Notices by Krypt3ia (krypt3ia@infosec.exchange)

@patrickcmiller When your article claims a talent shortage in the first graph, you lose credibility and a reader.

Just watched the 60 minutes piece leaked on YouTube. Not much we don’t already know, which makes this spike by Weiss even more clearly quisling fuckery.

AI FOOLS TO THE RIGHT OF ME.

AI FOOLS TO THE LEFT OF ME.

AND HERE I AM. STUCK IN THE MIDDLE WITH YOU FOOLS.

Yep

@WarnerCrocker The enemy of my enemy is my friend. But once the jobs done, take that friend to Nuremberg.

So, gold bone saw’s?

If by work, you mean lucid dream planning their murder, sure!

@selzero ...and when you shoot them on top of tanks, make sure they are all in a line one behind the other. It's more efficient.

@georgetakei *Kimmel smirks*

SCIENCE!

#cassini #titan liquid methane atmo

Federal agents shoot woman they say 'boxed in' authorities in Brighton ParkFederal agents shoot woman they say 'boxed in' authorities in Brighton Park
https://www.wbez.org/immigration/2025/10/04/federal-agents-shoot-woman-they-say-boxed-in-authorities-in-brighton-park

Portland, Oregon, this 27th day of September, Anno Domini 2025

My Dearest Bedelia,

I scrawl this by lantern light, surrounded by the tattered remnants of our regiment, their man buns sagging, their ironic beards singed by the flames of battle. We are a pitiful sight, but proud still. The National Guard came to crush us, to stamp out our rebellion with their Humvees and riot shields, but they did not reckon with the sheer resilience of men armed with cold brew and irony.

The field was chaos. Bearded cavalrymen on fixed-gear bicycles charged the line, their handlebars glinting in the sun. Squadrons of man-bun sharpshooters took position atop food carts, raining down insults about craft beer purity standards. The Guard returned fire with rubber bullets, but the beards absorbed much of the impact, acting as natural armor, thickened by years of kombucha and smug self-regard.

I myself led a company of artisanal soap-makers into the fray. Their musk of sandalwood and bergamot confused the enemy, who mistook it for some new chemical weapon. In truth, it was nothing more than the pungent sweat of men who have not used deodorant since Occupy.

And lo, Bedelia, we prevailed. The Guard faltered, overwhelmed not by our firepower, but by our sheer commitment to ironic detachment. One Guardsman, poor boy, dropped his weapon and confessed he could no longer fight after being mocked for his mainstream haircut. Truly, our sarcasm cuts deeper than any blade.

Now the city is ours again, for the moment. The men gather round, grooming their mustaches, tying their topknots, and sipping bitter IPAs brewed in bathtubs. I miss you terribly, my sweet Bedelia. Were you here, I would crown you with a wreath of kale and serenade you with banjo strums, though out of tune they may be.

Pray for us, for tomorrow the Guard may return, and our beards will again be put to the test.

Yours always,
Major Hugo “Manbun” Reynolds, Stumptown Volunteers

#battleofportland

Portland, Oregon, this 27th day of September, Anno Domini 2025

My Dearest Constance,

The situation grows ever more dire. The President’s National Guard has occupied our noble city, though they seem more disoriented than fearsome. Many are still searching for “the good coffee place,” having mistaken Dutch Bros for a proper café. I fear morale on both sides wanes.

Skirmishes break out nightly at the Trader Joe’s parking lot, where civilians hurl organic cage-free eggs with remarkable accuracy. The Guard responds with rubber bullets, though most bounce harmlessly off reusable tote bags. Our casualties thus far consist of one twisted ankle and several deeply bruised egos.

Food is scarce. Only last night we split a single gluten-free donut five ways. Sergeant McDougall insisted he detected “notes of cardamom and despair.” Still, we endure. Some of the men speak fondly of the Before Times, when one could order brunch without being frisked for Molotovs.

The Guard has fortified Voodoo Doughnut as their stronghold. The pink boxes serve as sandbags, and the neon sign burns defiantly in the smoky night sky like some terrible star of Babylon. We attempted a charge but were repelled by sprinkles and frosting.

And yet, in all this turmoil, thoughts of you sustain me. Should I survive the Siege of Powell’s Books — now declared “high-value infrastructure” by the generals — I shall return with treasures untold: perhaps even a tote bag unstained by tear gas.

Pray for me, dear Constance, for if the Wi-Fi does not return soon, I fear civilization itself may collapse. Until then, I remain,

Yours in eternal irony,
Capt. Jonathan W. Abernathy, 4th Regiment of Stumptown Volunteers

Portland, Oregon, this 27th day of September, Anno Domini 2025

My Dearest Sissy,

I put pen to paper with trembling hand, for today I witnessed both glory and grotesquery at the PSU Farmers Market, now forever etched into the annals of this absurd war.

The battle began at first light, when the Trumpist Guard sought to seize the stalls of cheese-mongers and drive our forces from the campus green. They advanced with bayonets fixed, yet found themselves repelled by wheels of Rogue River Blue, hurled with such velocity they might have been cannon shot. Brave men of Stumptown Volunteers brandished brie like sabers, their edges soft yet strangely unyielding in the melee.

The clash was terrible, Sissy. Camembert grenades burst upon the pavement, leaving the air reeking of cream and defiance. One company formed a phalanx with shields of cheddar, holding firm against the Guard’s pepper-spray fusillade. From the trees, skirmishers rained down mozzarella balls like slingstones from David’s hand. Never before has dairy been so lethally deployed.

It was during this chaos that the infamous Kash Patel, swaggering emissary of the President, strode onto the field. He sought to rally the Guard, mocking our cheese-borne valor. Yet cruel irony struck him low. Being dreadfully intolerant of the milk of cow, his stomach revolted at the merest whiff of parmesan drifting on the wind. He doubled over, struck not by bullet nor blade, but by the thunderous cannon of his own bowels. A fit of flatulence so sustained and malignant erupted that the Guard fled in confusion, believing some new infernal weapon had been unleashed. Thus was Patel felled, toppled by the tyranny of dairy, laid prostrate among the goat-cheese crumbles.

The day is ours. The Farmers Market stands unbroken, its kale untrampled, its honey jars gleaming in the September sun. Yet I cannot shake the memory of Patel’s ruin, nor the fear that lactose itself has become our most unpredictable ally.

Hold me in your heart, my sweet Sissy. Should I survive the next campaign, I shall bring you a wedge of victory brie, still warm from the field of battle. Until then, know that my love for you is fiercer than any cheddar, sharper than any gouda, and eternal as the stink of blue.

Forever yours,
Major Hugo “Manbun” Reynolds, Stumptown Volunteers

Yes, yes I am. https://www.techdirt.com/2025/09/26/trump-declares-everyone-who-doesnt-kiss-his-ass-is-a-terrorist/

So what number on the authoritarian/fascisti list is prosecuting your political enemies again?

@chris Took a look, and this seems like it might be more about commercial property rentals, but, I can see fuckery trying to enforce the language on an apartment dweller due to greed.

@aapis @bmacDonald94 As I mentioned in my original post, it is how you behave.

Look, this is not new. In 1990 I was flying a Canadian flag on my backpack in the EU. I was told I should because of the "Ugly American" thing.

I dressed more European

I spoke the languages (French, Spanish, German) passably (actually got props for my German accent and pronunciation)

Saw the "Ugly American" up close and personal in Paris, and, fuuuuuuck. The waiter knew I was not a native of France, but treated me much better because I TRIED.

So yeah, the flag appropriation today is much more needful though, I mean... America is ugly as fuck now.