What is “Fake” Fake News?

This is the most common question I get these days on the blog (dark-net edition).

What it’s not:

  • Fake fake news is not un-fake or non-fake or true news.
  • Fake fake news is not very fake or extremely fake or awesomely fake news.

What it is:

  • Fake fake news is written or spoken material for which an individual or organization is paid in good faith, with the understanding that the product is genuine fake news, which it isn’t.
  • Fake fake news can be true or false; it can be news or nothing new; it might further the goals of directed fake news or have no effect whatsoever. Who the hell knows!?
  • Fake fake news is produced to make a buck (which is taken directly out of the pocket of the honest fake-news writer) or for a larf. It may be plagiarized from any source (in several cases the Bible). It may be generated by a random-word app or typed by a roomful of monkeys – no, the monkeys would never do that.

Don’t read it. Don’t listen to it. Do not abide it.

And that’s the truth. Or honest fake news.

 

Guest blogger: Emily Dickinson

Hello everybody.

Warning: I won’t be including any new poems here. Those of you who know something about me know that I keep my poems to myself. Out of 1,800, I’ve published fewer than a dozen. In fact, perhaps I won’t publish this bit of prose, either.

joem18b volunteers here at the Union Psychiatric Facility, which is how I met him. Strangely enough, he teaches a class in basket weaving. Basket weaving used to be the principal activity with which mental patients in asylums passed the time, but it has become a lost art in the padded cells of America. I specialize in the use of soft spaghetti and other noodles. This sounds crazy, I know, but that’s par for the course here on the ward. At least I don’t use human excrement!

Of course I am a woman suffering from the pathological delusion that I am an historically famous poetess, dead these 125 years. If I work hard, hard enough, I can recover a reality beyond these, my own personal confusions.

I earn my current permissions level here on the ward by repeating those two sentences to staff whenever appropriate. Naturally I include the statements here in my post. I believe them to be true. Really.

Having said that, let me answer the question most often put to me: How can I be so placid when I am locked in a secure building with no option to leave? My answer: I never went out anyway. I’m perfectly agoraphobic. This is the ideal situation for me. I write new poems every day. I’m allowed to wear a white dress.

My boyfriend is Napoleon. Stereotypical? Not so. There are virtually no Napoleons left in American mental institutions. The emperor is out of favor. Or perhaps the current level of historical ignorance in this country has turned him into an unknown. But this instantiation of him, my Napoleon, has sold me. Ask him a question and his answer is either true when you check it out on Google, or there is no answer available online.

Why Napoleon? If you know anything about the man, you know that he can’t keep it in his pants. That is in no way a problem for me. I’ve been taking care of myself my whole life. My relationship with Nappy, as I call him, is not based upon physical considerations. And please don’t bother googling “Emily Dickinson” and “lesbian” together. The poems that you’ll find referenced there came to me on exceptionally hot and muggy days, when wearing my usual starched garments became unbearable.

Anyway, my father was an extremely erudite man. I believe that is why I am attacted to Napoleon. We can sit and gab about history for hours.

I’m looking out the window now, and I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a pine tree, or is that a juniper? Kilmer stole the line from me, by the way.

Guest blogger: my mom

You don’t phone. You don’t write.

Ha Ha. Just kidding.

Move out of the house.

So this is where you spend all your time. The crumbs in this keyboard! No wonder we have rats.

They aren’t squirrels. They’re roof rats. Google it.

Hello, everybody. I’m glad to meet you.

To the shiksha who my son has been hanging out with online: Invite him over. If you live at home like he does, that’s ok. He can sleep on the couch. Don’t feed him pork. Have some protection handy, although to tell you the truth, I don’t think he knows much about that side of life yet.

To the boys who my son plays games with online: If the shiksha don’t invite him over, you invite him over. He can sleep on the floor.

Who do I have to screw to get this kid a job?

Son, if you don’t go down and apply at Carl’s Junior this afternoon, you’re dead to me, although I will keep doing your laundry and ironing, including your sheets and underwear.

Nigerian Central Bank Funds: Do You Qualify?

I was going to post a few words with a title that borrowed from the Nigerian scam, just to generate some  readers via Google hits, but I’ve decided not to stoop that low.  This is to notify you, one of my fourteen readers (all-time high on June 14, 2009), of other post titles that I’ve decided not to use.

5. Best Cancer Cures

4. Megan Fox Nude Photos

3. Cheapest Oxycontin, No Questions Asked

2. Alien Abduction Nude Photos

1. Proof that God Exists. With Nude Teen Photos.

Later: I see that some of you have been visiting every day in search of cancer cures, drugs, God, and/or nudes. I apologize for their absence in this post.