masters through a tensed tether between them, which had collapsed on their furry backs with cold, paled hands clutching to the handle with an unmoving, iron grip, with the arm flailing in accord to the rhythm of the excited canine.
But we all had one more question on our minds: why were brains being repackaged and sold to cosmetic stores?
“Well, brains are a symbol of intellect, of creativity with their coiled pieces of meat meeting to create two equal lobes. Cosmetically speaking, there’s a lot you can do with a brain – but who knows how they work, so we’ll leave that to some autistic kid with some divinity infused perception who can see through the complexity of nature. Since they’re basically useless, we thought we could make a good buck off of it to pay for our surging drug industry by selling it to cosmetic departments who actually utilize brain matter for a number of cosmetic things, like lipstick, blush, and other things."
Man Questioned for 'Unintentional' Soliciting
A man visibly jonesing for a fix, stuttered his way through a telephone call, feeling slightly reassured by the girls, perhaps a receptionist, sweet voice, so sweet in fact it had played with his taste buds. A thought crossed him, and the developing infatuation was of no use to him in such a jittery state; he felt as though he had to eke out each and every droplet of sweat from his tired pores just to receive a fleeting sense of relief from his strong urge to do drugs, and he would do so with the alacrity of a thirsting vampire sticking its fangs into a victims throat. But the heated feeling he felt was quickly subdued by the intense cravings, and he could do nothing but relinquish control of his body to the pulse of his aching body. He grabbed onto his arm, squeezing tightly to gain some sense of sturdiness in his crumbling mental fortitude.
He got up the next day, watching a burnt old man in a blue shirt toiling in his backyard under the darkened sky, about to be lit by the light somewhere off in the distance, tending to his partially shaded plants.
He appeared at the office, hoping to see a councilor, who specialized in giving much needed guidance to people with personal problems, usually with drugs. He noticed a bulky girl working the front desk with a vocal tone matching the one he remembered from last night, and he moved his swollen eyes elsewhere so not to attract the cloying expression on her face. He shivered, feeling his pale skin, sometimes hunching over as he clumped his hands together on his stomach, which beat in agony.
Finally, it was his turn to see the councilor. He hesitantly walked in, watching the posters cautioning one of the perils of drug addiction gleam when he passed, as though to intentionally grab ones attention, working to a degree as it began to fill him with self-antagonistic thoughts of shame.
“Hey, broski!” the councilor shouted. He sat down, still radiating a sense of despair and nothingness even though the councilor had tried to lift his spirits.
“Look, I know this is hard for you. Heroin is a helluvah drug.” He said winking his eye, while shoving his elbow into the air. The knots in the man’s stomach tightened.
“And I’m here to help you through it. By the way, did you know that McDonalds has a 50% off deal for Chicken MkNuggets?” He said, rather curiously, while the other man tried to cock his brow to display his skepticism, but instead his gestures continued to be motivated by the overwhelming urge for a fix. Any care of appearing normal consumed.
“No…” he managed, hypnotized by the cravings.
“Well here, take these coupons.” He shoved a wad of them towards his end of the desk.
“Anyways, back to your problem. Did you know that you could save thousands, if not millions of dollars on your insurance for your balls by installing platinum plates in them? Zimmerhans’ Plat-no-balls injury kit could be something to look into!” He yelled, erupting with enthusiasm, being loud enough so that he couldn’t even hear himself think.
“I… I don’t need that…” He said, choking for air.
“So how’d you get here?” He said with a smug smile, leaning back into his chair while twirling a pencil around in his fingers, its glossed finish shining at every pass, which he followed like a pendulous amulet, a subtle distraction which swept him into the bliss of forgetfulness. But then he felt a long lost echo of the pinch he’d felt numerous times in his arm, which had come before a pleasuring surge of liquid in his veins, quickly snapping him out of it.
“My car?” He finally replied. Suddenly, the councilor slammed his upper body onto the table, and fixed his eyes onto his, nodding suspiciously.
“Yeah I hear you; would be a shame if something happened to it.” He narrowed his eyes. But then he picked himself up, squeezing a smile onto his face with his already blazing features. He began to scare the poor man, already shivering and sweating from the tight chemical binding over his brain.
“You know, car insurance is ridiculous. You could save 15% on yours by switching to Lam-as Tires.”
“No… no! I don’t need this! What will you do to help me?!” He cried out, unable to bear anymore irrelevancies.
“Oh right, your problem. Duh! Okay, so you obviously heard about the Boudini’s Authentic Italian cuisine, but do you know about the amazing deals and secret, behind the counter meals you could be getting with a top-tier membership, paid weekly!?”
“No! My addiction! I need help!” He shouted again, hoping to be heard. Finally, the man retracted his smile, looking discouraged. He withdrew a pamphlet from his desks drawer, and slid it in front of the addict.
“Alright, I think this is what you need…” He said, slowly unfolding it. The suspense drove him slightly insane.
“And bam, just what you need!” He barked, pushing the flap onto the table, revealing the hidden contents of the pamphlet.
“Here you’ll find a wide variety of sketch books, note books, printing paper, and a colorful array of heavy duty pencils for writing on them!” He said sliding his fingertip along the page, directing his eyes to each product.
“But wait. There’s more!” He said pulling himself back, maintaining his fiery eye contact as he reached under his table.
“COUPONS! That’s right, with these you can take advantage of the six for one deal, allowing you pick any assortment of pencils, sketch books, or note books, for only six dollars and fifty cents! Woaaahhhh!” He said showering coupons onto the table.
This was going to be a long recovery.
He got up the next day, watching a burnt old man in a blue shirt toiling in his backyard under the darkened sky, about to be lit by the light somewhere off in the distance, tending to his partially shaded plants.
He appeared at the office, hoping to see a councilor, who specialized in giving much needed guidance to people with personal problems, usually with drugs. He noticed a bulky girl working the front desk with a vocal tone matching the one he remembered from last night, and he moved his swollen eyes elsewhere so not to attract the cloying expression on her face. He shivered, feeling his pale skin, sometimes hunching over as he clumped his hands together on his stomach, which beat in agony.
Finally, it was his turn to see the councilor. He hesitantly walked in, watching the posters cautioning one of the perils of drug addiction gleam when he passed, as though to intentionally grab ones attention, working to a degree as it began to fill him with self-antagonistic thoughts of shame.
“Hey, broski!” the councilor shouted. He sat down, still radiating a sense of despair and nothingness even though the councilor had tried to lift his spirits.
“Look, I know this is hard for you. Heroin is a helluvah drug.” He said winking his eye, while shoving his elbow into the air. The knots in the man’s stomach tightened.
“And I’m here to help you through it. By the way, did you know that McDonalds has a 50% off deal for Chicken MkNuggets?” He said, rather curiously, while the other man tried to cock his brow to display his skepticism, but instead his gestures continued to be motivated by the overwhelming urge for a fix. Any care of appearing normal consumed.
“No…” he managed, hypnotized by the cravings.
“Well here, take these coupons.” He shoved a wad of them towards his end of the desk.
“Anyways, back to your problem. Did you know that you could save thousands, if not millions of dollars on your insurance for your balls by installing platinum plates in them? Zimmerhans’ Plat-no-balls injury kit could be something to look into!” He yelled, erupting with enthusiasm, being loud enough so that he couldn’t even hear himself think.
“I… I don’t need that…” He said, choking for air.
“So how’d you get here?” He said with a smug smile, leaning back into his chair while twirling a pencil around in his fingers, its glossed finish shining at every pass, which he followed like a pendulous amulet, a subtle distraction which swept him into the bliss of forgetfulness. But then he felt a long lost echo of the pinch he’d felt numerous times in his arm, which had come before a pleasuring surge of liquid in his veins, quickly snapping him out of it.
“My car?” He finally replied. Suddenly, the councilor slammed his upper body onto the table, and fixed his eyes onto his, nodding suspiciously.
“Yeah I hear you; would be a shame if something happened to it.” He narrowed his eyes. But then he picked himself up, squeezing a smile onto his face with his already blazing features. He began to scare the poor man, already shivering and sweating from the tight chemical binding over his brain.
“You know, car insurance is ridiculous. You could save 15% on yours by switching to Lam-as Tires.”
“No… no! I don’t need this! What will you do to help me?!” He cried out, unable to bear anymore irrelevancies.
“Oh right, your problem. Duh! Okay, so you obviously heard about the Boudini’s Authentic Italian cuisine, but do you know about the amazing deals and secret, behind the counter meals you could be getting with a top-tier membership, paid weekly!?”
“No! My addiction! I need help!” He shouted again, hoping to be heard. Finally, the man retracted his smile, looking discouraged. He withdrew a pamphlet from his desks drawer, and slid it in front of the addict.
“Alright, I think this is what you need…” He said, slowly unfolding it. The suspense drove him slightly insane.
“And bam, just what you need!” He barked, pushing the flap onto the table, revealing the hidden contents of the pamphlet.
“Here you’ll find a wide variety of sketch books, note books, printing paper, and a colorful array of heavy duty pencils for writing on them!” He said sliding his fingertip along the page, directing his eyes to each product.
“But wait. There’s more!” He said pulling himself back, maintaining his fiery eye contact as he reached under his table.
“COUPONS! That’s right, with these you can take advantage of the six for one deal, allowing you pick any assortment of pencils, sketch books, or note books, for only six dollars and fifty cents! Woaaahhhh!” He said showering coupons onto the table.
This was going to be a long recovery.
Two-Ton Man Destroys Bridge
HAMILTON, OHIO
The morning of July 12th was a quiet one, until at about 9:30 A.M., a bridge collapsed in Hamilton, Ohio, taking cars down into the Ohio River and holding up traffic for miles. The bridge collapsed after a 4,287 pound man (1948.64 Kg) by the name of George Burns entered the bridge. No reports have been received yet providing answers about why this man was walking out on to the bridge, but it would appear he is clinging to the side of a downed piece of the bridge while awaiting rescue. According to investigators, the bridge had not been thoroughly inspected the last few times and a serious flaw concerning overall bridge stability had been overlooked. The likelihood, however, that this one flaw become a problem was highly unlikely, that is until a man of this size tipped the scales in his favor. Officials are calling this the strangest bridge failure they have ever witnessed.
Updates will be made available as they are received.
UPDATE:
While rescue efforts continue, the obese man was taken to a warehouse near the Fort Hamilton Hospital via helicopter where he was treated for minor injuries, including a broken leg and a few scratches. Considering the height he dropped from as well as the bridge collapsing around him, George is a very lucky man to be alive at all. However it has been discovered that 7 people have been found dead so far, and even more injured. Rescue teams are trying to get to people trapped in their cars at the bottom of the river.
FAWX News Reporter, James Baggerson, was able to get an interview with George Burns when he had recovered from the fall and had confirmed that he wished to speak with us. As we entered the warehouse we noticed that it was mostly empty except for some crates in a corner and the medical equipment that had been brought out for Mr. Burns sake. Upon entering the curtains which gave George his privacy, it was apparent that he was very distraught.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Burns. I hope you're feeling alright after what you've been through." I tried to express my concern and sympathy for this broken soul without addressing what I was the most sympathetic about.
"Thanks, let me just say how sorry I am for all of this. I didn't mean to cause that bridge to break or anybody to get hurt like this, this is just a nightmare." The regret seemed real, but now was the time to find out what he had been doing up there.
"One of the biggest questions that everyone has been asking is why were you on the bridge? What were you going to do up there?"
He looked away from me for a second as he gathered his words. "Believe it or not, I was actually going to end it all. I was going to jump off that bridge and kill myself and hit the water. But when I was doing my warm up jumps I felt something shift," his voice started to crack, "and the next thing I knew I was falling but it sounded like a earthquake. I heard tires screeching and they were blowing their horns and everything but it was just too late." The tears in his eyes were welling up and he was sniffing more frequently at this point. "I saw the road had came down near me so I grabbed and held on, that was all I could do."
"What caused you to want to commit suicide?" I asked, as I motioned for our producer to hand him a box of tissues to which he just kind of stared at me as if it wasn't his job to get him a single thing. He also happens to be an atheist. Just saying.
"My wife left me and my kids hate me, I didn't have anybody around to take care of me. I can't move real easy so I need someone around. I was alone and they don't care, nobody cares. So I thought I would do everyone a favor. I eat a lot when I see beautiful thin people on TV, and I watch a whole lot of TV." He paused for a second, sniffled once and then continued. "Do you know if they're going to bring a TV in here?"
"Ha-ha, no I sure don't. Sorry about that. So you're saying that the liberal media and its glorification of what it thinks constitutes physical beauty causes your depression and triggers these dangerous eating habits?"
"Yep, that sounds about right. None of this would have happened if people just loved me for me, I have a beautiful soul it's just nobody cares but that's what really matters."
"I agree with you entirely, George." I stated in a very solemn tone. He seemed a little comforted to know that there were people out there who understood that true beauty was on the inside. Deep inside. "Is there anything you'd like to say to the families of those who have a loved one or loved ones that have been involved in this tragic accident?"
"Just know that I'm really sorry, I never meant for any of this to happen. I'm praying for you all and I've found new meaning to my life." Perhaps some good had come from this whole incident after all. Before leaving we advised the staff taking care of George to keep him away from TV and warned them about its satanic influence.
The state of Ohio is currently pressing charges, ranging from terrorism to crimes against humanity for attempting to start a tidal wave engulfing all of Ohio. Updates on the rescue efforts will be posted as they are received. This has been James Baggerson reporting.
The morning of July 12th was a quiet one, until at about 9:30 A.M., a bridge collapsed in Hamilton, Ohio, taking cars down into the Ohio River and holding up traffic for miles. The bridge collapsed after a 4,287 pound man (1948.64 Kg) by the name of George Burns entered the bridge. No reports have been received yet providing answers about why this man was walking out on to the bridge, but it would appear he is clinging to the side of a downed piece of the bridge while awaiting rescue. According to investigators, the bridge had not been thoroughly inspected the last few times and a serious flaw concerning overall bridge stability had been overlooked. The likelihood, however, that this one flaw become a problem was highly unlikely, that is until a man of this size tipped the scales in his favor. Officials are calling this the strangest bridge failure they have ever witnessed.
Updates will be made available as they are received.
UPDATE:
While rescue efforts continue, the obese man was taken to a warehouse near the Fort Hamilton Hospital via helicopter where he was treated for minor injuries, including a broken leg and a few scratches. Considering the height he dropped from as well as the bridge collapsing around him, George is a very lucky man to be alive at all. However it has been discovered that 7 people have been found dead so far, and even more injured. Rescue teams are trying to get to people trapped in their cars at the bottom of the river.
FAWX News Reporter, James Baggerson, was able to get an interview with George Burns when he had recovered from the fall and had confirmed that he wished to speak with us. As we entered the warehouse we noticed that it was mostly empty except for some crates in a corner and the medical equipment that had been brought out for Mr. Burns sake. Upon entering the curtains which gave George his privacy, it was apparent that he was very distraught.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Burns. I hope you're feeling alright after what you've been through." I tried to express my concern and sympathy for this broken soul without addressing what I was the most sympathetic about.
"Thanks, let me just say how sorry I am for all of this. I didn't mean to cause that bridge to break or anybody to get hurt like this, this is just a nightmare." The regret seemed real, but now was the time to find out what he had been doing up there.
"One of the biggest questions that everyone has been asking is why were you on the bridge? What were you going to do up there?"
He looked away from me for a second as he gathered his words. "Believe it or not, I was actually going to end it all. I was going to jump off that bridge and kill myself and hit the water. But when I was doing my warm up jumps I felt something shift," his voice started to crack, "and the next thing I knew I was falling but it sounded like a earthquake. I heard tires screeching and they were blowing their horns and everything but it was just too late." The tears in his eyes were welling up and he was sniffing more frequently at this point. "I saw the road had came down near me so I grabbed and held on, that was all I could do."
"What caused you to want to commit suicide?" I asked, as I motioned for our producer to hand him a box of tissues to which he just kind of stared at me as if it wasn't his job to get him a single thing. He also happens to be an atheist. Just saying.
"My wife left me and my kids hate me, I didn't have anybody around to take care of me. I can't move real easy so I need someone around. I was alone and they don't care, nobody cares. So I thought I would do everyone a favor. I eat a lot when I see beautiful thin people on TV, and I watch a whole lot of TV." He paused for a second, sniffled once and then continued. "Do you know if they're going to bring a TV in here?"
"Ha-ha, no I sure don't. Sorry about that. So you're saying that the liberal media and its glorification of what it thinks constitutes physical beauty causes your depression and triggers these dangerous eating habits?"
"Yep, that sounds about right. None of this would have happened if people just loved me for me, I have a beautiful soul it's just nobody cares but that's what really matters."
"I agree with you entirely, George." I stated in a very solemn tone. He seemed a little comforted to know that there were people out there who understood that true beauty was on the inside. Deep inside. "Is there anything you'd like to say to the families of those who have a loved one or loved ones that have been involved in this tragic accident?"
"Just know that I'm really sorry, I never meant for any of this to happen. I'm praying for you all and I've found new meaning to my life." Perhaps some good had come from this whole incident after all. Before leaving we advised the staff taking care of George to keep him away from TV and warned them about its satanic influence.
The state of Ohio is currently pressing charges, ranging from terrorism to crimes against humanity for attempting to start a tidal wave engulfing all of Ohio. Updates on the rescue efforts will be posted as they are received. This has been James Baggerson reporting.
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
Serial Sex Talker
Reports of mysterious phone calls to female residents continue to flood police networks, erecting the arm hairs of concerned individuals as thoughts of their impending doom plow through their veil of security, arousing an impulse to seek protection, thousands squeeze their phones and shakily dial the number for witness protection. Indeed, Canadian citizens of Kitchener, Ontario are tempted to flee their homes in terror. It began with Marie Lampartie, who on a typical summer’s eve happily dunked a tea bag into a steaming cup of water, eagerly awaiting the moment to indulge in the warming aroma and taste of the comfortably bitter brew. She parted her lips, the cup clinking against her teeth as the abrasive ring of her phone abruptly detached her from the peaceful arrangements she’d immersed herself in. Her hand hugged the receiver, her ears tickled by the seductive tone of a male with a deep voice. The already calm, yet sturdy countenance she’d gathered from a hard day’s work and the relaxation she aimed for melted into an expression of tender affection. A distant, longing gaze flew from her eyes as her body crumbled in the fire he ignited between her, her voice already softened by the powerful feelings he commanded with ease. She became his, if only for the moment, and she could do nothing but listen intently to the actions he described to her in unbearable detail.
This happened not only to her, but to countless other women. Stranger yet, was that the mysterious serial sex talker was untraceable, as though he existed off of the grid.
The FAWX news team, unable to bear the sheer distraught caused by these unending incidents, responded by tackling the problem with a poorly conducted investigation. We began it by fishing for female candidates on Craigslist, who had to be bribed with undisclosed pictures posted on the NSFW section of the site.
We appeared at her door step, nearly collapsing onto the dirtied concrete below us under the immense weight of our equipment, counting two notepads, a portable video camera, and an aluminum bag of Chitos. She invited us in, her home a simple box of peach walls warmed by the weary touch of coiled bulbs glowing still steadily glowing behind intricate shades. We sat down, and exchanged our sentiments, then began the investigation.
She rhythmically tapped her knees, abating her anxiousness; the phones ring was to be expected shortly. We readied our equipment, while I happily passed the time by tossing Chitos into my open mouth, rudely crunching them between my teeth.
I missed one, startled by the sudden ring of the phone.
“Oh lawd here it is.” I said, alerting the crew.
Her hand trembled as it moved to the receiver, her fingers slipping under the bridge between the headphones. She slowly brought it to her ear, cringing in anticipation.
“Hello?” she asked shyly.
“Hello.” A soothing, deep voice said.
“Who are you?”
“Oh, no one you’d know…”
“Um, why are you calling?” She asked rather politely.
“Because I understand your loneliness; the flesh longs to yield to a gentle, caring touch.”
“Please… go away…” She said, shivering, looking to me and the crew, a shine taking over her eyes as her hungers grew.
“Honey, let’s take the night slowly. Let yourself go, just for a second...” Her body trembled, carnal thoughts consuming any sliver of humanity she deceived herself with, becoming lost like her petite figure were cradled in the gentle wave of a soothing oceans swish, slowly being swept away into its dark, unknown reaches.
“…Master?” she acknowledged in her broken voice. It continued for some minutes, as she carefully clawed her hair with female desires stewing in her mind. She playfully bared her teeth, wrinkling her nose.
“Be a good girl for me.” A deep, crackling voice emanated from the headset. She submissively pursed her eyebrows, irresistibly tugging at her lip with her teeth, invisibly nodding in agreement to her unknown master’s wish.
She stuck her hands between her thighs, as though to stifle a loud beat that strummed her with tingles sent through her body, she tensed like a sturdy string being steadily pulled, her nipples perking against all protest. All she could think of was his tongue, as sharp as a razors edge, cleverly invading her, and she simply clenched with her healthy fruit sparkling, dampened by a warm trickle of nectar, as she gleefully envisioned the mystery man playing with her.
After the strange ordeal, and as we willingly observed her oddly satisfying mannerisms, we attempted to trace the call once more, and alas, this reporter found nothing, ‘twas untraceable. So we did the only logical thing: we hired an expert in the paranormal to help guide us in our inquisition.
Wandering through a creepily darkened forest with nothing but an odd split beam of moonlight appearing through treetops to signal a direction we were unaware of, we met many sounds and sensations – some I even speculated to be molesters fondling us.
Nonetheless, we arrived at the rugged woman’s shack in the woods, her head wrapped in some weirdly patterned bandana, not much more appealing than the chiseled fat on her face. She beckoned us over to her table, and I took note of a similar crystal ball I had in my possession which complimented its surface on a tipi’s skeleton. Initially I was intimidated by having my psychic powers tested by hers in comparison of her demonstration, but I held my tongue, waiting as she removed an Ouija board from a box you’d find a board game in. Her hands hovered over the middle of it, stretching and closing her hand in some magical exercise to energize it. Her hand fell onto a pick shaped piece of plastic, and implored us to touch it with her. Predictably, it glided across the board, spelling out something horrifying to me as I realized my slight dyslexia.
“O whatever you are, why do you enslave good women with your sex talking? What is your name? Are you alive?”
“No.” An apparition floating over confirmed with a long, ringing voice.
“Oh. It’s a ghost. So I guess that solves that.”
“Wow it does. There’s fuck all you can do about ghosts. We’ll forever be afflicted by heated women, subdued by sex-talking ghosts. Mystery solved.”
This happened not only to her, but to countless other women. Stranger yet, was that the mysterious serial sex talker was untraceable, as though he existed off of the grid.
The FAWX news team, unable to bear the sheer distraught caused by these unending incidents, responded by tackling the problem with a poorly conducted investigation. We began it by fishing for female candidates on Craigslist, who had to be bribed with undisclosed pictures posted on the NSFW section of the site.
We appeared at her door step, nearly collapsing onto the dirtied concrete below us under the immense weight of our equipment, counting two notepads, a portable video camera, and an aluminum bag of Chitos. She invited us in, her home a simple box of peach walls warmed by the weary touch of coiled bulbs glowing still steadily glowing behind intricate shades. We sat down, and exchanged our sentiments, then began the investigation.
She rhythmically tapped her knees, abating her anxiousness; the phones ring was to be expected shortly. We readied our equipment, while I happily passed the time by tossing Chitos into my open mouth, rudely crunching them between my teeth.
I missed one, startled by the sudden ring of the phone.
“Oh lawd here it is.” I said, alerting the crew.
Her hand trembled as it moved to the receiver, her fingers slipping under the bridge between the headphones. She slowly brought it to her ear, cringing in anticipation.
“Hello?” she asked shyly.
“Hello.” A soothing, deep voice said.
“Who are you?”
“Oh, no one you’d know…”
“Um, why are you calling?” She asked rather politely.
“Because I understand your loneliness; the flesh longs to yield to a gentle, caring touch.”
“Please… go away…” She said, shivering, looking to me and the crew, a shine taking over her eyes as her hungers grew.
“Honey, let’s take the night slowly. Let yourself go, just for a second...” Her body trembled, carnal thoughts consuming any sliver of humanity she deceived herself with, becoming lost like her petite figure were cradled in the gentle wave of a soothing oceans swish, slowly being swept away into its dark, unknown reaches.
“…Master?” she acknowledged in her broken voice. It continued for some minutes, as she carefully clawed her hair with female desires stewing in her mind. She playfully bared her teeth, wrinkling her nose.
“Be a good girl for me.” A deep, crackling voice emanated from the headset. She submissively pursed her eyebrows, irresistibly tugging at her lip with her teeth, invisibly nodding in agreement to her unknown master’s wish.
She stuck her hands between her thighs, as though to stifle a loud beat that strummed her with tingles sent through her body, she tensed like a sturdy string being steadily pulled, her nipples perking against all protest. All she could think of was his tongue, as sharp as a razors edge, cleverly invading her, and she simply clenched with her healthy fruit sparkling, dampened by a warm trickle of nectar, as she gleefully envisioned the mystery man playing with her.
After the strange ordeal, and as we willingly observed her oddly satisfying mannerisms, we attempted to trace the call once more, and alas, this reporter found nothing, ‘twas untraceable. So we did the only logical thing: we hired an expert in the paranormal to help guide us in our inquisition.
Wandering through a creepily darkened forest with nothing but an odd split beam of moonlight appearing through treetops to signal a direction we were unaware of, we met many sounds and sensations – some I even speculated to be molesters fondling us.
Nonetheless, we arrived at the rugged woman’s shack in the woods, her head wrapped in some weirdly patterned bandana, not much more appealing than the chiseled fat on her face. She beckoned us over to her table, and I took note of a similar crystal ball I had in my possession which complimented its surface on a tipi’s skeleton. Initially I was intimidated by having my psychic powers tested by hers in comparison of her demonstration, but I held my tongue, waiting as she removed an Ouija board from a box you’d find a board game in. Her hands hovered over the middle of it, stretching and closing her hand in some magical exercise to energize it. Her hand fell onto a pick shaped piece of plastic, and implored us to touch it with her. Predictably, it glided across the board, spelling out something horrifying to me as I realized my slight dyslexia.
“O whatever you are, why do you enslave good women with your sex talking? What is your name? Are you alive?”
“No.” An apparition floating over confirmed with a long, ringing voice.
“Oh. It’s a ghost. So I guess that solves that.”
“Wow it does. There’s fuck all you can do about ghosts. We’ll forever be afflicted by heated women, subdued by sex-talking ghosts. Mystery solved.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)