Emotions aren’t regularly properly expressed. But today it happened in the unlikeliest of places when a young man went on Facebook and told a girl he still likes that he still likes her.
To the outside community, she is essentially unlikable and yet, feels nothing for him. To protect the names of the dastardly, The Chronicle.SU can not even provide a description because the callousness and distatefulness of this particular girl is so distinct, any complaint about her is too revealing and she will run to the internet cops boohooing over her yeasty, smegma-coated vagina. So trust us this time, as you always do, that she’s lame to the point of unmentionable.
Of course, she would disagree, but the absence of her own voice on Facebook indicates nothing of the sort. One of her friends implied that the young man’s feelings were irrelevant, writing in a condescending tone so as to belittle him in the act of expression – a clandestine female maneuver that in many cases renders a man impotent on the spot. But in this case, the young man spoke as Stalin from the Glory Days might have spoken, by counterattacking the very ideology behind her comment’s motivation.
Speaking with poignancy, the young man described his disgust for a system of fear-based behavior patterns and built-in aversions to honesty and direct lines of communication, temporarily disabling the groupthink mentality of Facebook readers in this rippling epicenter of truth. That is to say, he did what he felt like and defended his feelings of love from an attack driven by feelings of fear itself – of oneself. No remorse.
In response, the girl’s friend publicly discussed sex and attacked the young man’s set of core values, flawed as she saw them, but failed to cite examples. Fear-based arguments are generally rooted in the unknown. In this case, she didn’t know what should be important to someone attempting to live a meaningful life and therefore could provide no argument against any other idea, publicly embarrassing herself. Following this, she admitted defeat by copying and pasting a statement from the boy’s response, [as if to kick him while “down”] but her hate-motivated actions would only serve to reinforce its meaning. But why should she care? Why should she try to hurt him by telling him that it shouldn’t hurt? Furthermore, why does actively want to publicly hurt another human being? The eyes of Fear have officially closed for one young man, and the girl you’re reading about here is the afterimage.
All because he said, “This doesn’t matter, because nothing matters, so go on about your judgmental business.”
Meanwhile, the lame girl of his admiration continues to be lame and it drives the young man crazy because seeing through the eyes of love coats the subject in the eye of the beholder with a thin layer of positive potential. This is the pain of loving.
And that a member of our society can publicly contrive his reason for feeling as sex, reprimand and reduce him for feeling emotions over it disgusts the Soviet Chronicle, which is why we, representing the Second Rise of the Soviet Union, are hereby promoting our brand new Anti-Fear Campaign in the Name of Love.
We propose to our readers, and Comrades, that if you feel something like love, then you should follow it, even if at first it is difficult coming to terms with the truth or opens you up to vulnerability. Be adventurous. To live is the reason for survival.
A Facebooker who wished to remain anonymous told the Chronicle.SU to “Think before you act, but think good, loving thoughts. This is the shortest path to a good life, and easily the most rewarding. I’m not talking about that ‘power of positive thinking’ bullshit, but about love producing love, man. It’s 2010. Are you going to be happy or not?”
St. Louis, Mo.–Twisted combinations of acid and 24-hour news have turned one local man’s life into a waking nightmare.
Steven Phelps was a system administrator for the network at Lebal Drocer Incorporated for three years before LSD destroyed his life and evolved his consciousness into a nightmarish new reality so “terrifyingly unreal” that he prays for death.
He ruthlessly climbed his way to the top of the company network, turning in fellow employees for thefts of local office supplies and software when he had to.
Shortly after receiving a promotion and a raise becoming the system administrator of Lebal Drocer, Steven took his first hit of LSD.
Acid - it's what's up
He had a nice trip, taking note of any profound insights he took from the experience. His attitude toward work changed, he became a generally nice guy, and his employees liked him after a while.
Steven tripped again, and it was nice, like the first time. He gained “many insights,” good conversation and what he described as “what the fuck moments.”
“I was staring at the clock on my computer while we played Mario Bros. 3 on emulators. Then suddenly it swelled up so big it was larger than the video game, my friend Adam, and my room put together,” Steven said adding, “Man, that was fucking crazy!”
Then Steven said as he and his friend rolled around in the floor laughing about what seemed to be the same thing, “but there was no way it was,” he realized that all things in the Universe are connected, and given the vastness of space itself, and his closeness to this person, “It stands to reason that we’re all one consciousness because my friend and I – it was like we were reading each others’ minds. And we’re just laughing our asses off about how we’re just all squished in here together, down in this little gravitational hole to the point where there’s a god damn active torsion field around us, a network of pure thought energy zapping and jiggling around the electromagnetic field.”
Steven Phelps compared the earth’s electromagnetic field to “wi-fi for thought” to which humans are adapting through evolution.
He told The Elf Wax Times he believes, “If aliens have evolved a higher level of consciousness and mental abilities, then telepathy’s in there.”
Then, as if it couldn’t get any worse, Steven’s mental health took a rapid descent following one incident involving LSD and TV news.
“My friends just up and left the house while I was tripping with them one day and I had nothing better to do, so I flipped the TV channel over to C-SPAN.” What happened next, Steven said, was “too painful to recall.”
Steven reported visions of Hell on Earth and said it didn’t look much different. He claimed to have seen the face of Richard Nixon, but told reporters President Bush made him seem alright. “That was three weeks ago but I’m still seeing angels who want me to come to Heaven.”
Steven Phelps, who is now permanently insane, said he saw the angels wreck an oil tanker killing eleven people along with many species of Gulf life and some “black guy who didn’t do shit to help it.” He said, “Swimming in that oil’s what we all do every day. Right now they’re killing us with petroleum. And this is what we call living.”
Steven Phelps went on to beg for “sweet merciful death” after accusing two Elf Wax reporters of being Devil One, and Devil Two.
JUNEAU, Alaska– Governess un-elect Sarah Palin signed a bill last year (she stamped it) to make every February 2nd Marmot Day in Alaska.
Because there are no groundhogs in Alaska, Senator Linda Menard (R – Wasilla) said it “made sense” for the “ground squirrel” to become Alaska’s doppelganger to Pennsylvania’s Punxsutawney Phil.
Senator Menard did not write weather forecast duties for the marmot into the bill, so the day has become Alaska’s watered down ripoff of what was already a fake, pathetic holiday to celebrate the fact that Alaska has no groundhogs. She hopes that the state will create educational activities around the animal.
Editor’s note: with the exception of our writers’ liberal use of the traditionally-forbidden editorial (good job), this story is one hundred percent true. Bill Murray was not immediately available for comment.
Here to commemorate this hilarious event is Jim Forest, beard enthusiast.
Craig ‘Lazie’ Lynch has escaped from a minimum security prison in England. It was one of those places where you can just leave anytime, and so he did. He is reportedly eating giant hunks of steak and chilling with bitches at parties. Support ‘Crazie’ Craig by donating to his Facebook site or something. I don’t know, he’s on the run so you gotta facebook him.
Now back to your regularly scheduled Elf Wax:
I was eating some candy my friend gave me and inside of a gummy Swedish fish some fucker unlovingly-inserted a LIVE FISHHOOK!
OH MY GOD PLEASE HELP
The mind-blowing pain coming from my insides suggests I may be bleeding internally, and I’m afraid that I am dying, but you know it’s kinda whatever because I have videogames. But seriously, please, if anyone is reading this, call for help. Dial your local 911 and tell them it’s an emergency: Calvin from Nashville has done something painfully stupid and needs help immediately. They’ll know who you’re talking about because this happens a lot.
My friend said he got the gummy fish from a trustworthy source but to be honest I’m starting to wonder!
UPDATE: I can hear sirens now! Thank God! My ability to speak has been compromised by severed vocal chords, but I will mention your gracious deed to the authorities, dear Elf Waxers.
UPDATE: The sirens passed, they were not coming for me. I AM STILL WAITING, PLEASE SEND HELP I DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER I CAN HOLD ON, BECAUSE I AM STARTING TO CHOKE ON BLOOD AND MY HUNGRY CAT CIRCLES ME WAITING FOR ME TO DIE SO HE CAN EAT ME I SHOULD HAVE BOUGHT A FUCKING DOG.
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.