She had Jet Pilot eyes from her hips on down, so I remember.
I watched her quietly from a dark corner, really looking like a stalker. I suppose acting like one, too, although you could say I have a disposition for being unfavorable.
She wouldn’t look over here, so I did everything I could to keep it that way. I sat perfectly still, staring at her. By now, she had to be uncomfortable from this; not that she’d really made eye contact with me but after so long one starts to feel like they’re being watched.
I was not only watching her, I was imagining her story. I projected my desires onto her and pictured her to be the kind of chick who doesn’t need to be in a place like this bar, someone with a better life and better home outside of here, who just needed to duck in and make sure this scene still isn’t for her every so often. Someone with DVDs of her favorite TV show, popcorn in the cabinets and a tall bottle of wine for one.
Someone unlike me.
‘What am I doing here?’ I thought. ‘I could be working, or better yet, drinking alone at home where these sour losers don’t go, where I am the best and only one, where I am King.’
I looked into my beer and then back at my Queen. A guy sat next to her and they were really chatting it up. Her smile had in it something stern. A seriousness. It told me she is a woman of ease and difficulty at once, simple but tough and likes it rough.
It told me she probably didn’t have a bottle of wine back at the place, or maybe shared an apartment under the pretense of a complicated partnership she’s looking to get out of.
Doesn’t sound like my thing. Or maybe she’s a ladyboy.
West Hollywood, Calif.–Revolutionary Che Guevara purchases a microwaveable burrito from the La Cienega Boulevard 7-Eleven wearing a t-shirt reading, “Stop bitching, start a revolution.”
Che prefers not to wear his own face on a t-shirt, but thinks it's pretty chill when you do.
Che is best known for overthrowing Cuba’s U.S.-backed Batista regime and representing Cuban Socialism across the globe, while at home providing medical assistance and education to people who never held a book. However, neither his heroism, nor even the very act of dying in the name of freedom compares to the satisfaction Che reports during the act of adorning his favorite t-shirt, purchased from chronicle.su. Long live the revolution! All Soviet Chronicle merchandise is produced in an unventilated basement by illegal immigrants who can’t complain about the toxic fumes.
The Soviet Chronicle was granted an interview with Che, who graciously took time from battlefield command to help us sell our merchandise.
Che met us in Beverly Hills, and hopped out of his Chevrolet Bel-Air which sports a bumper sticker with the eponymous statement proclaiming his status as a revolutionary. Che informed us that he rejects both hybrid and “smart” cars, for fear of being labeled as a “Liberal Bedwetter,” plus, he added, “they’re just womanly.”
“I was just so tired of people talking about wanting change, but not doing anything about it, that’s why I bought this t-shirt,” Che said, pointing to the message on his chest. “See?” he cajoled, “I am making a difference, now.”
We followed Che on another of his multiple daily trips to the 7-Eleven. As Che pulled in, he was already drawing the guffaws of gentrified Hollywood, and the hostile attention of a police officer. Upon seeing his t-shirt they immediately quit bitching. This t-shirt shows “the man” you mean business.
Roanoke, Va.–“I used to wear these in middle school, when everybody was doing it. We’d put these jeans on and quietly sit expanding our consciousnesses to Coal Chamber, KoRn, and Insane Clown Posse,” said unemployed Thomas Cranwell, 25, inside his mother’s home where he still resides.
Instead of waiting for the late-90s style to return, experts say he should start hanging out with the right people.
“Still highly sought after by juggalos, JNCOs are the rarest type of jeans found in goodwill,” said InDesign TV’s fashion expert Claude Montagne.
The world’s largest pair of JNCO’s
“They look like a skirt, sometimes, or like a pair of shorts for a giant,” said Montagne, adding, “You drop something in the pockets of a JNCOs and you can forget about it.”
JNCOs were easy to spot in the late 90’s, and were typically held up with one hand while the other hand swayed out at a 45-degree angle, as if the wearer was constantly battling the urge to stiff-arm imaginary children.
The Lee Pipes model, ex-competitor to JNCO, no longer extends ten feet outward in all directions. Following hipster fashion, Lee Pipes now makes skinny, constrictive jeans for people who are just now getting on board.
JNCO’s doctors and lawyers warn against this particular style of jeans, citing reproductive issues as a cause for concern.
“Any male who wears these constrictive jeans for too long risks severe damage to his scrotum, penis, and even the vas deferens,” said El Wax Research Department, Berkeley, California Chairman Dr. Langstrom T. Armstrong, expert in Urology.
“Vas deferens?” he added incredulously, “How do they work!?”
The vas deferens is an eighteen inch tube carrying sperm from the epididymis to the ejaculatory ducts. Or, as Insane Clown Posse explains it: “Miracles.”
“Magic everywhere in this bitch.”
Thomas Cranwell said he will hang onto the jeans for at least another decade, holding out either for a relapse in fashion sense or for an open letter of apology from the JC Penny’s that sold him the pants.
“In the meantime,” he said, “I pick a particularly tough day after work and wear them as an aid to my sense of well-being.”
Billy Rape Cyrus joins callgirl daughter for on-stage duet about the dangers of sexting.
Los Angeles, Calif.–Billy Ray said sexting between family members is not considered incest and proposed the idea of legalizing child porn. He said it would “aid in the promotion” of his daughter’s newly famous crotch shots that got that guy in a lot of trouble.
Miley Cyrus gave the go ahead on sales of the photo when she realized she could no longer get by on her jailbait status alone.
Stay tuned for more details on the rapid decline of the Cyrus family country music sex dynasty as November 23 approaches.
miley cyrus goes on the record to demonstrate the awesome dangers of sexting, and of growing up with a pimp for a daddy, who himself is a whore
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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.