(Image courtesy of the CHRONICLE.SU’s very own Media Mogul)
If you fill out and send in this form, you can remove you or your ward’s name from a list of prospective American military recruits. Its completion moves a name into a “suppression file” in the Department of Defense’s Joint Advertising and Marketing Research & Studies. This makes it much harder for military recruiters to reach out to a prospective recruit whose contact information they may have acquired in various ways. Federal law actually requires that they have as much access to high school students as any other prospective employer.
Sesame Street has become loved and reviled for its socially-conscious programming; in one famous example from 1983, after an actor on the show died, Sesame Street took the chance to impart to very young children the temporal nature of human existence by marking his character’s death on the show. The forward-thinking episode invited some degree of opposition because even adults themselves continue to find death very uncomfortable or even impossible to psychologically confront.
Premiering tonight on PBS at 8 p.m. EDT is a program, “When Families Grieve,” that features four families, two of which features fathers from the American military. (One of the soldiers killed himself. The other died in a helicopter crash in Iraq.) It’s important to note that the publicly-subsidized program has made a point of representing the suffering of military-serving families under the umbrella of a discussion of, as a whole, grief, a topic universal to the human experience. The program — sponsored by defense contractors BAE Systems, the Lockheed Martin Corporation, Oshkosh Defense — explores the concept of loss from a entirely nationalistic perspective.
Tonight’s special discusses military families’ suffering through the prism of the death of famed puppet character Elmo’s uncle. At a press conference at the Pentagon yesterday morning, Deputy Defense Secretary William Lynn and Joint Chiefs of Staff Chair Admiral Michael Mullen greeted Jesse, the grieving daughter, along with her cousin Elmo.
Said Deputy Defense Secretary Lynn, “This [episode] deals with the even more difficult challenge [than a previous episode discussing servicemembers coming home injured] of confronting death and loss. It’s an essential part of the human experience, but talking about death is a very difficult thing.”
Said Gary Knell, president and CEO of Sesame Street Workshop, “This project, we hope, will help us to bridge the gaps that might exist between military kids, children within the general public. Regardless of the situation experienced, millions of kids have to endure the most emotionally challenging experience in their lives.”
In front of a studio audience and broadcast on Pentagon Live, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the deputy Defense secretary shared a few tender moments with the two puppets.
Said a young puppet, Rosita, whose father apparently did not die fighting the unseen enemy, “You know what? We love military families, our friends and we want to show them how much we care about all of you. And you know what? We care a lot. And we want to help in any way we can.”
Explained Elmo precociously, “Well, Elmo and Jesse are cousins. Elmo’s daddy and Jesse’s daddy were brothers.”
“That’s right. But my dad died last year.”
Looking on with utmost affection, Admiral Mullen replies to her, “We know that, Jesse. And we also know that you’re here to share that experience, and we very much appreciate you doing that. That will make a big difference for military children who have experienced that as well, as well as other children in America.”
This nationalization of the death experience to children is truly the next step in military propaganda. If it was groundbreaking to simply feature one prominent character’s death in an episode, this is even more revolutionary. Through the use of beautiful, talented celebrities (such as John Mayer and Queen Latifah), PBS will help prevent military families’ grieving experiences from becoming in any way insulated from the (usually) natural death causes which other parents must face. Encouraging children to understand death as a distinctly American experience from their earliest conscious moments tacitly ensures that later on in life that they imagine that degree of suffering as a construct somehow remote from the foreigner’s perspective. This is absolutely critical to meeting recruitment goals, and further normalizing the military lifestyle.
“When Families Grive” will ensure that sympathy for human beings suffering the loss of a loved one is focused as exclusively as possible on Americans. And Americans only.
Richmond, Va.–”Protesters” gathered behind the VCU Student Commons last week where they rallied around their anti-hate values.
Automatically failing to realize being anti-anything is a form of hate in itself, students and activists, mostly lesbians, unquestioningly stood around holding signs carrying messages of peace, or of hatred for anti-loving attitudes.
The demonstration was staged as a counter-protest to the Westboro Baptist Church picket in front of the Holocaust Museum, where cold Richmonders apathetically gazed on in bewilderment at how religious fanatics are still more educated on current events than themselves.
“Where are the Westboro Baptists?” our reporter asked a bystander shortly after arriving at the event, which was heavily publicized on the social fuckworking site Facebook.
“Oh, they aren’t here. They were at the Holocaust Museum earlier today around twelve,” replied the hate-hating lesbian whose sign read “I SAW FRED PHELPS NAKED AND NOW I’M A LESBIAN.”
That’s right. Nobody saw each other, in spite of the fact one group gathered as a counter-protest to the other. You can’t make this up. Let’s consult a map.
Fortunately the police maintained control of the situation
WBC were at the Holocaust Museum, denying the Holocaust on behalf of Iranian Dictator Ahmedinejad. It sounded like a good spot to rally, so why didn’t any counter-protesters with signs show up there instead of between school buildings where nobody could see them?
“I believe the museum asked people not to bring signs and keep that sort of thing on the downlow,” said Midlothian resident Niki S. who did not attend the counter-protest because “it sounded lame.”
And it was. There were choirs preaching to choirs, singing the gospel of their anti-hate agenda.
“I am proud to see so many of you come out today. Your unity restores my faith in people, even though, uh, you have shown up where there is no specific concept to get behind, you have all still come together. And that so many of you showed up tells me something.” -male speaker who bravely attempted to intellectually justify ambiguities of the peace protest
Most everyone stood in a semi-circle around a group of people holding signs with one word per person that read “VCU STANDS TOGETHER AGAINST HATE”, holding their signs up pointed at each other, apparently protesting themselves.
Soviet-Russia was well-represented. Enthusiastic Communists held a flag over the banner facing toward the podium. They said it represents freedom. Our reporter agreed.
This event was actually so bad we took equally bad video footage so you could believe it for yourselves. We’ll post it as soon as it’s ready.
Freedom ain't free. It's regulated and redistributed by the government first.
Some girl got on the microphone and said, “You do not have to be a rug for someone to walk on with their big, muddy, hate-filled boots,” and that was the last thing Elf Wax could stick around to report. Not because it was intolerably stupid, which it most certainly was, but because we were illegally-parked and the meter-maids have a personal vendetta to kill our reporters slowly with towing fees and child molestation charges.
[Editor's note: he was acquitted of those charges.]
In conclusion, VCU’s silly bring-a-crazy-sign-day is an insult to all forms of protest and serves only to de-legitimize true protest when people who really stand up for what they believe in aren’t taken seriously, diluting the effects of actual protesting around real problems like war, genocide, and corporate takeovers.
Do you people even realize what you did? You made stupid signs and stood around other people who made stupid signs and fucking pretended to protest. Some of you wore iPods. This is what people associate with protest now – masturbatory, self-serving meandering that gets literally nothing done. It literally brings tears to my eyes to recall the memories of how you “protested” on that day. Oh Lord you people are terrible. Get fucked.
Do you want to stage a protest? Get a can of gasoline, make an effigy of members of your local government – or who cares, Obama – and get to work. Don’t let the word ‘work’ scare you dirty anarchohippies, because you will gather enough supporters by simply copy-pasting Elf Wax onto posterboard and ranting it continuously over a burning Dennis Kucinich doll. This kind of work does itself, gets results, and gets you fucking laid, bitch.
Once you have been forced off the grid by your legal obligations to the uprising, you will find support in Lebal Drocer’s password-protected, hyper-encrypted closed local networks in key underground areas that will be emailed to you by the [email protected] listserv when the time is right.
So protest is ruined. However, a molotov-cocktail through the back windshield of a squad car has always sent a stronger message than protest songs, anyway. Why’d we ever stop that?
This is Elf Wax Times signing off, requesting violent revolution.
If you want the change you had in mind while voting for Obama, you’re going to have to organize yourselves and take it by force – Elf Wax style. Then, maybe one day the pawns might become the knights, and we will ride together, storm the white house gates, the corporate high-rises, closed-off hotels, and Silicon Valley boutiques, and our new order will force the king to cook for us and the queen will serve as the town’s newest whore, and our skin will become greasy and tight, our souls shut off by the newfound power vested in our elected military leaders by the gun and hand grenades; until we become uglier than the pigs we overthrew; coups-d’etats will occur on a near-weekly basis heralding the collapse of Western Civilization once and for all under the suffocating forces of newly-required anarchosocialism that just won’t seem to work no matter who we kill. So go to the grocery store and don’t forget Hot Pockets…and posterboard.
Oh hi! Didn’t see you there. It’s difficult to see anything beyond The Elf Wax Times’ blinding white flurry of success, but we’ve got a finger on the pulse, and we hear you asking yourselves:
How can I get more people to read my [worthless] blog?
It’s a two-step process.
- Don’t be such a fucking douchebag. Seriously.
- And don’t start a blog.
A long time ago, I was sitting online, my ass was numb, I was talking to my friend and I felt like I needed to break the uncomfortable silence, so I said “fuck people with blogs” to which my friend responded, “Nobody cares what they have to say.”
“Of course not,” I said. “That’s why they start blogs.”
And that’s the kind of fucking genius thought-dissemination that absorbs your blog’s readership before their sunken eyes even leave The Elf Wax Times: your puss-blog about how you don’t get any puss because you’re a giant, throbbing, cheese-flushing pussy is simply not entertaining, and everybody knows it already. Some blogs are so bad that it boosts our readership when people come here in need of healing.
- Maybe it’s because you don’t have any insights beyond what simpletons uncover within an episode of Touched by an Angel.
- Maybe you really don’t get any pussy and you try to post about it on the internet, but your half-assed approach to writing fails to capture even the wildest sexual imagination of, say, a pubescent child, who, possibly having never seen the internet before, couldn’t even pay twenty-five seconds of attention to your sex-laden drivel if it were printed off and handed to him to read as an alternative to restriction ad infinitum. In fact, for most folks, reading your blog is probably the equivalent to tasting some cold, stale piss.
But we’re talking about children here. All children are retarded, so they’re a bad example and I should not have used them; if for no other reason than people hate to be reminded of children. Check back next year for an apology.
Conversationally, The Elf Wax Times reporters, staff writers, editors, and our glorious masters are intellectually potent, and should we have a moment in our busy day of cooking up and serving the truth, we need to read thought-inspiring equivalencies of miniature Cat’s Cradles, should we get the chance to read anything at all (usually we have our assistants read to us as we masturbate to rare, uncensored Asian pornography).
So, to us, your Tucker Max attempt at a blog leaves a taste in the mouth of cold piss, too. That is to say, we see through your attempts to piss in our mouths from behind your dual-core PC and you fail to even keep it warm, much less hit your target, whatever that may be. Nobody knows what you’re trying to accomplish. You’re worthless and you suck.
Let’s briefly drop the pissing metaphor for a moment to talk more about why people hate blogs.
I hate blogs because they fail to properly inform. The Elf Wax Times takes an ambivalent stance on blogging, because it is not officially recognized as a medium of any form. A blog is simply something you accidentally click on Google because it contains the most keywords in the most relevant order contained in your search. Maybe you host a copyrighted picture nobody else has, and so people click it, save it, and never see your site again. In all likelihood, if you think people are visiting your blog because your “statistics say so,” look closer and you’ll see that accidental clicks account for at least 99% of your “readership,” and the only reason copyright lawyers have not yet contacted you is because no human is actually looking at your “site.” [Editor's Note: blogs are not real websites.]
Nobody is looking at your perspective on the world. Nobody is sharing in your unique, subjective experience of reality in the abstract. Nobody is taking the journey as your narrative prose degrades into broken poetry with faulty rhyme scheme followed by ellipses and a question mark. Nobody feels the way you do, because your mechanism for emotion is so completely distorted that you actually believe people are reading your fucking blog. Normal people are not as self-important as blog “authors.” [Editor's Note: blogs are not authored by anyone because authors write for a living, and bloggers do not.] Nobody will ever identify with a blogger.
Now, I know I’m just farting into the wind here, so we’re going to have to break it down another level.
You write a blog, you have one. You maintain one, as you put on your resumé or MySpace page. No cute girls are reading it. Maybe there are two people who make comments on your posts from time to time, under the unspoken arrangement that you reciprocate. One’s a fat chick, the other’s your online friend who once agreed over AIM that the government sucks. You put a lot of time into your CSS code, your margins are perfect, the padding fucking fits and you feel good because you’ve got shit all figured out, so this doesn’t apply to you – right? Oh boy. How glad I am not to be you. How thankful I am not to be so misled, so delusional, so willing to lie to myself as you; so wrong as you are.
I’m talking to you, blogger. Blogosphere. The bastion of truth–shit, I mean, self-importance. Your thoughts are impure, your opinions invalid, broadly unsubstantiated by anything other than your George W. Bush “gut feeling” fueled by the insights of Neil Cavuto, or name-a-CNN-pundit.com.
Your vision is filtered through orange glasses or red, depending on where we’re at on the Terror Alert scale. At best, you’re the unseen, unheard afterthought of a political mechanism – lost to all keepers of history but your own web browser. At worst, you serve the political machine as they reference your voice among millions in the blogosphere, speaking for you, making determinations about you, without reading you, or knowing you, or seeing you, or even consciously being aware that someone like you might actually exist.
And we here at The Elf Wax Times for once share their anti-sentiment. So without further ado, fuck you and your little blog, too.
So we didn’t reach out to anybody, exactly. But it did keep me from moving in with a lesbian. You see, I was going to move in with my girlfriend. She’s not the lesbian. Just keep reading you lazy fuck, you’ll get the story. We don’t dumb it down, you’ll have to cope, sound it out, we’ll get through this together. Anyway, things “didn’t work out” so I had to put an advert out on the most hilarious website in the Universe, craigslist. Man, I don’t even know where to begin about that website. God it’s greater than The Beatles. Anyway, I found this lesbian who was looking for a place to live. Real naive girl who didn’t have her shit together but knew she wanted to move out of mommy’s house. So, being desperate to move into this sweet, overpriced ghetto apartment as soon as possible, I told her we’d sign the lease together the following day if she liked the apartment. She did like it, and we agreed that it would be pretty cool.
In my craigslist ad, I indicated that I’m an editor for The Glorious and Critically-Acclaimed Elf Wax Times.
Where I live, you can’t find peace on the back porch, because some low-life have-not bum will hit you up for a “cig” or failing that, the beer out of your hand. Come test it out if you want. You’ll say, “Hey Elf Wax was right, that fucking loser can’t afford his own cigarettes, yet somehow he’s addicted to them.” Actually don’t come over. I’m sitting in my underwear playing PS3 online and I don’t want shit to do with you unless you are good at Pixel Junk Monsters and have weed. And in this editor’s experience, that pretty much means no one’s coming over.
Anyway, this lesbian and her dyke mommy fired up the old cable modem and took a peek at what her future roommate has been doing with his livelihood. And boy were they amused, or some other emotional contradistinction of a similar degree. Here’s the jist of the half-hour phone call I received at 9 o’clock the same night we looked at the place together:
“Heroin junkheads anonymous. Smack your addiction. How may I help you?”
“Yeah what’s up?”
“James, we need to talk.”
Hot damn, I thought. What’s this girl trying to do? Usually only Lauren’s allowed to call me saying that. “Sure, what is it?” I asked, knowing it would not be good.
“This website,” she began. Jesus Christ, it was just like Weenus, Incorporated and high school. How familiar with this situation I am… “Do you write all the stuff on here?”
“Yeah. You must really like it to want to call me and talk about it. But that’s OK, I know it’s good.”
“Well, my mom and I were looking at it and it’s starting to creep me out.”
“Creep you out? Was there something on there that bothered you?”
“Well, the last three stories. And basically everything by Media Mogul. Is that you?”
“Ah, well yeah sorta. You see, ‘we all’ write under that name. I have five writers, every one of them posting under it. Only the regulars get their own pseudonym.” I’m starting to cover my ass but I can tell it’s already too late. I might even have to kill her.
It goes on like this for the next 20 minutes. She tells me about her ideology and how it affects her to the core. “I’m a lesbian, and a lot of the stuff you say. Like your opinions. Like, I don’t know if I’m gonna have to put a padlock on my bedroom door, ya know?” (those doors are hollow honey, a padlock won’t do you any good, I thought) “Am I gonna have to look over my shoulder all the time? Sleep with my eyes open?”
I’m laughing quietly to myself at this point. I even mute the phone to tell the others around me what I am hearing, as well as relaying our conversation via gmail chat to some of the other writers online. It was just so unbelievably funny, that I had to make sure others could remember it as it happened, or else it’d be forever denied as some fabrication or a future embellishment of an early point in the Grand Legend of The Elf Wax Times. This website has cost me a roommate.
The first casualty of war between The Elf Wax Times and the world was not a job, or a friend, or a girlfriend, or my car, or a possession charge – but a dyke roommate. No loss, she had bad teeth and an ugly haircut. Oh, and her attitude was just deplorable, not to mention embarrassing.
She looked nothing like this
“There’s a lot of penis love, and woman hating. And I understand that – boys will be boys.” Yep. And stupid judgmental, hypocrite lesbians will be stupid hypocritical lesbians. This is a girl who expressed to me “We shouldn’t have police. That’s just my opinion. That’s why I want a shotgun. The police are pointless. Fuck the government. We’ll take care of ourselves.” I remember thinking to myself, hey a lesbian I can agree with.” And in all fairness, it stands to reason that a person who harbors such a strong opinion toward the government and humanity might not necessarily love the Elf Wax Times, but see that there’s room enough for this line of thinking, questioning, enough to where any reasonable man would expect the same kind of acceptance for his beliefs equal to that which he gracefully engages, right? Wrong. Not with judgmental hypocrite lesbians. In fact, once we got to talking about The Times, I said, “Yeah I remember you talking ‘down with the government.’ You ever think about writing? We need writers.”
“Yeah, poetry,” was her response. The tone of her voice changed to cautious optimism.
I said, “Oh, well nevermind. We need real writers.”
And that was pretty much that. She called me the next morning waking me up with some excuse about insurance. “If I move out of my mother’s place, I lose my insurance, and that’s like $1,400 and I just can’t afford to move out now, I guess.” I thought, yeah whatever, but if that really is the case…then what we’ve got is not only a judgmental homosexual hypocrite, but a stupid judgmental homosexual hypocrite – almost reduntant in theory, but certainly not in practice. Way to plan ahead, stupid bitch. Or way to tell a transparent lie because you’re too spineless to stand behind some stupid shit you said. Either way, good fucking riddance.
And that’s about all there is to say about the worthless cunt from two weeks ago. Except that yeah, we here at The Elf Wax Times still would’ve hit it.
And hey, this isn’t to say we hate women, or even gays or gay women. In fact, lesbian porn is alright. I have lesbian friends that I wouldn’t want to see in a lesbian porno, but then again, they’re probably not real lesbians. Gay friends, too, people I would do anything for. Well, anything but that. Plus, you’ll never have a gay guy get in your face and say, “Hey Bubba, I think Christian’s the only way to be and I’ll take you out back and kick yer fuckin’ ass if ya say it ain’t again.” You’ll never meet a gay guy who threatens your alpha male status. Likewise, you’ll never meet a gay guy who steals your girlfriend, unless they’re going shopping – and if that happens, bring him over for dinner at least once a week to ensure a long and prosperous relationship with your happy girlfriend who no longer makes you shop with her. You’ll also never accuse a woman of “shopping around with other men.” All in all, leg-shavers aren’t too bad, either. But mostly they are.
On that note, I would like to change the subject. The Rolling Stones stole a beat from Bo Diddly. But the law doesn’t protect drumbeats from copyright infringements. Go figure.
Moving on, I’d like to completely change the subject again using this beautiful transition that I call a period following a sentence. You like it because I tell you to like it. You’re a coward and too afraid to formulate your own opinion, so I’m going to tell you what to think here in a minute. Just sit tight. I learned this from Rush Limbaugh.
Alright, I’ve got myself another beer and I’m one step closer to enlightenment. Or blacking out. One or the two, they’re both the same in the cold, dark end, following a well-timed nuclear holocaust. Now it’s time to molest your little eyes with the truth, my babies. Prepare yourselves for a pointed statement.
Noam Chomsky said that the reason he is not on these late-night TV talk shows can be summarized by one word: concision, something he reportedly lacks. And it’s a judgment he agrees with because, you see, politics and economics and social structure are complex issues that require thoughtful, lengthy dialog, sometimes in the form of exchanged monologue. TV News and Talking Head Shows require their guests to answer a question or refute a claim in two sentences or less. It can’t take more than 30 seconds. The whole idea must be discussed between commercial breaks. Given this, actual intellectual discussion is abandoned, retarding any true progression of American ideology and standing in the way of enlightening discussion of important issues such as the military-industrial complex, the space program, the failures of mainstream media, or the government’s role in health care, if any. This means Noam Chomsky simply won’t be heard, in spite of the fact that he is the most reasonable, thoughtful man you’ll ever hear talking about modern issues that affect us all. His ideas may lack “concision”, but make up for it by the fact that after listening to him, you are enlightened and put at ease; put at ease not by means of pacification, or pandering, but you find yourself eased by reason, something TV news is lacking, and something we’ve learned to live without. Noam Chomsky is what’s wrong with America, simply by way of the fact that no one gets to hear him argue with anybody.
I’ve heard him called extreme once – in a YouTube comment. He’s been called liberal – by a Conservative. He’s never been called a liar, though, and he’s never lost objectivity.
The real reason he’s not on TV can be summarized by middle school algebra, actually. Meet the Press wants to talk about story A and how it relates to story B. Story A indicates this and that, while story B reflects Story A’s ability to really outline the effects of Story B and A+B=A all over again. Let’s consult Mr. Chomsky on this. Chomsky’s response? “Well A and B are correlated, there’s no denying that, but you will see that if you look back through history and compare it to what’s happening with Story C and even the peasants revolt taking place today in Story D (EDITOR: didn’t see C and D coming, did ya fucker?), you’ll see that Story A and B are just an unfortunate side effect of Story E and what’s going on in relation to Story E. Now you see, Story E is unique because of this and that, and I think if we step back and think—”
“Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Chomsky that’s all we’ve got time for tonight. Thank you for coming on – we’ve still got so much to talk about. I really hope you’ll come back and talk to us again, it’s been a pleasure having you.”
Concision, kids. He lacks it. But did you ask for it? Write NBC, ABC, CBS (leave Fox alone, though, nobody takes them seriously except your stupid neighbor) and tell them you want real discussion on important events. They’ll laugh at you of course, but you can always tell them…just to say you did it, I guess. But let’s face it. Nothing’s going to change. They’ll ride us like whores because we let them fuck us like whores. And when I said write to the networks, I meant mail them letter-bombs with concise slogans like HOPE or CHANGE written on the packaging. They listen to concision, apparently, so maybe this is a good approach. Nothing says concision like a bomb-blast to the face, which is all that TV news is, if you think about it. Domestic terrorism of the mind.
Fuck concision. Concision is something lesbians like. “We’re here! We’re queer!” ….I know. Your point? Oh, you’ve been conditioned not to actually substantiate a claim by nightly news programs such as Heads Talk and Important Issues THAT MATTER MOST TO YOU, YOU FUCKING MCDONALD’S EATING PIECE OF SHIT HYPOCRITE. Yeah, I understand. The concision of your sound-byte argument makes up in attitude what it lacks in substance, right? Did Bill O’Reilly teach you that? Your own worst enemy is often who you parallel, or intersect perpendicularly – or inconsequentially, as you see fit.
‘But hey…I listen to Rage Against the Machine,’ you think. Stand up to the Man, you fucking lazy honkies. I swear to God, we need the fucking bombs of freedom exploding over our skies. They’ll call it terrorism, but that’s how America was fucking born, and how it’ll die. Bombings. Carpet-bombings. Nuclear bombings. Gas-bombing our own students, anti-protests and tanks running over people, just like the streets of China – that’s our future, America. And you welcomed it here when you voted for sleaze bags with big campaign finances in the local primaries – fuckers like Bill Richardson would not have even gotten close to the Presidential Race if it weren’t for you. And he seemed like a good guy when pitted against Mitt Romney and the likes of Gore, Obama and fucking Hillary Quittin. And McCain…what a joke. What a joke the whole god damn thing has been. You told it America, and I guess my reaction is the punchline?
I got an email today. The subject line reads “Fear is Winning.” I agree. It’s from freepress.org. They’re big money grassroots. I met them at the National Conference for Media Reform last year (or was it the year before last?). They’re big money. I used to campaign heavily, personally taxing myself at great lengths to protect net neutrality and that’s how I got wrapped up with them. They do email me every so often, saying, “Net Neutrality under fire again.” I think that issue is their catch-all. People have donated a lot of money to them in the name of Net Neutrality, believing that’s all they do. I don’t know, man. I used to really follow them. I would even go so far as to mail out their auto-letter, where the thing is written for me or I could add what I wanted to it. I don’t know if I trust them anymore, though, given that they make all that money, and I am afraid to just sign a letter they’ve already written for me. So I don’t do that anymore. I write my own letters. Congress used to get letters from me saying, “I would like you to vote on proposition 327 in favor of…” – now they read, “You savage fucking crooks! How could you rape your own countrymen as if we are your back-alley whores and prostitutes. We don’t serve you, you serve us, now get down on your knees and pray to your fake-ass God you don’t have to work for all that money you get.”
I think the message is clearer my way. But I still use freepress’s handy interface to “mail my local congresswhore.”
So after all this, I bid you goodnight, dear readers, and I hope that I wake up tomorrow and find in the AP wire “Extremist exposes himself to a federal judge after reading internet news column.” I’d do it for you, dorks. Now fuck off, I’m drunk.
This article’s about you, and what a miserable piece of shit you are. You know what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the fact that you wake up every day and look at yourself, thinking, “This is it? This is who I am? I’m such a failure,” and then spend the rest of the day trying to live this fact down.
But the truth of the matter is, it ain’t going away – until you fucking die.
You worthless coward! You fiend! You…voter! You…TV-news-absorbant panty gusset! You sour pussy, you, who stands for nothing. Who lives to consume, fails to create, you who can not love, nor be loved. You fucking baby-boomer 60s-generation do-nothing hippies account in large part for what’s wrong with today’s society. Fuck the Man, right? By doing what exactly?
I’m sorry for your children, and for the state of modern politics, and for the Corporate States of America, and for the Police State, and for the little rabbits and the squirrels, and that rare breed of tundra cat that is almost extinct – but mostly – I’m just sorry I was born into the backed-up sewer that you call “the economy.” This shit that we circulate around calling money is to the economy what I jerk off and stain the sheets with is to my journalism professor. Worthless when it came, mostly problematic if I were to even attempt to do something with it, god damn if I don’t just want to forget about it.
Fuck this “human condition” (more like decondition) – fuck the status quo – fuck your family (stop having kids until we can straighten shit out PLEASE FOR THE FUCKING LOVE OF THE VIRGIN MARY’S DECENCY) – fuck your plans, because you won’t have the means to complete them – fuck it all. Things are so fucked up now that the economy can’t actually balance itself out anymore without jettisoning NASA. We aren’t Communists – we can’t just redistribute our wealth and reset everything to “ideal.” It doesn’t work that way (it would be very unfair to take away all that these 24-year-old CEOs have WORKED SO HARD for just so the rest of the population can have a decent shot at [par] quality of life). You see, it’s settling down right now, but the over-inflationary dynamic of our financial schematic, combined with the elite top .01% of the population experiencing a 600% increase in income is creating another bubble that will balloon up and pop in another five or ten years. And it’s not gonna fix itself.
So that’s it. Make a five-year-plan; but you’d better build it around unfucking yourself after ten years.
Or start bombing federal buildings.
The jackals who closed in on my imagination are not dead yet. In fact, they’re still very alive. The Soft Parade has now begun. Listen to the engines hum. Cobra on my left, Leopard on my right.
Just the hunter of the green vest. Who has wrestled before, with lions in the night – out of sight, the lights are getting brighter. The beauty in your eyes, it fails to see me for who I truly was, and who I truly am – what I’ll arise as, from the ashes, like the great pheonix when you are the one who I rue on your deathbed, you’re forgotten. I fucking hate you. Hershenrider. Hicks. Suhr. VCU. “Teachers” who taught me to hate myself. You’ll rot in hell when I am the media king you fucks feared me to be. When I am the one who made sure the world knew you are sick, suburbanite fucks with slutty daughters who would rather fuck me than respect you. Who would rather be remembered for their passion than obedience.
Yeah, you fucking losers with your 7 am jobs and your 9 o’clock habits of fucking wives that pity you. The crawling kingsnake, he crawls in each of you, but mostly he crawled under your skin and he fucking won, you sad motherfuckers, because he is free, and you are not. I am free, like I said, but not cheap. I win, motherfucker, and I take the winnings where I walk. You will not survive the Revolution. Neither will I. – It’s not ours, it’s Nature’s and when you resist her, you suffer the greatest. Succumb and all is right. All is peace. Can you find your soft asylum? When the Man is at the door?
There’s still a few animals left out in the yard, but it’s getting harder.
Count your sheep, you flock. Number your days, count your blessings, name your daughters Rebecca and Megan and I will take them from you anyway. You are losers. Fucking sit-at-home-mothers and intellectual want-to-be fathers. I am the new Kurt Vonnegut. I am the New Psycho. I am the motherfucker you wish you were. I have the modernity under my old-fashioned raisings and I will rape your state of mind with a smile on my face and a grimace in my chest. I am the golden king. I am the one you wish you could be. I am the writer. I am the solace. I am the Peace. I am War. I am everything you wish you could be, and so much more.
I am every bit of inner dialogue that is missing from your life. I am every bit of intelligence you lack. I am the motherfucking awareness in the back of your mind that you once shunned in favor of blissful ignorance. And I will make you fucking pay. I despise the whole god damn lot of you and there’s not a god damn person on the face of this earth who can strip THAT from me. Are you ready for pain you fucking losers? I hope so. Because pain is your new definition of success. Pain and loss will replace your happiness in the year 2009 and 2010, especially.
For, you see, I am the first coming, forget the second, of knowledge and evolution in practice. I am the voice in your head that asks the questions in silence – that says what you are thinking – that begs the question. But I don’t work for you. No, you’re neither my master nor my enemy. Neutral. Painless. Numb. Worthless. To me, you, my dear readers, are the trash, the scum of society to whom I owe nothing. Not a thousand dollars – not a thousand apologies – but half a dozen fuck-yous and that covers it. Covers the lot of you. I hate you. I hate what you stand for. I hate how you live and the philosophy by which you live. Regardless.
I am the one whose words you have come here to read. “I am the one, who controls the Sun.”
I am your God. Read my words. They will not be re-printed. Only followed.
We’re starting something new now. We don’t follow the rules anymore. We design them.
I’m the crawling Kingsnake, and I rule my den.
I am coming to rule yours, too. When I change the way you habituate yourselves. I will fuck you and hurt you. I will not let go. I will not stop until your system is destroyed enough to resemble mine. I will kill you.
You sick fucks. Stop coming here. Elf Wax Times doesn’t need you.
You dress up your daughters like little Tijuanan whores. Let them wear makeup. Tiny shorts. They’re twelve years old for god’s sake. Grow a pair and be a dad, you disgusting fuck, and stop pimping out your child. She doesn’t need to lose her virginity before she’s 13. Or did you already take it, because you’re just that fucked up?
Maybe in a way you did, because you didn’t give her any rules, any love, any direction, or any discipline or motivation to be anything besides fucked, because you yourself lack the cognisant ability to provide even a small child with the stability and love necessary to keep her from going to bed with the first guy who promises to make her a woman, because you couldn’t take care of her as a little girl.
Your little girl wants to grow up faster than she can ditch My Littlest Pony for Hannah Montana for a pregnancy test. And it’s all your fault, Dad. Instead of pissing in her panties and sniffing them at 4 AM, maybe you could have been telling her how to keep them on. Or keep her hymen, or your respect. But instead you just jerk off to internet porn and fantasize about fucking her little friends and you’re a bit too rough as you tuck her in at night. And you don’t read her one god damn story about a bitch running for president, or inventing laser technology.
You make me fucking sick. You sick fucks. I know what you’re thinking. “Who is this prick to call it like he sees it?” I’m me. And you’re worthless parent number 3271407498357.
You know the score. I shouldn’t have to be the referee, but here I am. Telling you that I see you walking right behind your slutty tween daughter when you come in to where I work every week. And each time I ask myself, who bought her the clothes? Who never slapped her to the floor and said, “Don’t be a little slut Janie!” Who never thought twice about the way the crumbs hit the table as he ate his thousandth meal in front of an awkward table of people he calls family?
Your kids are your fucking pets. So why don’t you lock them in a dark basement for 24 hours and let them know that you’re in fucking charge, that you buy their clothes, and that you think Miley Cyrus, that little slut that Billy Ray Cyrus pimps out to the cameras, is a whore who sucks off Mickey Mouse and sells sex to minors with lipstick, blush, and a show that is neither funny nor intelligent?
Oh, I will tell you why. Because your wife knows you actually think about fucking your daughter when you’re huffing away on top of her, stinking of cigarettes and panting your rotten booze-breath down her resistant nostrils, just trying to close your eyes and pretend you aren’t really fucking a fat-ass soccer man. Because she knows you didn’t get that promotion. Because your boss knows you’re a creep. Because your boss has seen your daughter and also secretly jerks it while thinking about fucking her, too, because you dress her up like a little Disnified Harlot servicing the Magic Kingdom. “Rent the ‘Tiniest Princess,’ honey. We love that one, don’t we?” But mainly because you are a crummy parent, and you’ve failed your child, if not yourself.
The only time you spend with your warped daughter she doesn’t even know about, because it all takes place in your delusional mind via rationalization for your shortcomings as a pseudo-parent.
You’re a sick fuck who lets her dress the way all the boys want her to dress, and you would rather believe she’s going to a sleepover at little Suzy’s and staying there instead of actually facing the reality in the back of your mind in which she’s at the park losing her virginity to a nineteen-year-old with a motorcycle on the swingset you never pushed her on.
Get your shit straight, American Dads. Or The Elf Wax Times will start phoning your homes. We have your information – your phone numbers, addresses, social security numbers. Driver’s licenses, credit cards. We have the means, we have the motive. We have the sense of self-righteousness that sets us apart from regular human beings, that makes us better than you. And we aren’t afraid to use it. Now close your fucking browser, delete your cookies, erase your history, and forget you read this. We don’t want you reading another page of this shit because you aren’t fucking good enough, motherfucker. Eat shit and die. I hate you. We hate you. We hate your family. We hate your friends. We hate the house you live in and the Mercedes you drive – you fucking Nazi. We hate the valley you poison. We hate the tradition you spread, of ignorance and television, and of slutty daughters and of forged integrity and false systems of values and morals and definitions of what is right and wrong. We hate you.
Snakes are amazing creatures. They live on every continent except for Antarctica, where it is much too cold for snakes to survive. They are so adept at surviving, that some can reproduce without a member of the opposite sex. The Brahminy blind snakes are all females. When mature, they lay fertile eggs, and the young are clones of the mother.
A snake sneaks stealthily through the grass
One of the most interesting snakes to me is the king cobra. The king cobra is the largest venomous snake in the world, reaching lengths of more than 18 feet and weighing up to 50 pounds. The king cobra dines exclusively on other snakes. When it can’t find other snakes to eat, it will dine on other available prey, like small rodents. Although it dines on other snakes, and the occasional rodent, the venom of the king cobra is strong enough to kill an elephant.
The king cobra has a reputation as man killer, but in reality, the king cobra avoids humans. When confronted by man, or other large creatures, they will try to flee. If they are cornered, they will feign death by flipping on to their back, opening their mouths, allowing their tongues to roll out, and emptying a foul smelling substance from their anal glands, making them highly unappetizing to any potential predator. That’s right……in addition to carrying around toxic venom, they have a supply of putrid shit which they can dispense at will. This “man killer” will only strike at humans as a last resort.
A couple of interesting things they have in common with all other snakes are the fact that they are completely deaf, lacking any form of external ear. All snakes are incapable of learning, because they lack the enlarged Cerebral Hemispheres, which is the part of the brain controls learning and thought.
Now, when I read that snakes are incapable of learning, I couldn’t help but think about the trouser snake. Which brings me to the issue I wanted to talk about to begin with.
Like every man besides Calvin Hart, I have a penis that I frequently use for coitus. Coitus is sexual intercourse for those of you not familiar with the term. Sexual intercourse is great fun, for those of you not familiar with the act.
Now, this aforementioned penis of mine has gotten me into more trouble than I can explain in this article. Each and every time it gets me into trouble, I swear that I will never let it do that again. But it inevitably does. I can only conclude that the trouser snake, like all other snakes, is incapable of learning.
I fooled around with my best friend’s wife one time. I shouldn’t have done that. I know it was wrong, but I did it anyway. That cost me my best friend, and my girlfriend, when she found out. I don’t know why I did it. I just did.
I swore I would never do anything like that again.
My friend and I made amends after some time. He eventually got back together with his wife. And I screwed her again.
Just like its scaly brethren, the trouser snake is incapable of learning.
One thing I have learned through the trials and tribulations brought on by the trouser snake, is that the trouble it causes is expensive. This brings me to the most dangerous kind of snake in the world…… the snake in the grass.
I had coitus with a stranger one time, and it is now costing me over $1100 a month. The “justice” system determined that this woman, who slept with a complete stranger one time in a hotel bar and got pregnant, is entitled to more than a grand a month for her noble accomplishment. Now, I could understand a couple hundred dollars a month, but a grand a month? How does a kid need a grand a month to go to elementary school? This woman simply hit the lottery. Fucking snake in the grass bitch!
The American Indians used to share a story about snakes whenever their fellow man needed solace. It goes like this: an old woman finds an injured snake and nurses it back to health. For weeks upon months upon years she tends to this snake until it is OK again. And then one day it bites her. “Snake,” she says, “I saved your life. Why did you bite me?” To which the snake responds, “Look bitch, you knew I was a snake.”
Now perhaps the judge, jury, prosecuting attorney, social worker and even the butch cop who showed up at my house, all being women, had it out for me, deep down, secretly, wanting no one to know, but just to nail me hard. That would be an unnatural pack-like behavior for snakes to temporarily adopt, but scientists will tell you that’s not unheard of in Nature. Or maybe they just understood the ways of a snake.
Yes……out of all the snakes in the world, the king cobra is the most interesting, the trouser snake is the most troublesome, and the snake in the grass is the most dangerous.
The gubment took my pension, and other short stories
Has the gubment taken your pension? Is the man keeping you down? Look no further than the government to get you back on your feet.
Yes sir, there’s nothing like a quick pick-me-up from Uncle Sam for when the government gets you down.
Are you stuck in the same old routine of DUI charges and riding your bicycle through the ghetto? Say goodbye to your sore, sweaty ass that gets oh-so-tender from that unloving bike seat, and say hello to driving without a license!
Your rebellion will not go unnoticed. When the poe leece attempt to pull you over, you’ll be ready with a big middle-finger displayed prominently through your driver’s side window as you fail to submit to the unyielding authority of “the law.” [more like the "hell naw" am I right?]
They will be dumbfounded by your brazen display of courage under fire – literally – when your own determination shields you from the resulting hail of gunfire. Like Superman in the intro to that show that wasn’t titled “Superman” for whatever fucking reason, you will stand tall, deflecting their ammunition and teargas bombs defiantly, proudly, staring off over the horizon, like Barack Obama would do, as you wonder whether you’ll eat burgers or steaks for dinner tonight.
Yes, you too can live above the law without bearing the inconvenience of living “below radar” using a proper sense of self-entitlement and belligerence, adding just a pinch of tenacity punctuated by your complete ignorance.
“Land of the free? Whoever told you that is your enemy.”
Fuck the police!
This has been a message from your local Roanoke County Law Overenforcement Agency. Stay in school. Or drop out. We make money off you either way.
Now back to your regularly scheduled Elf Wax Update:
I can hear ‘em talking to me. I swear to God that motherfucking satellite dish won’t quieten down.
They’re sending orders for Lee Iacocca. Tony Danza. Doctor Zhivago. It’s an uprising. Lee Iacocca, to save GM from a second bankruptcy, is redesigning Hitler’s limousine, adding soundproof windows and updating it with modern XM Satellite Radio. “SIRIUS is optional for you Howard Stern fans.”
Danza will drive, and the Doc – well, the Doc is there in case things get too Harry. You see, we’re headin’ up to Washington tonight to let Viceroy Hussein know the score, that WE know the score that WE know what is really happening behind those closed doors. God damn it, the’Merican people got a right to know, and we ain’t gonna let no motherfuckers stand in our way of that right. We didn’t let the Koreans. We didn’t let the Japs. And we sure as hell ain’t gonna let ourselves.
If anybody’s gonna stand in the way of liberties, it’s gonna be me and Jesus, God willing. God fuckin’ willing.
How many Hail Mary’s is that? I’ll do four.
We ain’t gonna let ‘em take away our American Dream from us, ain’t no way no fuckin’ how motherfucker. That’s why we’re comin’. Rollin’ three deep with Doctor Zhivago in that bullet proof Hitler-mobile, man the fuckin’ Pope hail Mary ain’t got shit on this shit. That Pope mobile’s a fuckin’ joke right now, but Osama Hussein Bomberman’s gonna wish he had the Popemobile when we roll up on that shit with Hitler’s limo, baby!
What do we know that needs to be put out in the open? Well, if we fucking knew it, we wouldn’t be so hard-up wanting the government to disclose what it knows about aliens, then would we? Use your fuckin’ heads man. That’s all I’m sayin’.
Free energy, crop circles, god damn interstellar dimensional hyperdrives of UNKNOWN FUCKIN PROPORTIONS gateways to heaven and hell, Christ almighty are you fucking blind. The corporations, man. GM, Hybrid vehicles, all that’s bullshit. We invented free fuckin energy decades ago but those shit-for-brains motherfuckers in the oil industry – bought ‘em up – shelved it – and keep chokin’ our dicks for every last cent. I’m pissin’ pennies, now baby, we can’t even GAS UP THAT FUCKIN HITLER MOBILE with premium, we’re putting unleaded 87 in her and hoping the piece of shit don’t crap out halfway to Memphis. Fuckin’ Germans had it right, SIEG HEIL means build my motherfuckin’ POPEMOBILE TO IACOCCAN STANDARDS.
Elf Wax Update:
This is part seven of a five-part series on insanity, brought to you by the homeless guy you ignore each day on your walk home from work.