Today, 11 people died when a local McDonald’s announced a new item on their Dollar menu. The sandwich promised to contain so much grease and sugar, you were guaranteed a doctor’s visit redeemable with an official voucher printed and attached to every receipt.
While people continue to kill themselves from the inside out by eating McDonald’s hamgurgers, on Friday, brutal tramplings killed three children and an elderly couple, among six other victims whose remains have been sent to RPD for identification.
Officer Hindenson told reporters this afternoon, “The police are ready to hand out a killer slap on the wrist,” to those involved in Friday’s stomping-related deaths.
“We just want to see justice brought to the guilty few who halted the restaurant’s flow of business on the busiest second shift of the week,” said Officer Hendenson. “We deeply regret that these reckless, dying persons saw it fit to lay in the doorway and die while hundreds of hungry patrons impatiently waited outside.”
“All they wanted to do was give McDonald’s money.”
-State-appointed attorney for McDonald’s victims
Hendenson indicated that since the perpetrators in the slayings are now dead, claims may have to be filed against their families.
McDonald’s lawyers were not immediately available for comment, but experts say the company stands to gain roughly $6.7 billion paid in reparations by the survivors.
The coke-addled state-appointed attorney defending the dead victims of what the media is calling the “Fries Eleven” tragedy released a troubling statement to reporters earlier this afternoon. It reads:
Now take one minute, if you will, a moment of silence; a moment of prayer; for the friends and family members of the employees and manager on duty. Let’s pray that they get their shit together, and are not too freaked out by all those customers dying.
We need them to pull it together for the big win on Saturday, when returning patrons, newly-addicted to the McGrease, return in droves among fresh customers to create what is expected to be the most powerful surge of fast food patronage the United States has seen since the toxic release of the formidable Happy Meal in the early 1980s.
“When the Happy Meal came out, there were slayings. Savage, shameful mutilations of human beings the likes of which the Manson Family could never have dreamed of,” said Officer Hendinson, gleefully.
“We’re hoping we won’t have to release the hounds, but we have entire squads of men stationed in and around every McDonald’s between here and Henrico County. They are armed with mace, riot batons, rape-sticks, and caustic battery acid rounds. They’re non-lethal, of course. We have everything under control.”
To find follow-ups to this rapidly-developing story, check our Twitter account and shit like that.
LAKE PARK, IL.–Area citizens were baffled this week when a local power line was spotted wearing a pair of shoes. The shoes appeared to be slightly worn, Nike® Air Jordan’s, and were first spotted Sunday morning.
“Must’ve been one of them damn squirrels,” spouted Walter Bernard, a retired Chicago Heights steel worker and chess enthusiast. “Only possible explanation.”
Lake Park Police have not yet issued any statements regarding the shoe incident. Though the neighborhood is said to be relatively “quiet”, reports have said that new neighbors have recently moved in whom are rarely seen during daytime hours and have brief visitors that “leave the house within five minutes.”
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” stated local elementary school art teacher, Kathy McMillan. “In this Obama era, even the bulk transfer of alternating current has the right to be fashionable. Welcome to the Nineties.”
Witnesses have also stated that the power line seems to be a size 11 wide.
A Michigan man was charged with assault after beating a woman during a game of Monopoly because she “would not sell her Boardwalk and Park Place properties” to him. Since this did not break any rules in Monopoly, game play persisted until the man won the game by sheer intimidation.
The 54-year-old Monopoly slumlord struck the woman in the head, breaking her glasses, she told authorities, forcing the unfair trade with his thug-like business tactics. After knocking her block off, he seized the properties in question without tendering any payment whatsoever.
Some sources have rumored that he placed hotels on the property without making the proper payments. Yet another source claims he manipulated the bank, causing a microcosm of the real-life housing crisis. “He was cooking the books,” said fictitious money analyst Jim Cramer.
The monopoly slum lord was arrested shortly after the game and charged with racketeering in addition to assault and battery.
The man was ordered not to pass go, and not to collect two hundred dollars and then sent directly to jail. However, he quickly paid the standard $50 bail bond and was set free next turn.
“He should be roaming the streets by morning,” the rule book says.
Roanoke, Va. – Steve Grabowski, a Roanoke factory worker, was disappointed Saturday by rubbery macaroni after re-heating it following a four-hour online-gaming binge during which he forget his girlfriend had prepared their dinner and left it sitting on his desk.
“It just wasn’t the same afterward,” Steve said with a grimace. “It was just so dry. It all stuck together, in one big clump.”
When asked to describe the sound the Velveeta shells ‘n cheese made under his fork, Steve simply stared at the floor and shook his head, saying, “There’s no mistaking that sound. It didn’t sound dry. It sounded ready. But it wasn’t. It would never be ready again.”
Experts told Elf Wax reporters that macaroni, when ready to eat, makes no sound at all. In a telephoned interview, Jack ReNeur of the Polytechnic Institute of Sound (Miami Fla.), said good macaroni “rolls in its cheesy lubricant,” and should exhibit “little to no audible friction with itself.”
All sounds aside, Steve said the issue was “not the sound or the appearance” of his macaroni shells, but with its “core temperature,” or what a thermometer would read if inserted directly into the center mass of macaroni once scooped into a bowl or upon a plate.
Steve blames the government for not giving Velveeta the go ahead on including a carcinogenic compound used in self-heating shoe insoles to keep his macaroni warm for days at a time. “This whole thing was preventable,” he said.
Suprisingly, the FDA passed up their opportunity to poison the general populus with the knowledge that they would receive no pharmaceutical kickbacks upon treatment for the resulting organ failures the artificial chemical could have induced. Their press department was not immediately available for comment.
Steve said he was left with no choice but to rubberize his macaroni under microwave radiation using his residential-strength Kenmore microwave oven. “I even set it to medium,” he intimated. “But it was already too far gone.”
When asked if Steve’s addiction to the online RPG Phantasy Star Universe could be to blame, his eyes flickered with apprehension and he became violent and aggressive to reporters, demanding that they remove themselves from his property before he calls the authorities. His children stood behind him crying and begging him to stop shouting, but he had already brandished a black Remington shotgun and was aiming it directly at the News Channel 7 camera crew.
“PSU’s got shit to do with this. Now get your fucking hippie picture people out of here before I prove to my retarded son just how son-of-a-bitchin’ addicted I am.”
Velveeta has issued a formal apology to the Grabowski family – not for their shortcomings – but for Steve’s “crude, white trash behavior” and has said they will not pay the reparations he “drunkenly demanded via Facebook Monday night.”
Roanoke, Va. – A Cave Spring-area youth was high on marijuana today when he realized that time does not exist and therefore the speed at which the Earth moves through space is immeasurable, yet “so fast.”
Jonathan Spokane, above the influence, behind the wheel
Jonathan Spokane, 15, described to reporters how his mind came to be blown, saying, “We were drivin’ around, celebratin’ 4:20 after summer school when I started to daydream. I was thinking about space, and said to Joe, ‘Yo Joe. Space is like, really fuckin’ huge, man.’ Then Joe was like, ‘Hey I wonder what time it is in space?’”
Jonathan said he was puzzled by the question at first, until the answer came to him, at which point he could no longer remember his name, address, or even where he was driving his mom’s carload of friends.
His mind was blown, reportedly after he decided for himself that without a constant measurement of the discernible gravitational forces at work, there could not possibly be a basis for the measurement of time, which he said is already a “human construct” and therefore “irrelevant” to people who “know what’s up.”
Jonathan’s personal revelations, analysts predict, will lead him to experiment with harder drugs such as hallucinogenic mushrooms, LSD, peyote and mescaline – all to serve him in his singular quest for what he calls “the ultimate truth” about our existence and/or non-existence, both and neither of which he intends to prove.
Roanoke Valley Law (over)Enforcement Agencies and the FBI are on the lookout for Jonathan Spokane in connection with the assault of several police officers during a scuffle and the telephoned harassment of the County juvenile court judge. FBI director of searches and seizures Mark Warren told Elf Wax Times early this Monday morning that when police failed to apprehend him, he was “wild-eyed” and repeating the chorus from Black Sabbath’s “Fairies Wear Boots.” He is allegedly armed with a set of Ginsu kitchen knives and considered extremely dangerously capable of dicing a variety of foods quickly to subdue what are expected to be critical munchies.
Roanoke, Va.–This girl I liked when we were in ninth grade was really cute and had pretty green eyes. I told her one day as we were walking to the buses and she said ‘thank you.’ I never thought another thing of it because chasing tail, I decided, wasn’t my thing at that age. I still liked cartoons and videogames way too much to give all my energy to a time-vacuum like a girl and her problems.
Six years later, she came over to my close, personal friend’s house seeking heroin. Evidently, she’d found a boyfriend who uses heroin, and she herself got addicted so they could enjoy the drug together. What dedication! I can only imagine how poisonous their relationship together is. If you’ve ever seen Requiem For A Dream, you know what I’m talking about. Obviously, not every chemical romance is like that, but the movie is a very accurate depiction of how many of these kinds of relationships work out.
Now, I have a long-term girlfriend but she is not a painful soul-vacuum, nor does she any heroin – or any hard drug, for that matter. There’s a better way to keep a woman around without addicting her to a fatal drug, or so I like to think. I’d say that I’ve struck an almost psychologically unheard-of balance in which I get to be myself and happy with a woman at the same time. I get to play my videogames and have great sex, too. What’s more, I get to spend any or all of my time at the aforementioned best friend’s house on Bent Mountain because my girlfriend is not a succubus time-hog whose permission is required to fart.
Sometimes I go to my friend’s house and we just play videogames and talk about the latest Elf Wax and how epic it will be when the mainstream media bows to its superiority as the earth shatters under the weight of the resulting irony. Other times are spent watching as drunk, worthless chicks file in and out during the occasional party. It doesn’t happen often, because there’s always an active XBOX 360 in the room – a natural female repellent. But it still happens.
The other night, a girl came in and proclaimed, “I’ll get wasted tonight. I wanna get drunk and make a mistake. A mistake that makes babies.” I hadn’t noticed her until she said this. To me, women at parties are usually inconsequential, serving their benign purpose of making the men talk louder in their presence and nothing more. Also, they are good for starting fights, and beyond that, you’re lucky to bang one and forget about it. You never date these girls. This particular girl was your typical party slut. Kind of chubby because she is too dim to recognize a correlation between McDonald’s, beer, and her faltering appearance. Kind of slutty because the fatter a girl gets, the easier she has to be in order to compensate for her decline in received sexual attention.
So to what I thought was actually the fabled tongue-in-cheek wit coming out of a girl’s mouth, I yelled out, “Yeah, pregnancy, alright!” Nobody laughed. I guess (with good reason) they took her very seriously and the chase was on. Or perhaps they didn’t hear me, because it was funny and the way I said it was funny too, and nothing that leaves my mouth is short of genius. Regardless, I never took my eyes away from Nazi Zombies, at which I was brutally kicking the asses of the undead Wehrmacht.
Around me, cheap beers turned into cheap shots, and this girl got wasted, just like she said she’d do. Much unlike a woman, she stuck to her word, however I was still unimpressed because she hadn’t yet made any mistakes, aside from tipping the bong in the wrong direction and spilling filthy, stinking bong water into the couch cushions. I saw it. It was yellow coming out. Very old, putrid water. Not one oxygen molecule to be found in it. It stunk and made her stink because she’d also spilled it on her clothes. How gross.
The party continued. She flirted with the Brosephs and loved their ability to put unbroken sentences together (when college guys feel intellectually dominant, they like to talk in a loud, reverse-Seinfeld tonality). She revealed her true stupidity when she asked, “Where are you from?”
“They’re from a college, honey. Not a different state. Just not the Food Lion you work at.” My thoughts were growing cynical. It was time to play some killer jams. Oops, no good. The Brosephs took over tha party, bro. They’ve been in there tuning up for two and a half god damn hours and the drummer’s still sitting there twiddling his balls around. You gotta wait, bro. Bro. Dude. Gotta wait. “Get out of my god damn way and let a real musician play you fucking Modest Mouse-imitating honkies with your lame fail-minor chords and shit-eating cock-bang-the-drum-rhythms.” Rather than say this, I thought it, and chose to wait outside patiently by the campfire. The girl was there.
After begging everyone present at the party to take shots with her, one at a time, she still couldn’t bait an erection out of even the drunkest men, with the lowest standards. She had begun to embarrass herself by moving person to person, sitting in their laps and seeing if it took. Even after some very obvious lines of questioning, that went from, “I’m tired, I want to go to bed,” to, “I’m going to bed now,” to, “Do you like holding me?” to, “You want to come to bed with me?” she was having trouble getting results.
This worked on one guy. I knew his name because he played Nazi Zombies with me earlier and we shared victory. We got to level eleven together which had yet to be seen on this particular night, and so it felt good. He had originally showed up with a twenty-four pack of Bud Light, so he was drunk and getting drunker.
Sitting by the campfire and watching this pitiful scene between them in which she sat on his lap and he expressed his enjoyment of it, I thought, “This is it. She’s going to finally get fucked like the whore she is on one of those filthy beds in the back room. Won’t that be a pleasant Roanoke memory?”
Then, something interesting happened. He started playing hard to get. Not too hard, because I could tell he still planned to do something with her, if it was really going to be this easy, but he wanted to do it his own way, not hers. What he started doing was saying really funny shit to her, like “Sure, I’ll take you home, but you won’t like where home is,” and then he said something along the lines of, “That should correct your mistake.”
At this, the girl began crying. She’d already done this off and on throughout the night when no one would pay any attention to her. Still sitting on this guy’s lap, she looked around the campfire at a circle of unfamiliar faces, lastly at mine, then turned to the only other girl present, her friend who she showed up with, and begged her to call some one and have her come pick them up.
Almost simultaneously, a bearded man appeared in the doorway of the house – a violent drunk who’d passed out early but knew this girl personally. He approached her with two gallant strides across the yard, asking her, “Do you want me to make you feel really good?” Her eyes melted from personal ownership to childish submission as he took her around the side of the house, where the two were not seen again for at least an hour. The girl disappeared. Chris, my Call of Duty partner, said nothing. Simply opened another beer and enjoyed the company of friends, as he’d been doing before the girl materialized in his lap.
The party was over. I went to sleep and woke up sick. Sick, because I smoked from the same bong as that filthy petri-dish of a girl from the middle of the state. Some unknown, unnamed hick town smaller than this one. The only kind of place capable of producing a dispirited character so familiarly squalid and lacking of common sense or decency. A desperate fat sow whose social success hangs on her ability to fuck someone new at every alcoholic gathering. The product of boredom due to excess. Of a lesson learned in which doing nothing equals doing something as long as a dick still penetrates her at the end of the night.
Hers was a life that led her to pouting her ass around, like a cat in heat, for the first burred penis whose instincts could safely guide it into the dark hole at the end of the tunnel-vision. First shaking it in front of this lap, and then that one, and another one only to be swept up by a surprise male she didn’t expect. But it makes no difference anyway, because she’s chosen the life of a vapid, disease-ridden drunk whore with no inspired future and ugly, meaningless friends, yet retains the ability to carry around a false sense of daytime dignity because she attends a community college somewhere.
A girl who has everything and gets nothing out of it. Has nothing good to say but is feverishly pounding texts out of her cell phone. Knows nothing even though she has the Internet, because she only uses it for Facebook and MySpace.
A girl who will never find this highly-detailed account of her actions, even though I wrote elfwax.com down on a slip of paper and threw it into her purse when she wasn’t looking.
God Bless America. And God Bless The Elf Wax Times.
Head. Fellatio. Hummer. Blowjob. Going down. Tooting the horn. Playing the skin flute. Smoking the pole. Polishing the knob. Addressing the court.
No matter what you call it, we all love it. If you can find a girl who is good at it, and will do it regularly, you should marry her…….marry her right now, or give me her phone number. Girls like that are hard to find. Guys who don’t like it are even harder to find. Which leads me to ask this question:
WHO IN THE HELL IS RESPONSIBLE FOR MAKING BLOWJOBS ILLEGAL IN NORTH CAROLINA?
Yes, blowjobs are illegal in North Carolina. Here is the actual statute:
§ 14-177. Crime against nature – North Carolina awards a punishment classified as a Class I felony upon successful conviction, with a presumptive imprisonment of two years, for anyone who commits a crime against nature with man or beast.
“The legislative intent and purpose of this section is to punish persons who undertake by unnatural and indecent methods to gratify a perverted and depraved sexual instinct which is an offense against public decency and morality. Unmarried persons are subject to prosecution for consensual fellatio done in private. North Carolina also prohibits habitual intercourse as proscribed behavior punishable as a Class 2 misdemeanor. The privilege of marriage is explained to be an avoidance of prosecution for legal access to habitual intercourse with one’s sexual partner.”
That’s right………you can go to prison for two years if you get a blowjob in North Carolina. And single guys who get laid a lot in North Carolina can be charged with “Habitual Intercourse” and sent to prison for two years.
This has been illegal in North Carolina since it became a state, and was originally punishable by death. That’s right, getting a blowjob in North Carolina would get you put to death. The old law read:
“Any person who shall commit the abominable and detestable crime against nature, not to be named among Christians, shall be adjudged guilty of felony, and shall suffer death without benefit of clergy.” N.C. Rev. Stat.ch. 34, § 6 (1837)
This law was derived from the law passed in England by Henry the Eighth in 1533.
In 1868, North Carolina changed the law to what is currently written, and the penalty had been reduced from death, to 60 years in prison. The sentence gradually reduced in severity over the years, but the law has not changed much from what was originally written by Henry the Eighth.
Why would someone……anyone……any man……hate blowjobs so much? Did a woman with sharp teeth bite Henry the Eighth’s cock during a blowjob? Did the founder of North Carolina have his prick bitten off when his horse drawn carriage hit a bump while he was getting a hummer? I just can’t imagine what would prompt someone to pass such a cruel and unjust law.
There was a time when I would have been on North Carolina’s most wanted list. Not for murder, rape, acts of terrorism, or manufacturing meth…..but for getting a lot of head, and “habitual intercourse”.
This is insane!
After consulting with the Elf Wax legal team, I have decided the best way to put a stop to this madness is to begin contacting North Carolina congressmen and senators, and expressing our outrage at the fact that this archaic law is still being enforced.
Use the link below to contact every congressman and senator in North Carolina:
Springfield, U.S.–Dignity found a face when local cracker factory worker Kirk Van Houten attempted to draw it during a game of Pictionary Saturday night, twelve years ago. Ordained with failure after his wife, Luann, could not guess the image, he challenged her to draw a better one in front of the party. What resulted was the iconic definition of a human concept so complexly intangible, it should have never been included in an ice-breaking party game.
Kirk Van Houten: It’s dignity, Luann.
Van Houten’s visualization of dignity was largely rejected by his wife, whose own portrayal was subsequently confirmed by the party’s attendees to accurately depict dignity in all of its possible variants, definitions, and contexts, even as it had been comparatively stripped from her husband in the act.
Unfortunately, the piece was never released to the public and experts say statistics indicate the drawing probably arrived in a Virginia landfill in or around Gloucester County. “This estimation is given on the grounds that Waste Management buys trash from twenty-six other states, including New York and New Jersey, to dump in Va. landfills as a means of protecting its citizens from encroaching swamps, wetlands, and bothersome natural habitats,” said Virginia governor Timothy Kaine.
Waste Management is a friendly neighborhood conglomeration of Wall Street businessmen and the mafia between whom your trash is a commodity.
Dr. Hibbert, Ph.D., commented on Mr. Van Houten’s piece after the Simpsons’ party, saying, “It lacked any distinctive characteristics whatsoever,” as he released an untimely chuckle.
After frantic weeks of phone calls, strongly-worded letters, and death threats, Noam Chomsky, professor emeritus of linguistics at Massachusetts Institute of Technology was made available for comment. After reviewing the scene between the now-divorced Van Houtens, he said, “The dispute is inconsequential and with the exception of their resulting divorce, most likely will not change anything, ever.” He then followed this up with a question for reporters, asking, “Is this really why you needed me so badly? Do you even know who I am?”
Noam Chomsky, powering a small
village with his cognitive prowess
Indeed, after more than a decade the ripples of rejection can still be felt for miles around Springfield, where reporters say the veins of failure running through Kirk Van Houten’s shrinking intellectual circle of neighboring low-rent apartment tenants in their mid-20′s are still being smoothed out similar to air-bubbles under a sticker.
One neighbor, who wished to remain anonymous, said the man is by this point so unfamiliar with dignity that he may never be loved again, and is most certainly not currently respected by his peers, colleagues, or even the American Gladiator his ex-wife married shortly following their divorce.
In other news, Elf Wax reporter Stan Crumb was arrested outside the Elf Wax office building for harassment and attempted kidnapping following an unscheduled, unrelated, and mostly unwanted interview with Mr. Chomsky about quote, “the 9/11 conspiracy, man.”
In a recent E.W. Times poll, 45% of Americans aged 18 and over admitted they believed they were suffering symptoms of Swine Flu H1N1 Virus. With a total of fifty-seven confirmed cases and two deaths, hospitals are being swamped by millions each day with flu-like symptoms whom mostly consider themselves the walking dead. “The strange thing is,” Dr Angstrom H. Troubador reports, “Almost all of these people are perfectly healthy, except for the psychological illness that has programmed itself into their brain through evening news.”
Hospitals have begun refusing admittance to any persons claiming to have Swine Flu or even just flu-like symptoms in some instances. “If they even mention the word Swine in my hospital, they’re out,” Dr. Troubador admits. “I used to tell these people to take a break from their televisions, but that seemed to anger them more than anything.” Cultural heresy aside, television has spread a much more dangerous virus than the H1N1.
Hospital waiting rooms nationwide are completely filled with healthy people, leaving no doubt that some of them will contract Swine Flu simply by waiting to get help they don’t need. In the long term, Dr. Troubador expects hospitals to continue closing their doors to Swine Flu patients, even if the pandemic actually begins to spread. “You can’t fool us doctors like you have so easily been fooled yourselves. We won’t EVER treat anyone claiming to have H1N1 virus!”
Jay Kenny, A Roanoke man, sat in his favorite comfortable chair Thursday, thinking the world would just pass him by as it has done for the last five years. That is, until a book deal and a Sports Illustrated contract fell into his lap from the ventilation system overhead.
American author Jay Kenny making headway toward goals
“I was just staring out the window thinking, ‘Gosh, the world sure does change as fast as the second hand counts a minute nowadays.’ But I remember noticing that my back lawn and the bushes and trees always look the same,” said Mr. Kenny, retail employee.
Jay went on to express his renewed attitude toward life, and lack of certainty around what he will do next. “Now that I can be the writer I always dreamed of bein’, I just don’t know what I’ll write about! Sports? Politics? Social trends, the government? War and peace; it’s all out there for me,” he said with a grin.
Jay Kenny said he’d already grown accustomed to day-to-day life without ambition. “Paper hits the door every mornin’. The songbird sings my favorite tunes,” he said. He went on to describe how he’d come to delude himself into believing a life without any distinction whatsoever does not evacuate the happiness from his soul, but in fact brings him a form of satisfaction. “Things here are just how I want them to be. Pretty much all the time. Grass stays cut. Neighbors are friendly. Known them about fifteen years now. What little money I get pays the gas bill, heating, lights, health insurance, life insurance, car insurance, homeowner’s insurance, water. With what’s left I buy food. Sometimes I have enough left and I’ll even buy myself a big old steak dinner. Me and Gus,” he said, pointing to his dog. “I guess I might just write about that.”
Mr. Kenny said he would not investigate the duct-work of his home, telling reporters the weight of the curiosity around what caused his dreams to come true by simply neglecting to actively pursue them can be remedied with a good Marlboro cigarette and a shot of whiskey. “I don’t like to ask no questions,” he said. “Something told me I’d be a big novelist one day and people would want to know what I’ve got to say about things. I just believed in myself. And that’s probably how I was able to keep my routine of television, forty hours at Staples, and shopping at Kroger. I knew it’d all pay off eventually.” And it did.