AIBN IS FUCKING DEAD

Posted by: AIBN STAFF Posted on

 

AIBN IS FUCKING DEAD!

 

What began as a simple talkback on NODE 39976 on February 20th, 2009 became a monster.

A big, beautiful bastard son of a monster.

Inspired by Christian Bale’s on-set Terminator: Salvation rant, the collective soon known as ‘The Professionals’ conspired to found a new home for themselves, a cinema-centric haven whereon to share their movie musings and ephemera with like-minded readers.

And so ‘Ain’t It Bale News’ was born.

But like the fusion reactor in Christopher Nolan’s superlative The Dark Knight Rises, they engineered something whose power could not be contained—whose yield of awesomeness only intensified once removed from its protective cradle.

Spearheaded by the legendary DANNYGLOVERS_DICKBLOOD, STUNTCOCK_MIKE, ABOMINABLE SNOWCONE, HAWAIIAN ORGAN DONOR, BASEMENT CHEETOH EATER, and KOUTCHBOOM, AIBN was an alternative source of movie news and critique whose time was both too late and too soon, and whose influence simply too grandiose and magnificent to curate or control.  For nearly five years they were the go-to outlet for all things Bale, whether fact or fiction, a repository for His Majesty’s real-life work and imagined superhuman exploits; a pussy with tonsils if you will.

The words you read here and the integrity behind them were willed into existence by a collective conscience—the Volition of the Few.

AIBN provided news putting His Handsome Prince at the scene of warehouse shootings, street fights, and restaurant throw-downs.  Never subtle, ever scatological, always aiming for the funny bone by way of the jugular… the soldiers at AIBN gave the only news that mattered in this dank, miserable fuck-hole of a world.

But nothing lasts forever…. especially when run by suicidal alcoholics.

Yes, friends.  The time has come to move on.  Like an aging rock star who has nothing but limp dicks and sagging tits at Talk of the Town (1238 Las Vegas Blvd S, Las Vegas, NV 89104) in his future, it’s time to eat a fucking bullet.

Yet in spite of AIBN’s imminent demise, there was a time when its rotting body had a pounding pulse in the shaft.

Professionalism: is it begotten by nature or nurture?

There were reviews, social commentary, and lively, blistering live-chats during Oscar nights and political debates.  When asked for his post-dialectic assessment of the boys, Uncle Joe Biden flashed this reporter his signature shit-eating grin and said, “They’re a BIG FUCKIN’ DEAL.”

Las Vegas saw The Professionals gather for THE BALE SUMMIT in September 2011. Even then, the evolution had already begun. For the Professionals began emailing one another off-site in 2009, throwing around ideas and seeking council in a thread that persists to this day, and Bale willing shall unspool without end. Our loyal visitors know us by our monikers, yet we know one another by our proper names—the names Bale would call us. Together we’ve shared news of injuries, surgeries, meltdowns, impotence, two marriages, and three divorces. We’ve buried loved ones and welcomed unwanted children. We’ve inspired and consoled…. but mostly we’ve encouraged one another to put down the bottle and unload the fucking shotgun.

Professionalism.

It is a way of life—a religion.  At its core it incubates the collected knowledge, skills and abilities, and as the product of those combined talents—emanates a host of the noblest attributes, the most desired and celebrated of personal traits.  Integrity, honesty, trustworthiness, accountability, ambition, and scholarship are the marks of the Professional.  Responsibility, morality, initiative, and self-improvement are the designs of the Modern Day Warrior, a disciple who extends compassion and respect to those who reciprocate it or who can be converted to the Path of Perpetual Light—but offers a cornucopia of anguish, pain and death to those amateurs who do not believe, choosing instead to trash the world with their ignorance.

We were keepers of His flame, and here the torch burned bright for all—so that those who have tread in the darkness will know the light, and those who have shivered in cold might know its warmth for the rest of their days.

And now its sacred flame burns no more.

Now… AIBN is FUCKING DEAD.

So what’s next for The Professionals?

Many projects and collaborations are in the works, both online and in the flesh realm. There’s even the rumor and persistent threat of an ‘AIBN e-mail Anthology’ book. Though it’ll take years to edit (there’s some fucked up shit in there).

“Spill my blood and you let flow Professionalism, for I know no other way to live.  Solicit my advice and you awaken Professionalism, for I speak no other tongue.”

When asked what awaited them in the next chapter of life, HOD replied, “Who the fuck is this?”

Dickblood hasn’t been heard from since February 28th…. (this part is true) when he left a mysterious voice-mail at Abom’s Cleveland office, sounding ragged and out of breath, he groaned: “Do you want to become an old man, filled with regret…. waiting to die alone?  Bury it Pete…. bury the motherfucker.”

The number he called from came up Cafayate, Salta, Argentina.

Since the decision to end the site was made, Stuntcock has taken up antiquing.

Koutchboom recently discovered he’s part queer.

Cheetoh Eater had no comment for this article.

There was a time when the men of Ain’t It Bale News were boys—strapping young lads like any you might encounter.  But while our bodies were not yet developed, still wallowing in puberty’s purgatory, we’d already struck down destiny’s trail—the Path of the Professional—the end of which sets us free.

Now join us, and be free.

Make the climb without the rope.

Then fear will find you again…

 

AIBN_RIP

 

Comments (28)

  3. The flames from the crashed spaceship was finally beginning to die down, but the firemen and rescue teams were still busy at work. Watching on, tired and beaten but unbroken, were the six heroes who had saved the day – The Professionals.

    DANNYGLOVER_DICKBLOOD looked on at the remnants of the alien invasion and shook his head. “Am I going to walk around and rip your fucking lights down, in the middle of a scene?” he asked no one in particular, his voice muffled by his mask. “Then why the fuck are you walking right through? Ah-da-da-dah, like this in the background. What the fuck is it with you? What don’t you understand?” ”

    The Abominable Snowcone nodded in agreement, wrapping his cloak around his body. “You got any fucking idea about, hey, it’s fucking distracting having somebody walking up behind Bryce in the middle of the fucking scene? Give me a fucking answer! What don’t you get about it?”

    As if in response, a beacon flashed in the distance. They recognized it instantly, the Professional signal. They were needed again.

    “Ohhh, goooood for you,” said the invincible Hawaiian Organ Donor, his body glowing with unearthly power. “And how was it? I hope it was fuckiing good, because it’s useless now, isn’t it?”

    All the heroes took off into the air and flew away, save for three: Stuntcock Mike, Basement Cheetah Eater and Koutchboom. Mike turned to his two remaining teammates, lifted up the visor of his iron mask and spoke in his commanding voice:

    “McG, you got fucking something to say to this prick?”

    And with that the remaining Professionals flew off after their teammates to go fight against amateurism in all its forms.

  6. “I failed you. You trusted me,and I failed you.”

    Naturally, we haven’t told anyone we fixed the autopilot. We may fly out to meet the rising sun over the bay on this somber morn, doomsday device in tow, but answer to the signal by night we shall forevermore. For while amateurs adopt the darkness, we were born in it. And when finally we were old enough to see the light, it was nothing but BLINDING.

  8. “You see, it’s the slow knife,
    the knife that takes its time,
    the knife that waits years without forgetting,
    then slips quietly between the bones.
    That’s the knife that cuts deepest. ‘

    Adios faithful Baleites.

    Mike.

  9. What the fuck ! Don’t think I’m going to go crawling back to Aintitcool to lap at Harry’s balls. The site may be dead but the legend lives on, waiting to return when needed. Fellow professionals, it has been an honor.

  13. A feeling brought me here today, that nagging feeling that someone known long ago had drawn his last breath and crossed the bar; therefore seeing this, while tearing at my heart, ist not wholly unexpected.

    Things that scar your life, that mold you and make you the person you are, that drag you from the ranks of the masses of unwashed amateurs going about their forgotten daily grind, these things come in small doses but hit you like a hollow point .45 in the back of the skull…Cheap whores who do anal, good fucking blow, the occasional ass kicking and Ain’t it Bale News. Professionals reach down in the filth of life and make memories from it, set paths, and redefine what it is to be alive and in good company.

    I Salute you all Friends…Professionals…you showed the world its potential, and were shunned for it…in time, this shall pass, your time will come, but not now….not now.

  20. I haven’t had a drink since this motherfucker died.

    That changes tonight.

    A friend is celebrating the impending release of his first child from the gash he prematurely married because of said child. I hear they call it a diaper party in some places.

    I call it a wake.

    It’s finally time to accept the loss of AIBN and I shall do so properly by consuming volumes of Dead Guy Ale and tequila. In a drunken stupor I may be tempted to unleash amateurism to show these future parents what kind of world they are bringing their spawn into.

    A world without Professionals.

    “I’m not going to live there. There’s no place for me there… any more than there is for you.”

    The blood coursing through the veins in my cock will keep your spirit alive, but In my mind I lay thee to rest.

  23. Their early work was a little too new wave for my tastes, but when Sports came out in ’83, I think they really came into their own, commercially and artistically. The whole album has a clear, crisp sound, and a new sheen of consummate professionalism that really gives the songs a big boost. He’s been compared to Elvis Costello, but I think Huey has a far more bitter, cynical sense of humor.

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