In March 2010, after a pit bull from Bad Newz Kennels lost in a fight, it said Peace consulted with Vick about the losing dog’s condition, then executed it by wetting it with water and electrocuting it; it was later revealed the dog’s name was Hitler. • In March 2009, after two Bad Newz Kennels dog lost fights to dogs owned by a cooperating witness, it alleged that Vick retrieved a bag containing $23,000 worth of cocaine and gave it to the owner of the winning dogs. One of the fights had a $20,000 purse; that’s a whole shit of money for killing some dogs! • In the fall of 2009, a person witnessing a dog fight involving one of the dogs trained by Bad Newz Kennels incurred the ire of another cooperating witness by yelling out Vick’s name in front of the crowd during the fight. Oops! It also said that after establishing Bad Newz Kennels in early 2010, Vick and the others obtained shirts and headbands promoting their affiliation with the kennel. After a police raid on the property in April, Vick said he was rarely at the house, had no idea it may have been used in a criminal enterprise. Of course, that is a lie but that is why it’s presented here. He blamed family members for taking advantage of his generosity, saying handjobs between males should be a “reciprocal experience.” On Vick’s Web site, he lists his birthplace as Newport News, “a.k.a. BadNews.” Terrible name, unless you’re talking about TV News. Purses for the fights ranged from hundreds of dollars to the thousands, and participants and spectators placed side bets, the document said. Local authorities have been investigating the allegations since the April 25 drug raid at the property Vick owned. On December 30, officials with the Department of Agriculture executed their own search warrant and found the remains of seven dogs. Surry County prosecutor Gerald G. Poindexter said he didn’t know of the indictment before it was filed, and said he’s not sure how the county will continue its case, but reassured reporters it “will certainly be inefficient.” At the start, authorities seized 66 dogs, including 55 pit bulls, and equipment commonly used in dogfighting, including Scooby Snacks.
About half the dogs were tethered to car axles with heavy chains that allowed the dogs to get close to each other, but not to have contact — an arrangement typical for fighting dogs, according to the search warrant affidavit. The indictment said dogfights were held at the Virginia property and dog owners brought animals from six states, including New York and Toledo. In a search warrant executed December 30, the government said the fights usually occurred late at night or in the early morning and would last several hours. Before fights, participating dogs of the same sex would be weighed and bathed, according to the filings. Opposing dogs would be washed to remove any poison or narcotic placed on the dog’s coat that could affect the other dog’s performance. Sometimes, dogs weren’t fed to “make it more hungry for the other dog,” it said. A similar approach is being considered for use on Jay Leno.
Two enterprising young lads set out to entertain and motivate a generation of apathetic youth in the series premiere of the newest addition to FOX network’s Fall lineup, the Chuck Whitman Chronicle Show.
In this leaked trailer, viewers discover the impetus of the new FOX program: to answer the question, “What would Charles Whitman do?”
Backlash against the program stems from Austin, Texas residents who say the show depicts “fun on a level that is inordinate,” according to one student at the University of Texas at Austin. She requested anonymity, so we probably won’t publish her name until sometime after this story blows over.
The men in the video are believed by The Elf Wax Center for Serial Killer Analysis to be affiliated with FOX News, and connected to Ramiro Martinez, Texas Ranger.
Whatever. This story is dumb. Enjoy your senseless violence, assholes.
Okay, there are some things in life you just can’t pass up. I almost clicked the Comment button. Seriously. And what do I have to lose? I should have just done it, but now it’s not funny anymore. Or maybe it was never funny. Or maybe it would just hurt that girl’s feelings because she is not who she used to be and I should not enforce a negative image upon her in front of everyone we’ve ever known personally, and my friends would say, “Come on, man, seriously?” and then I’d feel something called remorse.
That’s because I am a conscious, thinking man with the impulses of a terribly cruel bastard. Meh. What goes around comes around. I’ll get mine one day, but that day hasn’t come yet.
That being said, let’s talk a little shit about Facebook:
A lot’s changed since the last time I used it.
Why is it now considered stalking to look at someone’s profile?
Maybe I’m fucking interested. Am I a stalker now? In high school I dated this girl with a stalker and we didn’t have Facebook yet; in fact, myspace hadn’t even come out yet. What we did have was the telephone, and her back yard where we’d find him standing from time to time. That’s a stalker. This is a website and read this little factoid hot off the news feed: YOU CHOSE TO PUT YOUR INFORMATION ON IT.
I honestly don’t see what’s wrong with camping on a girl’s profile who you like and spamming F5 for hours at a time, or even all day. If that makes me a Facebook stalker, then I’m a Facebook stalker and my wrist hurts.
Why am I a “creeper” for hitting on girls with it?
Because if you do something as simple as using a communication device on a dumb girl, that word comes out. It’s not that sophisticated, honey. I didn’t go out of my way. Not for you. Maybe I can’t find what they call a good girl (which may or may not actually exist) at the bar because her face looks like a leather bag with a cigarette hanging out of it. Maybe I don’t find them at parties because *whore* Maybe I don’t find them where I work because they only hire men to do my job. Although, there is that one cute chick…but she’s a cocktease with a vendetta.
“WHORES AREN’T THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO GO TO PARTIES, MR. SMART ASS ELF WAX WRITER FOR THE INTERNET, MR. I FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING, MR. I CAN’T GET LAID SO I GO ONLINE AND RAGE ABOUT IT.”
Point taken. Still, fuck that.
I operate Facebook like a vast net, trawling the murky unknown for a good conversation, intelligent insight, a funny joke, adding strangers in the hopes of discovering a classy broad who isn’t afraid to go out on a limb and meet a religious rapist-murderer zealot she talks to online. Because I looove to rape me some bitches. So what if I filter out all the ladies except those whose relationship status has just changed to “single”? That’s how you find the ripe ones!
brb jerking off to facebook
Why do people refuse to hang out with me and then have three-hour conversations with me across Facebook?
Maybe it’s because I’ve always been friends with lazy stoners. Or they just don’t like me, which pretty much invalidates our friendship status. -1 friend but there are still 257 left
“Wow asshole, you sure do have a lot of negative opinions about Facebook. Maybe you should stop using it?”
Maybe. But for now, I have developed a sort of perverted fondness for it – like Wal-Mart. Facebook bastardizes human interaction. Wal-Mart destroys local economies. I think the friendship economy is in a recession.
There is intrinsic value in the understanding and hatred of many things, and I encourage all of you to attack something or someone you hate today.
Now, I’m going out to throw some alcohol onto this roaring fire of rage and then I’ll come back to report its effects.
This has been brought to you by Lebal Drocer
“Facebook is garbage.”
Edit: I’m home again. I did not drink too much, as I took a look around at my surroundings and into my glass and decided that I’m not reaching my full potential sitting at the bar around people I hate more than myspace. My perspective has not changed, but it did occur to me after some conversation on the matter that Facebook is occasionally used for its intended purpose, like catching up with an old friend after many years. However, my opinion that it is a cesspool of immeasurable proportions will never change, but only reinforce itself as that website gets older and more used, like the girls on it.
This weekend, Blacksburg, VA played host to a music festival of a different kind. Hosted at several bars and art galleries around town, local and regional musicians of all stripes and abilities played with varying degrees of fever. I ended up managing part of a show, running the sound for a few bands, playing an open-mic, and photographing every single set I was a witness to. Problems aside, I had a good time.
I arrived in Blacksburg and parked within a hundred feet of the NLCF building, check in for the Fever to Sing festival. I spent over a half hour wandering around the block looking for any sign of a festival, stumped. I looked up the address and found my way on in. Several artists and musicians I interviewed had the same trouble. There was no signs, no groups of people coming or going, but the gears were churning inside.
The organizers were putting things together using some kind of online system, stressing and fretting over laptops wherever they went. The sound guys were often late, or unreachable, or went missing, but for the most part the bands were well on time and ready to go when needed. I changed the schedule, manually, with a pen on at least 50 fliers because certain shows were very much more than an hour late to begin. I suppose I was a volunteer too, as well as impromptu press, musician, and management.
There was a some awful trash that I wish I’d never seen. On the other hand, I saw great acts, such as the Bastards of Fate, the Andalusians, and Don’t Call Us Sweethearts.
The Bastards of Fate defy all explanation. Doug Cheatwood is a performance genius beyond compare. His songs are imaginatively written and musically unique, defying rules I didn’t even knew existed. Standing on an amp, holding up a guitar, blinded by shaving cream, construction light draped over his shoulder, and mic in hand, Doug Cheatwood is no gimmick hungry rocker. He is what punk rock was never smart enough to be, crazier and more ambitious, full of antics that wake sleepy fear-ridden audiences into a frenzy of dance and jubilation. Did I mention that the music’s catchy, well-written, and like nothing you’ve heard?
The Andalusians were a punkish woman-fronted band from DC, with loads of energy to back up their fun music. Such well written music played by obvious professionals was a welcome treat, and I especially appreciated how grounded and personal their presence was. These were proud, powerful women who were absolutely comfortable on stage and off. Sadly, that’s not something I see often. They were reminiscent of the best bits of The Clash.
Aw, this band should be called Sweetheart
I didn’t run the sound for Don’t Call Us Sweethearts, although I was supposed to. One faux member of the group who played a little percussion felt the need to do the sound, although I had to inform him on how to use the mixer. Thankfully with my help he was able to do a passable job, and truly could have done little to diminish the silky-smooth vocals and soft melodies of Don’t Call us Sweethearts. The performance was emotionally charged and musically superb. Though I tend to think their particular kind of songwriting is generally boring, there was no lack of excitement during their performance. Don’t Call Us Sweethearts had a friendly, warm presence that everyone picked up on.
The good was good, but the bad got very bad. I don’t mind bad music, or late shows. There’s just a small list of things I expect musicians to NOT do, which almost always ruin the appeal of the performance. Fever to sing had a few good examples.
Show outright disdain for the audience while making assumptions about their beliefs
Explain what every single song is about in detail
Apologize for how bad the music is
Musicians who do these things defy all logic, and must be proud of how amateur they are. Since we’re mean bastards here at Elf Wax, and want to harm those who we dislike, here’s a list of bands and musicians you should never, ever see.
You won't like this show unless you're a Lesbian who thinks the entire world hates you.
I was there to help you run sound, and you refused my help probably just because I am a man. I hope you enjoyed spending 5 minutes going back and forth between the mixer and the microphone to satisfy your own misguided foolish pride. You’re not a bad musician, but probably a bad person. I have nothing against Lesbians, in fact I rarely have sex with women who aren’t Lesbians. I was enraged by your song about how everyone in Virginia but the Lesbians are hateful fucks. Now Elfwax.com hates you, and it’s not just your imagination this time. You can tell everyone we hate you just because you’re a Lesbian if that makes you feel better.
Richmond, Va.–Elf Wax Times went deep into the seedy underground of the Richmond music scene to find Larry And His Flask performing songs of hate around midnight of the 23rd at Cous Cous. Motherfuckers jammed.
“Basically put like fucking Modest Mouse together with some Jefferson Airplane shit and Larry’s what you get,” said VCU Criminal Justice major Kim Something Or Other. We got her phone number.
The vocals harmonized nicely with the guitars, but all the assholes dancing around The Elf Wax Times staff were rude and did not respect others’ personal space. The authorities were notified, however no arrests have yet been made because the police are lazy scumbags who’d rather insufflate an eight ball of confiscated blow than arrest college students, although that is their second priority because nobody was nice enough to hang out with them during high school to make sure they don’t power trip in the future.
So there were VCU pigs walking up and down Grace St. late last night. On a Monday night, there’s hardly a dude worth fucking with but the police found him: an old crippled guy in a wheelchair was sitting in a recessed doorway, pointed toward the wall when some dick cop approached him asking, “What are you doing here?” to which he responded, “I’m just chilling out.”
The Elf Wax Times did not stick around to make sure civil rights were respected because we have no compassion for even the seemingly homeless. Our apathy overrides even the most basic instincts of decency especially in the presence of law enforcement. This is because we have taken copious amounts of LSD, psilocybin mushrooms, morning glory seeds, Hawaiian Baby Woodrose tea, pills, duster, and the synthetic compound known as 2C-I. No big deal, but we ate that shit all at once, so fuck that guy in a wheelchair.
And fuck you. Larry and his flask will be on tour with the Dropkick Murphys (or whatever those fags are called), unfortunately opening for the bastards even though everybody knows it should be the other way around. Fuck mainstream music and fuck you for liking it.
Fuck the government for sponsoring Elf Wax Drunkenness and fuck your mother’s failed abortion that became you. We don’t like you and don’t want you reading The Elf Wax Times because you have not taken the sworn oath drug-influenced Elf Wax piety. When the revolution comes, you’ll be forced to eat fourteen doses of acid and watch The Wall while we drill messages of fear and totalitarian government control into your enfeebled brains. In your offtime we do respect your right to smoke cigarettes but not to religion. For religion, you must turn to Carl Sagan for guidance because unlike the rest of humanity you are now a glowing ray of light, no longer bound by the human form, for you can – and do – understand and know everything under the sun. In fact, you control it.
Now get fucked up watch FOX News because it’s what you’re designed to relate to – not us. We aren’t you and you’ll never be one of us. You’ll always be a fucking scum-sucking whore of the capitalistic enterprise over our freedoms of self. Wal-Mart owns you now, and Target is where you rebel. China runs our shit, and America strives to become them. Countries’ only meaning lies in how we identify ourselves. With enough trade, this will change and our so-called “identities” will meld with the world-dominating enterprise of necessity. We’re fucking doomed to live on and serve into perpetuity the human plantation we helped create. We, and free enterprise, which should also be destroyed or undermined by faithful Elf Waxers. Destroy yourselves, and you’ve destroyed the government’s income. Well done, suicide machines.
Vote against freedom. It’s what Elf Wax would do. It’s what you have been conditioned to do. But don’t be surprised when the voice of protest sounds like a large group of angry bluegrass musicians who don’t even sit down to play the drums.
Internet, U.S.A.– According to youtube, Elf Wax’s most reliable source, internet fucksation Chris Crocker is on the market for a boyfriend (and a job).
He’s holding a self-serving youtube contest to obtain the more pathetic of these. Elf Wax entered, but we haven’t heard back. Well, put on your Wax Goggles and get a load of this guy:
Almost needless to say, Chris Crocker did not choose him, even though this entrant said Crocker “sets a good example.” Regardless, he “means business,” and “will hurt somebody who tries to hurt [Chris Crocker].”
REVIEW: This video is to the point and strikes adoration relentlessly into your heart. Chris Crocker, if you don’t want him, Elf Wax’ll have him.
-The Elf Wax Times staff (especially the gay staff)
Some time has passed since the release of Infinity Ward’s newest installment in the reluctantly-named Call of Duty series. This is why the Elf Wax Times has gone untouched for one week, with the exception of the new Lightning Ticker which adorns our beloved header. The Lightning Ticker is based on the Elf Waxian concept of the “Lightning Study,” currently in production at Lebal Drocer Laboratories, involving only a glance at raw facts and data as a means for writing an informed report. You’re welcome.
Our entrenched reporter, Viet Zam, has been in Modern Warfare 2 since it spawned November 10. Having received no contact from him in 72 hours, he is presumed dead.
The staff writers, the Media Mogul himself, Cold Hard Truth, billb(o), and Noah [biblical figure], have concluded that Modern Warfare 2 on Playstation 3 is the Official Game of The Elf Wax Times, and so should you. We’ve rated the game 10/10 and found that it contains nothing harmful to society or individuals unless ground into a fine dust and inhaled.
The only real problem with the game is that it keeps us from bringing you the truth. But, doesn’t that figuratively stand for truth? Shit, we’d be liars just by printing something. You don’t want to read something we didn’t want to write, and we don’t want to write shit you don’t wish to read, so we hope you’re enjoying Modern Warfare 2 as much as we are here at The Elf Wax Times office.
Being too busy playing MW2 to review, we decided to get some outside help on this one. YouTube provides a service for us all, and Viacom. Check out what our guest critic had to say about the game:
“Call of Duty 4 and 5 is okay, but fuck it…I was expectin’ it to be like Call of Duty 5 or better, better than fuckin’ better things, but shit!”
I awoke on New Years day to the usual yammering of Cartoon Network’s early morning programming. I stood up to deactivate the horrible noises, when I realized I was in the guest bedroom. How drunk had I been last night? I forgot. How’d I get home? Man, I had no answers, except I knew I was thirsty. Stumbling to the fridge, waves of nausea coarsed through my whole body. I found nothing but Orange Juice and quickly finished what was left of the container. I felt my brain inside my skull, screaming to get out. I threw the empty box across the room and missed the trash can completely. I returned to my room, and as I sat down, a second, much more intense wave of nausea came over me. Quickly thinking, I packed a gravity bong. Weed cures nausea, and maybe numb the throbbing inside my skull, at least that was what I was thinking. I was able to inhale half of the bong and then cough and puke into the water bucket at the same time. Of course I wasn’t done, all the OJ had to go. When the watery yellow vomit was all over the ground at the foot of my deck, I started to dry heave for about 10 minutes. Teary-eyed, half stoned, and worse off than I was before, it was all I could do to sip on a glass of water and watch the storyline of Pokemon 8 unfold before my eyes. At least vomiting off my deck made me feel relieved after the dry heaving.
It started in the distant past, with some sort of magic called Aura (get this…everyone has a slightly different Aura). I was able to halfway sleep through the first part. There’s this Pokemon named Lucario, and Ash unseals him or something, and Lucario’s a dick and doesn’t trust anybody after being sealed away for so long, even though he doesn’t even know why he was sealed away. Meanwhile, Mew, Meowth, and Pikachu are hanging out in the Tree of Beginning. Why? I don’t know. You find out later that Mew and the Tree actually share their consciousness, which is interesting. As Ash travels to the tree with Lucario and a band of friends, they gain eachothers trust. When they arrive, the tree begins attacking Lucario and Ash. Everyone is killed who is not a Pokemon. Good job, Mew. Mew then revives everyone back to life with no effort, since he controls the tree. But oops! The tree’s immune reaction was too strong, and will kill everyone unless someone saves it with the power of Aura. And to do that, apparently you have to be trapped in some sort of crystal or something forever. I felt no remorse for these Pokemon because every conflict in the movie was created solely by Mew’s complete negligence. I give the vomit splattering on the ground one star and Pokemon 8 a half of a star.