You big silly, they know the news is accurate because it agrees with what they want to believe!! That's the only test they give any journalistic output.

Don't question their Americanism!

Yeah, spacemonkey, it's perfectly American to be bad and dumb. After all, "two wrongs make a right" and it's a free country. I've got a right to be dumb and a right to be bad. Well, maybe not the last one.

One more thing: I've got a right to be stomped on by Monkeys and Elephants ! Being stupid and getting clobbered - I love it.

If you can say "Fake but Accurate" with a straight face, you might be dumb and bad. You might even be Mary Mapes.

Wait? The media is biased? How come I've never heard this before??? I'd always heard that the media was controlled by the Jews Neocons and the VRWC. And, given that assumption, they must really hate themselves. At least, if the news is to be believed. Which, I am shocked to learn, just this very moment, they might not be.

If Americans are smart and good, how do we explain elections that produce Nancy Pelosi, Harry Reid and Hillary Clinton?

Touche.

The "J" must stand for jagoff Frankie baby. It's difficult to believe that anyone would still possess the mindless sycophancy required to continue supporting these covetous, polluting, war profiteering, America destroying fascist humps in light of the truths that even the corporate controlled media can no longer hide for them.
Are you still chanting "flip-flop, flip-flop" as a political stance? Or obsessing over John Edward's haircuts? Does a double digit IQ mire you in the simplistic ideology required to carry water for a repugnican party rife with thieves, polluters, adulterers and perverts?
Perhaps, though unlikely, you are a lottery winner or were fortunate enough to inherit a sum which places you in that catergory the dull tool, son of JFK killer called "The Have Mores", his supporters? Those who pay little if any taxes, who contribute no sons or daughters to the travesty and shell game that was the wrong turn from actually hunting down Bin Laden (remember him?), which was in reality wholesale theft of the earth choking filth that has been the number 1 priority of the CIA/Big Oil cartel since WWII.
Maybe you profit from fortuitous timing in your (or someone who advised you that isn't a mouth breather's) selection of stocks. You know, Wall Street, that upstanding American entity that (though beginning its inevitable decline) touts the strength of an American economy though, in fact, its avaricious advances are due to the traitorous selling out of american jobs and manufacturing facilities, exported to countries that are (not were) our enemies, who basically enslave their workers and pollute without the protection or restrictions true America placed to protect its workers and environment. Has it escaped your vaunted insight that the Chinese, who hate us (and slowly own us), are poisoning us, our pets, children's toys and flooding us with expolding tires for Detroit's pigmobiles, or that the "Have Mores" purposely allow 10's OF MILLIONS of illegals as, not only cheap labor, but as a foil against the American working class daring to unionize, as is their right, as well as a buffer in the class wars they invite (for they will continue to divide us, and when the fed up populace arises the "Have Mores" will increase the wedges of tribalism by promoting race wars between the have-nots).
Maybe you're far down the food chain, a wild-eyed adherent to the hypochristian talabangelist beliefs handed down from hallucinating cavemen, those misogynist inventors of flying men and virgin mothers, snakes-to-staffs and walks on water, looking up so as not to miss flying up to the clouds with Jesus while ignoring the mountain of fossil and DNA evidence at your feet.
You might be a member of the Walton family, those loveable, homespun good ol' Arkansan prodigies of smilin' Sam, who built his empire by proclaiming its American made products (find something there now made in America), maybe the son of his recently deceased daughter who drunk drove over the life of a hoi-polloi unfortunate enough to be crossing the street when the Porsche was in a hurry. One of those five of the ten wealthiest folks in the world.
No, more than likely you are a lost, wastrel hater, lacking the grey matter to realize you cut your own throats by supporting these devils. And while I've no love for the phoney two party scam our forefather's never intended (Kerry was Skull and Bones too and Hillary is a fraud), a system of pathetic unchoices that the "Have-Mores" desperately seek to retain by starting the political season two effin' years before the election, you have seemingly cast your lot with the half that is openly racist, that, contrary to the bible (and babble) they wave, despises the least among us and have sold you Orwell's truth in exchange for whatever soul you possess.
You are a parasite on the dingleberries of slightly brighter droolers like Limbaugh, Hannity, O'Reilly et al. All of whose days are numbered, all traitors.
Or maybe you are a zionist, delighted to feed American lives toward the protection of squatters who, the original modern terrorists, maintain that "god gave us this land" though he didn't see fit to allowing them access for two thousand years.
I'll here admit I didn't delve far into this dark place of a website or its justification for existing before this spanking (from which you will doubtless learn nothing) so I'll assume the acronym....In My Asinine Opinion and hope it is all parody. See ya in the streets.

[This comment is long. -Ed.]

Richard: been there, done that, learned nothing from people like you. There is a dark cynic, you are, sir, for which no humor nor good will can cure.

Brevity, Dick, brevity.

Such a long paragraph without one shred of original thought. I've hypothesized that there might be a libtard random comment generator out there somewhere, and this lends credence to that notion. Good on ya.

In Response to Richard -

The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.

Theosophists have guessed at the awesome grandeur of the cosmic cycle wherein our world and human race form transient incidents. They have hinted at strange survivals in terms which would freeze the blood if not masked by a bland optimism. But it is not from them that there came the single glimpse of forbidden eons which chills me when I think of it and maddens me when I dream of it. That glimpse, like all dread glimpses of truth, flashed out from an accidental piecing together of separated things - in this case an old newspaper item and the notes of a dead professor. I hope that no one else will accomplish this piecing out; certainly, if I live, I shall never knowingly supply a link in so hideous a chain. I think that the professor, too intented to keep silent regarding the part he knew, and that he would have destroyed his notes had not sudden death seized him.

My knowledge of the thing began in the winter of 1926-27 with the death of my great-uncle, George Gammell Angell, Professor Emeritus of Semitic Languages in Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island. Professor Angell was widely known as an authority on ancient inscriptions, and had frequently been resorted to by the heads of prominent museums; so that his passing at the age of ninety-two may be recalled by many. Locally, interest was intensified by the obscurity of the cause of death. The professor had been stricken whilst returning from the Newport boat; falling suddenly; as witnesses said, after having been jostled by a nautical-looking negro who had come from one of the queer dark courts on the precipitous hillside which formed a short cut from the waterfront to the deceased's home in Williams Street. Physicians were unable to find any visible disorder, but concluded after perplexed debate that some obscure lesion of the heart, induced by the brisk ascent of so steep a hill by so elderly a man, was responsible for the end. At the time I saw no reason to dissent from this dictum, but latterly I am inclined to wonder - and more than wonder.

As my great-uncle's heir and executor, for he died a childless widower, I was expected to go over his papers with some thoroughness; and for that purpose moved his entire set of files and boxes to my quarters in Boston. Much of the material which I correlated will be later published by the American Archaeological Society, but there was one box which I found exceedingly puzzling, and which I felt much averse from showing to other eyes. It had been locked and I did not find the key till it occurred to me to examine the personal ring which the professor carried in his pocket. Then, indeed, I succeeded in opening it, but when I did so seemed only to be confronted by a greater and more closely locked barrier. For what could be the meaning of the queer clay bas-relief and the disjointed jottings, ramblings, and cuttings which I found? Had my uncle, in his latter years become credulous of the most superficial impostures? I resolved to search out the eccentric sculptor responsible for this apparent disturbance of an old man's peace of mind.

The bas-relief was a rough rectangle less than an inch thick and about five by six inches in area; obviously of modern origin. Its designs, however, were far from modern in atmosphere and suggestion; for, although the vagaries of cubism and futurism are many and wild, they do not often reproduce that cryptic regularity which lurks in prehistoric writing. And writing of some kind the bulk of these designs seemed certainly to be; though my memory, despite much the papers and collections of my uncle, failed in any way to identify this particular species, or even hint at its remotest affiliations.

Above these apparent hieroglyphics was a figure of evident pictorial intent, though its impressionistic execution forbade a very clear idea of its nature. It seemed to be a sort of monster, or symbol representing a monster, of a form which only a diseased fancy could conceive. If I say that my somewhat extravagant imagination yielded simultaneous pictures of an octopus, a dragon, and a human caricature, I shall not be unfaithful to the spirit of the thing. A pulpy, tentacled head surmounted a grotesque and scaly body with rudimentary wings; but it was the general outline of the whole which made it most shockingly frightful. Behind the figure was a vague suggestions of a Cyclopean architectural background.

The writing accompanying this oddity was, aside from a stack of press cuttings, in Professor Angell's most recent hand; and made no pretense to literary style. What seemed to be the main document was headed "CTHULHU CULT" in characters painstakingly printed to avoid the erroneous reading of a word so unheard-of. This manuscript was divided into two sections, the first of which was headed "1925 - Dream and Dream Work of H.A. Wilcox, 7 Thomas St., Providence, R. I.", and the second, "Narrative of Inspector John R. Legrasse, 121 Bienville St., New Orleans, La., at 1908 A. A. S. Mtg. - Notes on Same, & Prof. Webb's Acct." The other manuscript papers were brief notes, some of them accounts of the queer dreams of different persons, some of them citations from theosophical books and magazines (notably W. Scott-Elliot's Atlantis and the Lost Lemuria), and the rest comments on long-surviving secret societies and hidden cults, with references to passages in such mythological and anthropological source-books as Frazer's Golden Bough and Miss Murray's Witch-Cult in Western Europe. The cuttings largely alluded to outré mental illness and outbreaks of group folly or mania in the spring of 1925.

The first half of the principal manuscript told a very particular tale. It appears that on March 1st, 1925, a thin, dark young man of neurotic and excited aspect had called upon Professor Angell bearing the singular clay bas-relief, which was then exceedingly damp and fresh. His card bore the name of Henry Anthony Wilcox, and my uncle had recognized him as the youngest son of an excellent family slightly known to him, who had latterly been studying sculpture at the Rhode Island School of Design and living alone at the Fleur-de-Lys Building near that institution. Wilcox was a precocious youth of known genius but great eccentricity, and had from chidhood excited attention through the strange stories and odd dreams he was in the habit of relating. He called himself "psychically hypersensitive", but the staid folk of the ancient commercial city dismissed him as merely "queer." Never mingling much with his kind, he had dropped gradually from social visibility, and was now known only to a small group of esthetes from other towns. Even the Providence Art Club, anxious to preserve its conservatism, had found him quite hopeless.

On the ocassion of the visit, ran the professor's manuscript, the sculptor abruptly asked for the benefit of his host's archeological knowledge in identifying the hieroglyphics of the bas-relief. He spoke in a dreamy, stilted manner which suggested pose and alienated sympathy; and my uncle showed some sharpness in replying, for the conspicuous freshness of the tablet implied kinship with anything but archeology. Young Wilcox's rejoinder, which impressed my uncle enough to make him recall and record it verbatim, was of a fantastically poetic cast which must have typified his whole conversation, and which I have since found highly characteristic of him. He said, "It is new, indeed, for I made it last night in a dream of strange cities; and dreams are older than brooding Tyre, or the contemplative Sphinx, or garden-girdled Babylon."

It was then that he began that rambling tale which suddenly played upon a sleeping memory and won the fevered interest of my uncle. There had been a slight earthquake tremor the night before, the most considerable felt in New England for some years; and Wilcox's imagination had been keenly affected. Upon retiring, he had had an unprecedented dream of great Cyclopean cities of Titan blocks and sky-flung monoliths, all dripping with green ooze and sinister with latent horror. Hieroglyphics had covered the walls and pillars, and from some undetermined point below had come a voice that was not a voice; a chaotic sensation which only fancy could transmute into sound, but which he attempted to render by the almost unpronounceable jumble of letters: "Cthulhu fhtagn."

Richard...shouldn't you have thrown in a few Halliburtin's, Bush Lied, People Died etc.? I got bored after the first sentence and quit reading if you did.

AR,
"Cthulhu fhtagn" or its anagram, Thug Flat Hunch, is as good an explanation as any. We are too puny to ever understand our origins and I've far more respect for those "uncivilized primitives" who had the sense to appreciate (xtian translated "worship") what must have been, per Jungs collective unconscious, an easy stroll to knowing that Earth was the Mother on whom they depended and from whence they sprang, the seasons all the compartments of time they needed and death merely part of what the planet requires in its diet.
What must have been, once that awesome moment of upright consciousness arrived, a mix of terror when Grook wouldn't get up anymore and started stinking, and joy in feeling not alone would ease into a long period of peace when females too were appreciated (early misogynist religionists translated "worshipped") and wars were almost unknown. The more testosterone burdened felt threatened by the equal status of creatures vital to their release and when we became agrarian collectors of "things" the previously unknown mechanism of inheritance became an issue. That unattached women alone knew who the father of their offspring were now became a problem. All it took was a huge earthquake and its subsequent floods and temporary smothering of crops to give birth to the disparaging of the kinder earth "worshippers" and rise to male hero worship and the glorification of war. The female "deities" were morphed quite purposely by such as Homer to enemies of male dominance, their kinder aspects stolen and credited to the new male hero-gods. And it was on.
Later this period would be stolen as "The Garden of Eden" as would the select pickings from all "pagans" in creating substitutes for the Winter Solstice (Xmas and its tree from the Druid's appreciation of same) Spring (Easter) etc. A non-drooler must get a kick out of the 3 major religions, Judaism, Catholicism (and its droppings, the myriad christian cults) as well as bastard Islam all claiming to be the "true religion" and it would be laughable were not these looneys being used by cycnical controllers to satiate their greed and cast us all to their self fulfilling Armageddon.
Increasingly evidence of minute life forms surviving the bombardment of this planet and their primary contribution to the chain that brought us here are proven. But to believe we all came from the same place would put us all on equal footing and the greedy won't have that. To paraphrase a lost quote "Science (FACT) kills faith and without faith there is no religion"

As to the few cousin humpers who attempted something resembling retort I say go back to your deep thoughts, the TV (the increasing demands of its commercialism), the timeclocks, the sucking up to the "Have-Mores" for your crumbs and the joy that sick part of your half developed person derives from hate and don't dare understand your hate is born in fear.

The U. S., once a worthy dream even if born in hypocrisy, is no more (and has declined since the coup of 1963). I can't stand any of you and look forward to your imbicilic pans when the truth arrives in your dumbed down skulls too late.

As for original ideas, I've more originality in my gaseous emmissions then you've in your entire unforked family trees.

If there must be a god it is Earth and its devil, oil.

[Why are this guy's comments so long? -Ed.]

Good God AR, I nearly pissed myself after reading your response. Let us pray no one every truly finds the Necromonicon

Whoa there Richard, are you insulting my Religion of Peace?

-That's a beheadin'
(I didn't think I would use that line so soon)

...I've more originality in my gaseous emmissions then you've in your entire unforked family trees.

Perhaps it's your diet, have you considered eating more fiber?
...and less paint chips?