The Legacy of Totalitarianism in a Tundra Anonymous Trademarked™ The ™ trademark is trademarked by Trademark Inc.™ © 2014 Anonymous Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International (CC BY-SA 4.0) BOOK OF CONTENTS 1 The Legacy of Totalitarianism in a Tundra Pg.1 2 Regis Philbin is Kill Pg.34 3 How Anon Learned to Love and Laugh Again Pg.80 4 Regression Toward(s) the Mean Pg.101 5 WAFFLEHOUSE 5 Pg.129 6 ♥~Deleted for cyber-bullying~♥ Pg.149 7 REDACTED FOR GOOD Pg.REDACTED #%The Fascinating Trinity Of War Pg.198 9 Pasta Trole’s Account of the Facts Pg.239 10 The Protocols of the Elders Pg. 297 DEDICATION To Anon's mother who proofread the book. To those suffering from autism – all profit made from the book is donated to Autism Research Institue(autism.com) i 1 THE LEGACY OF TOTALITARIANISM IN A TUNDRA 1.1 - Does cum-eating have any long term health benefits? “OY FUCKING CUMSWAPPER” “Writing is hard, okay?” Anon whined, while drinking a very good drink that he made at home by himself from a plastic cup. It was bitter and salty, the sensation of swallowing it reminded him of having a heavy cold. “Time for a pineapple diet,” he said to nobody in particular, the hum of his computer his solitary companion. He depressed the F5 key with a chubby finger1, waiting for the thread to update. It didn’t. 1 A seemingly benign, but in fact rare, gesture. Most gentlemen of the internet would sooner push the mouse to hit the ‘refresh’ button when refreshing than remove their exhausted hand from its comfort-place (thε mouse). Indeed, this seemingly benign but in fact actually rare gesture would demonstrate that this Anon was rather more active than his meticulously attended self-image would imply. Let’s read on. 1 Anonymous “Maybe just cut the prawns out,” nobody in particular replied. Anon had little time to consider the words before he was bathed in radiant light and the walls around him dissolved. “I SEE YOU’VE BEEN CHEATING ON YOUR CALORIES,” shouted a giant effigy of Robin Williams2, “AND THE TIME HAS COME TO PAY FOR YOUR SINS.” “PLEASE VISIT INFOWARS.COM,” cackled a small white [supremacist] rat. It was all too much for Anon; his brain imploded with the force of one zillion pages of Pynchon prose. Liquefied grey matter oozed from anon’s nostrils, staining his pre- filthed underpants. “The Lizardmen claim another victim,” said the white [supremacist] rat, solemnly. 1.2 - Who are The Lizardmen and what do they want? Five minutes earlier: “They work for the masketta man,” Anon typed. At least, that was what he wanted them to believe. Only he knew the actual truth. And that truth was ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■ as well as ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■ Robin Williams ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■. “Of course, The Illuminati censors the truth. Even here. The Illuminati have programmed the drinking water so that when confronted with the truth you will only see black boxes. This is why the truth must be given to you more subtly. “Hopefully, reading this book will show you the truth,” he typed in Google Docs. He was toiling on a collective work of post-modern literature with some of his internet- friends. They were known collectively as ‘Los Revolucionarios de las Palabras’ 2 Now deceased. RIP in piece. 2 The Legacy of Totalitarianism in a Tundra “None of this rambling shit makes any sense,” said Anon’s mother, whom he was forcing to proofread the aforementioned rambling profanity. “But that’s the point!” he screamed, slamming his keyboard with a pudgy fist, his greasy hand-sweat sticking loosely to the desk like cheap knock-off Playdoh. “Writing is hard, okay?” Anon whined, while drinking his own cum from a plastic cup. It was bitter and salty, the sensation of swallowing it reminded him of having a heavy cold. “Time for a pineapple diet,” he said to nobody in particular. He depressed the F5 key with a chubby finger, waiting for the thread to update. “Maybe just cut the prawns out,” nobody in particular replied. Anon had little time to consider the words before he was bathed in radiant light and the walls around him dissolved. “I SEE YOU’VE BEEN CHEATING ON YOUR CALORIES,” shouted a giant effigy of Robin Williams, “AND THE TIME HAS COME TO PAY FOR YOUR SINS.” “PLEASE VISIT INFOWARS.COM,” cackled a small white (supremacist) rat It was all too much for Anon, his brain imploded with the force of one zillion pages of Pynchon prose. Liquefied grey matter oozed from anon’s nostrils, staining his already-filthy underpants. “The Lizardmen claim another victim,” said the white [supremacist] rat solemnly. 1.3 - How Jessie broke the mortal plane & Other Short Stories Fifteen minutes earlier: 1.3.1 - Dakota Fanning and the Lizardman Grooming Project 3 Anonymous “Meanwhile, elsewhere, terrified high school girls flee from the betentacled creature from Titan, its sinuous limbs writhing with menacing intent,” typed Dakota Fanning to Bob Saget on Gmail Chat. “This is all too perfect,” thought Bob to himself. He had already bedded Kristen Stewart back when she was still nubile. In his mind, he pictured pleasurefully the horde of schoolgirls fleeing while emitting small hentai- like sounds (this made his weenus harder), the all-too- familiar J-Pop playing on a loop. Grooming Dakota had been challenging, thought-stimulating, and now her young mind spewed forth only the most sexually depraved content. His veiny grey male clitoris blushed back at him like a lawn gnome. “You coulda been a doctah!” his mother shouted from another room. “Could have,” he affirmed. “IF THE MOHEL HAD NOT RUINED MY BRIS! Damn the mohel!” Bob shouted. “Damn them all!” He choked on frothy saliva and his face was bruised and swollen in exertion. “Wait a second.” Saget snapped to attention. “Mother has been dead for years...” He considered this fact very carefully and it dawned on him, “UNCLE JESSSSIIIIIEEEEE!!!!” Uncle Jessie sprung into the room wearing the ashen grey wedding dress of Bob’s own dear sweet mother. “How did you get that dress? She was buried in that!” Jessie was in a state beyond words. He gnashed his teeth and held his arms to the sky at strange angles. “My God,” Bob smiled, tears brimming in his eyes. “You have truly transcended to a higher state. An elevated existence awaits you.” Reality itself vibrated and a profusion of gold light bleached Bob’s vision. “We’re entering the singularity! It’s happening!” he shouted above the roar of the black hole. Then darkness took them all; save for Uncle Jessie who still writhes and gnashes in The Abyss. His reptilian mind turning, turning... turning. Slitted eyes always searching for the stars and with them, home. A queer-colored (Neo-Post- Marxist Feminist) woman rat walked in upon the sorry scene and tutted solemnly at “reality” (a white cis-male 4 The Legacy of Totalitarianism in a Tundra Islamophobic speciesist-capitalist social construct). The lizard people had Robin Quivers taken another victim. 1.3.2 - Of Joyce and Jen In the highest and loneliest echelons of literary esteem Harry, blushing, blooming, much like a flower, takes lunch after a very hard morning of experimenting in new forms of bookbinding, a particular method where semen might be used to hold the pages together, as in his mind it always has done. He imagines the buck-tooth wonder opening his jaws, expecting his mud, following nights; terrible nights of constipation, but instead comes wonderful nacreous film across those dental calamities. While watching from the mezzanine Joyce muses, listening to farts from the other room. But faith, oh faith, that has with the years dwindled to but a prosaic nihilism, that is brought about in no small part by errant parentheticals and sentences upon sentences sprawling serpentine across the page, seems unlikely ever to return to poor Harry B. To his audience upon the world stage, once graced by the giants of his time, whom he so venerated and consecrated in his private canon, his mark, he despaired. The old Black Panther members are dying and in their place weep a sea of bandanas and asians, skinny jeans and beards in every effort to defy causality, who think talent may be bled from noodles and studios, he addressed The Great One presently. “Oh, Northrop! It is a mild, mild Sriracha sauce, and a bagel-looking future. Is this what they thought on such a day - thought very much such a tragedy as this - our teachers despairing us and our postmodern ramblings? Forty-forty-forty years ago! Forty years of continual verbose diarrhea, of perverse ramblings and shitstorms! Forty years on the pitiless sea of irony [not actually irony]! Forty years has Harold forsaken the peaceful life 5 Anonymous of ACTUAL literature, for forty years to make war on the horrors of the literary avant-garde. Aye, yes, Northrop, out on those forty years I have not spent three with dignity. 1.3.3 - How Anon discovered the drinking water hoax, and other tales One night, while browsing /x/, Anon happened to stumble upon a post by David Ickman. This is his story. “VISIT DAVIDICKE . COM THE LIZARDMEN ARE CONTROLLING OUR LIVES AND POISONING OUR INTELLECTUAL THOUGHT-SPACE THROUGH THE FIFTH DIMENSION ALL PUBLIC FIGURES ARE LIZARDMEN IN DISGUISE VISIT DAVIDICKE.COM,” the sign read. It was accompanied by a picture of Costanza from the ever-popular and slightly post-modern television show, “Seinfeld”. After looking into him and watching a few shit-tier videos, Anon finally realised the TRUE reason he had no girlfriend: Lizardmen, Jews and The Illuminati, all conspiring against Anon, making it impossibly hard for him to get the pure, virginal (Asian) qt3.14 gf he deserved.