THIS SHIT WON’T STOP
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The black heart of Capitalism struck again today when a seventy-five year old woman died after being put on hold four hours Friday afternoon.
“I think she was just trying to have her text messaging feature turned off,” said her grandson Jeremy, 14, who is an ‘avid texter’ himself.
Joanne, the woman’s daughter, requested that her mother not be named, because ultimately, her “untimely” death is rooted in on-going sexual abuse driven by unwelcome sexting received on a nightly basis by the elderly grandmother of seven.
On-scene paramedics claim the woman’s arthritis was “acting up,” which made holding the phone unbearable, causing her to “fall and then she couldn’t get up.” Without a LifeCall medical alarm system installed, she could only lay there waiting to die, listening to post-Manson Beach Boys, the sounds “possibly horrifically distorted by the effects of brain hemorrhage,” as one EMT described.
“We found a notepad,” said one detective. “It has basic addition and a little division scribbled down…it looks like [she] was calculating how much she is worth, and then divided that number by how many children there are.” He alleged her surviving kids might come and pillage her home.
Meanwhile, Joanne and two of her brothers could be seen carrying out a vacuum cleaner and several sets of fine china through the front door behind him.
Verizon refuses to pay reparations to the family, and are in fact billing them for the thousands of dollars’ worth of outstanding overages the woman collected by furiously accepting texts.
Still no files are being charged against the college-age chan users who triggered her death as they have reportedly made Verizon “loads of money,” a move which CEOs suggest could prove to be a lucrative, if not unpredictable, business model for the future.
Killing people and then charging them a bill? It’s gonna make us assloads of money.”
Richmond, VA–Mayor Dwight C. Jones (Mister C.) allegedly forced two children to duel for their lives Monday following their “art” submissions to a new program intended to renew inner-city schools by funneling coke money into Jones’ own pockets.
“None of this would have happened if art wasn’t allowed in school,” said the losing victim’s mother Courtney Harris. “I have never felt so ashamed,” she confessed, “until I realized my son is a dead loser.” Ms. Harris later indicated she is “glad” her son is dead, a shift in opinion analysts say is “notable.”
Dwight Jones made no comment about the duel, citing federal gag-orders due to unpaid gambling debts to crack dealers in Jackson Ward, but he did have this to say:
“I have always felt that art in public schools is a waste of money on kids who are inherently talentless but are, as I have proven – better fighters; at least – half of them are.”
“Who knows about the dead?” he quipped.
Who knows, indeed? Richmonders are in an uproar over the whereabouts of the dead child’s body, who can not be named, due not to legal implications but to the fact that authorities have been unable to locate either the whorehouse to which the boy’s mother supposedly belongs, or any records on the child who authorities now believe was born “under the radar.” City officials said due to the loser’s mom being a straight-up crack-whore, no father can possibly be determined. So far, paternity tests have narrowed the possible fathers down to a short list of five men who share the GCG, or Gary Coleman Gene. But their semen is allegedly so polluted with King Cobra malt liquor that no testing machine can solve the “Riddle of the Richmond Ghetto.”
“I hate children, and I support Mayor Jones’ decision to enslave them for use in his personal gambling dens. I wish they’d all die, or at least be forced to do other violent things, like fight in wars.”
The boy’s severely-battered corpse is thought to be somewhere in the James River, a popular dump-point used by the holographic chemical plant Allied Chemical, the shell of a company who once allied with Capitalism to dump kepone, a popular ‘cool’cinogen used in roach poison, into the James River, which consequently flowed straight into the kepone-intolerant nervous systems of many workers in Hopewell – a move Mayor Jones applauds enthusiastically as the James River’s claim to fame. The forty-year poisoning of Hopewell factory workers marks the country’s first environmental disaster that would later give rise to unprecedented shirking of responsibility employed by corporate entities across America.
In the eclipse of U.S. President and War Strategist Barack Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize, Mayor Jones finds little reason to carry out a search for the boy, especially given his intimate, but silent knowledge of the child’s do-doubt gruesome fate which Jones’ publicists said “might spoil the endorsement.” Inside sources say the mayor had the boy contaminated with several carcinogenic compounds that would ferry their way via his body to South Carolina lowlands, where the child will cause countless still-births and unexplainable cancers.
No one from the school board or any of the childrens’ teachers were immediately available for comment. This is due in part to the fact that people in the ghetto are constantly avoiding bill-collectors, so they don’t answer the phone for any unfamiliar number.
More to come on this, as Mayor Jones’ indictment goes awry in the second part of our wacky, cocaine-powdered adventure of “Richmond Mayor – druglord to the bitter end.”
– on the horizon.
You see, as information and people’s total alignment with the electromagnetic field of energy coalesce into a single vibrating consciousness pulsing through our bodies infinitely with every capitalistic wave of wi-fi signals, cell phone towers, satellites beaming Ellen down to Earth and the puncture-wound in the atmosphere which welcomes the Van Allen Radiation Belts to our front yard force us to face the fact that our thoughts are under control by a globally consciousness PR Director named Phil who knows about more than just your fucked-up diaper piss fetish.
Phil controls everything with the crossing of a single digitally-simulated local synapse. He does this millions of times per second, as he contemplates everything and the Way it is going to happen yesterday. Phil has played and beaten Civilization II on difficulty levels well-beyond God-like. He has mastered focused arithmetical computation on your inner space, which you left wide open through your soul. Phil owns you motherfuckers. What do you have to say?
When Phil closes his eyes, the Universe goes dark. When Phil’s heart beats, we instantaneously collapse and birth anew into a Big Bang. Phil’s heart will one day de-crystallize and stop beating. Omega’s constant value will bleed his heart dry and forever into ice, as the false vacuum of Phil’s inner-self evacuates into hyperspace, supplanting reality into a burned out image in the picture-tube of inter-universal unknown, a cluster of dead embers, ashes in the wind, dust in the clouds. Phil is dead. So were we.
The Universal Hivemind that keeps up with our tags and masters us in practice while we attempt to understand it in theory has no place being taught in our schools, and that is why we should vote down proposition number 327: The Abomination of the Human Mind with Roanoke County Schools at the forefront of this unique, and basically life-altering experimentation on the human species.
With no hand to guide us, we are left with only our spirit-bodies to explore the hypocrisy of intellectual starvation in America, faced with Krogers on the corner, the party line on the papers, and lies in the skies, against all odds, staring at ourselves and seeing the reflection of Corporate Breeding. We are a Generation of Swine, as Hunter once said to this reporter, and we’ve rooted in our feces until its perpetual congregation with the mud has contaminated lifeforce with the need-to-feed-on-Greed.
You’re welcome, you fucks. You finally got enough computers and enough electronics and gadgetry in your SUV and enough features and enough perks. And now we’ve poisoned the water-hole and there’s no turning back. Latch on to your withering testicles, and fuck the vapid whore of Capitalism.
I chose a life through which I knew I’d starve. I knew I’d have nothing. I knew I’d not be able to afford a wife, girlfriend, home or child. Somewhere along the line, I thought “I could be a doctor. I could be an astronaut! I could be a firefighter.” Nothing sounded like me, until somebody said, “Hey, you could be a writer!” So, I don’t operate on people, I don’t see Earth from space without the use of illegal drugs. I can barely afford rent, bills, student loans. I couldn’t afford to write these words if it cost a dollar. But they’re here, aren’t they? That’s what counts to me. I deal only with abstract, astronomical facts. So you can rest assured you’re reading the truth if you’re reading The Elf Wax Fucking Times, and we’ll even call your boss and tell him to go fuck himself, anonymously, on your behalf. Just shoot us an email – if you know how.
Now, all this writing and believing is good. But it sure sucks not having a high-def TV. You can get really easy headshots on Call of Duty 4 with one of those. And writing more doesn’t buy one. The Universe doesn’t care. Phil’s heartbeat won’t mind; quite the contrary, it doesn’t know you; it is more focused on your overall collapse and rearrangement. The UN simulation of ourselves doesn’t care, nor does our imagination of it. We are here, alone, watching it all burn together.
Enjoy your Apocalypse.
From the fearless leaders who brought you such wars as “Viet Nam” and “Korea – Dawn of the Hellicopter!” comes Afghanistan – a tactical operation which promises to be “a fun-filled action-packed romp through the desert the whole family can enjoy.”
Just like Wuss-ass General Patreus (more like Betrayus, amirite!?), who originally requested 40,000 more troops to go into Iraq, General Stanley wants forty thousand for Afghanistan. But Obama’s a God Damn World Hero who hates losing so he threw the controller down and said, “Fuck Iraq. America didn’t lose. I fuckin’ quit, motherfuckers. Where da hood at nao!” At first, this motherfucking foot-cock wanted to go so hard into Afghanistan on “counter-terrorism episodes” that will leave no man, woman or child without a urinary-tract infection.
“But then,” he reportedly thought, “It would be bad for ratings.” Even reality show producers who don’t know how to write a story knows there needs to be a visible conflict. Bark Obama refuses to help by sending extra forces because, like every good Starcraft player knows, it wouldn’t be very fun to crush the enemy with a sizable force, neither for the generals nor viewers like you at home. You gotta give ’em a show. “And that’s what we’re doing,” the President said, as he fingered Hillary’s Clittin behind the scenes.
I fucking love this show, bitches! Sometimes I sometimes get so turned on by realistic violence that I’ll insubordinate my abusive husband just to get a taste. LOL YOU COULD SAY I’M BLOOD-THIRSTY FOR WAR!
-A desperate housewife
This season of War! Terror on the Homefront promises “more tactical missile strikes, more calls for the ‘MEDIC!’ and less of that ‘blah blah blah why-are-we-here?’ interjection” that dogged the series premiere in 2003.
*silent jerking-off hand motion*
America, brace yourselves for The War on Terror, Part II: Overseas Contingency Operation. Catch it Sunday.
Did you miss Sunday’s episode? Like herpes IT’S COMING BACK! but FASTER! Watch it again Thursday nights at nine, following Everybody Loves Raymond Even Though He’s a Draft-Dodging Faggot.
PANAMA- A disgusting abomination of nature rose from the murky depths today, frightening children by begging them for a “precious” golden ring. Of course, the children knew not to trust this hideous monster and summarily stoned it to death, as per the teachings of The Elf Wax Times resident cryptozoologist Manny Hansfield.
This photograph was taken shortly after the creature died, but before it mysteriously disappeared. Our Evolutionary Analysts have made integral discoveries regarding the nature of this animal by thorough dissection of this photograph.
The Loch Ness Monster and similair creatures have long been known by science to be serpentine aquatic Mammals, driven to their specific body shape through convergent evolution with horrible sea serpents that share the same niche in the oceans.
Bigfoot, a land dwelling biped, appears to share a common ancestor with both the creature of Loch Ness and the monster from Panama.
“Three million years ago we expect that a strange semi-aquatic biped roamed the ice-bridge between Europe and America, avoiding pre-Eskimos as much as possible due to their horrendous smell. Some of this creature’s descendants became Arctic Seals; some migrated onto land, and some remained in the lochs of Scotland and the Great Lakes of America. This Panama creature represents a relic population similar to the line which migrated onto the to land and became what we now know as Bigfoot.”
Collective relief among cryptozoologists at this new understanding of Earth’s ecosystem has allowed many to begin work on more pragmatic pursuits. Rather then spending months in the wild on the hunt for Bigfoot, some biologists have taken to fabricating their own hoax mammal photographs which, in spite of their blatant non-existence, have already been sold to the major news networks. Other biologists have been putting in “real time” towards genetically engineering bacteria that will use nuclear fission as a source of energy, giving it comic book-style attributes. For example, a specific breed of these cells will be able to infect any living body, re-animate it, and send it on a berserk rampage in furious pursuit of more hosts.
“In the real world, ‘mad scientists’ pursue Bigfoot and Nessie. Now they don’t have that pursuit and are either in complete denial of this fact or have ‘cracked’ and are attempting to use their sparse knowledge of biochemistry to destroy humanity. In all likelihood they will fail miserably, but in light of recent success we should take their endeavors quite seriously.” -Manny Hansfield, cryptozoologist and inventor of the fissilium zomfectus bacteria strain.