Elf Wax Times announces anti-lesbian platform

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.

However.

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?”

“James?”

“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.

Hot, rare lesbians
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.

God damn internet

Internet. You give me a lot of problems. But mostly you just give me solutions. Actually more problems.

Number one, I do not know what to masturbate to – you are just so full of surprises!

Number two, I can’t trust Wikipedia. Anybody can edit that shit! Come on now! That’s got to make it the worst source of reliable information since Pepsi’s homepage.

Lol_Internets

Number three, Google. WHAT THE FUCK YOU CONTROL INFORMATION, WAY TO GO. You are the Wal-Mart of the Internet.

Number four, Net Neutrality. You are the single most stressful term about the internet. I’d die protecting you, if I didn’t know you’d still be sold right out from underneath us, destroying freedom of speech and free enterprise as we know it.

Number five, you’ve changed the news. Like porn, you used to have to pay for the news in some way – even if it was just an advertisement on TV. Now, you don’t have to pay for shit. Way to go, internet. I won’t have a job after I graduate. But what the fuck do you care? With each keystroke, I’ve done a little more work for you – for free.

fuck-off-smokers

Number six – I just heard Barack Obama can take control over the entire internet in the event of a “data emergency” – Obama can privately Google himself in the dark now. He will start a blog about something that matters a lot to him. Or just look at porn. Note: this came from FOX News, so it is probably true. I did zero fact-checking for your convenience.

Number seven – you’ve dissolved friendships using fakebook and myplace. I have to commend you for this. I thought I’d never be able to keep an endless supply-chain of excuses going not to hang out with “friends.” Now that we’re always friends no matter what I do, I can ignore them forever and die alone! Just the way you told me I always wanted it.

Number eight – How in the Lord Fuck am I supposed to turn my back on you knowing you hold the entire wealth of collective human knowledge? I once stayed on the internet for four days, tripping on morning glory seeds and reading desperately about String Theory, believing I was looking God in the eye. Now, I can only live out my day-to-day “sunshine” life knowing that I’ve turned my back on the source of all things known so I can make pizzas, rent movies, and park old rich fuckers’ cars. I’m sorry Internet. I didn’t intend on having a real life. I promise to quit a job for you one day.

Number nine – youtube – what’s with the copyright bullshit? How long are we going to pretend like China doesn’t get away with piracy 1,000 times per second?

Which leads me to number ten: BIT TORRENTS!!! SWEET JESUS I BET THE SUPREME COURT WISHES THEY NEVER FUCKED WITH NAPSTER! TV shows, entire albums, fuck – whole discographies – of any band, whether they suck or not, are there for the taking. If Bit Torrent was a store at the mall, a mall that also had a GameStop, Best Buy, SunCoast Videos (or whatever that video store is called), and an adult book store, the Bit Torrent would act as a black hole and just fucking consume those wussy “capitalist ventures” in the name of EVERYBODY TAKE THIS SHIT BECAUSE IT’S FREE AND ONLY CHUMPS AND DUDES IN BANDS PAY FOR IT. “Support live music” is totally my thing. But I’ll download your album, if you just promise to come back to my city next year so I can pay to meet you. I don’t buy CDs. That’s for people who still watch MTV. Although I did buy that sweet stereoscopic Tool album. Great driving music! The whole album is listenable.

486px-Fuck_copyright.svg

And finally The Elf Wax Times – it’s got to be the best thing since marijuana, our top keyword. This place means more to me than season 22 of the Simpsons. Funnier than Nickelodeon’s “Doug.” Twice as entertaining as a new Law and Order. More culturally relevant than Monica Lewinski. More up to date than Weenus, Incorporated. Better than you. And huffing paint since 2008. FUCK YEAH GOLD BLING BLING – TASTE HEAVEN!

Staff Writer - Elf Wax Times
Staff Writer - Elf Wax Times

So fuck you, Internet. I have to be awake in three hours. Plus I’m drunk. Fuck you internet. You don’t understand me. Your whole operation is fuck you internet! I will kill you. After Hussein Backara shuts you down, I will choke you to death in a field. Stupid internet.

Google Elf Wax. Click “fuck you.” It’s gotta be an option there somewhere.

I’d like to sext you up

Roanoke, Va. – Sexting. We’ve all done it, or at least most of us have; and then we disseminate it throughout the internet so that geeks like you can share the glory, by passing it along to other geeks. Sexting is thought by scholars to be the first instance in human history where two people flirting around benefits the rest of mankind by spraying sets of nude pictures across the information superhighway.

“It ain’t all glory holes and slick-bottoms, though,” said Phillip Bernstein, Richmond-area sexter. Sexting has recently come under fire from the mainstream media who exploits it to gain ratings by selling to perverted America the very idea that there really are 13-year-old girls getting naked on camera somewhere, for someone. “How despicable,” the news anchors tell you. “How intriguing,” you actually think. Because you are a pedophile and you’ve gotten to this site by googling jailbate – a key term sure to be found in the tags section at the bottom of this article. The FBI are on their way.

Miley Cyrus advertises using sexting
Miley Cyrus advertises using sexting

But sexting, as everyone knows, is rooted in the regular text messaging feature put in place on all cell phones everywhere by loving cell phone “care”iers like Verizon and Sprint. And while having your girlfriend text you pictures is wonderful for everyone, sexting isn’t the only thing that makes paying $15 per month the biggest mistake a parent can make when raising his/her child – the whole text messaging lifestyle turns waterhead kids into flatline pets that trail behind you as if by some invisible leash.

Rare fact: it is the parents’ choice to pay for the text service. However oftentimes they will unknowingly buy text messaging with their plan; others think, “Heavens to The Grand Tits of Betsy! What happens if I get into a car accident, the vehicle flips over, and the steering wheel pinches my throat off so I can’t use my voice? Ah-HA! I will text Lassie!” Whatever failure of logic bleeds through their brains, all of these parents fail to make the sister choice to buying this service – “slapping that little bitch in the face when she turns into a whore.”

vidcap_sexting0515

What I’m about to tell you is the story of the North American

suburb-crawling skank.

There are little girls who trail behind mommy or daddy through Anytown, USA, staring down into their twiddling hands at what is without fail – without question – and without having to look: a cell phone.

They are oblivious to what is happening around them. “Honey, can you help me find 17 cents?” — “…huh?” I said, “We all want to take your melon head and smash it into a wall.”

Wow! Given all the threats, I’d have to assume texting is useful, right?” Wrong. What usually takes 5 minutes via detailed, half-focused phone conversation can take all day using text messaging. But who cares? They are either texting guys or talking to other girls about guys. Regardless, everything these little bimbos are communicating is stupid and pointless. This is because nothing of value has ever been transmitted via text message.

“You’re pregnant.” Oh! Let me just text my husband.

“You have cancer and you have six months left to live.” Shit…I’d better shoot out a text so the family knows.

The ideal conversation I’d like to hear:

“Jenny, can you please stop talking with whoever about your rotten little pussy for long enough to pick out what you want to eat?” – “…what Mom? Oh…I see what you mean…”

Miley Cyrus Sexts The World
Miley Cyrus Sexts The World on Google Images

One will never hear that talk, because parenting notoriously never takes place under the umbrella of reason. Consistently, stupid parents raise stupid girls with unnatural under-bites. Big knees. Ratty-looking hair that has been treated with so many chemicals, not even lice can grow in it. Although at one time, some probably did.

These girls, having built a fantasy world around themselves in which their opinions matter to others, have exceedingly naive perceptions of the real world – albeit most of them have an expert handle on conception itself. “This is as easy as laying on your back,” said sophomore Kimberly Thomas. This enveloping bubble-wrap of kaleidoscopic anti-reality breeds in developing young women a viral and slowly-evolving case of “Soccer Mom Syndrome” (SMS) whose symptoms include:

  • Loud voices
  • sweeping sense of entitlement
  • unrealistic expectations
  • Miley Cyrus
  • Miley Cyrus
  • blind ignorance
  • unwarranted self-importance
  • stifling religious zealousness
  • Miley Cyrus
  • obesity
  • chronic attitude dysfunction
  • highly-visible mental retardation
  • must be unlocked at tier 3

Fortunately for the rest of us, texting, and sexting moreover, makes retarded women sheeplike in your ability to herd their enfeebled minds around like dumb beasts using simple mental constructs and preconditions that play off laziness and convenience. Your stupid daughter is going to be so easily fuckable throughout her 20s. She’ll be so embarrassingly easily to nail that they’ll be cutting in on Chinese whores, and those whores will come cut her tits off for open-sourcing on their action.

That’s wonderful. But there is a downside to all this. Witness, if you have a moment, the following four-minute sequence of events in which a girl gets exactly what she deserves while texting in a car, but tragically imposes helpless strangers to suffer infinitely the hand of her stupidity, as some women are known to do three or four times in one day, often while texting [Editor’s Note: WOW. anti-woman as hell, wtf is wrong with me]:

Notice the girl’s first instinct following the crash was not to use the phone she just killed innocents with to call for help. She didn’t even try to text Lassie. Oh and hey – did you see that she was about to text me and tell me her friend wants me?

This is not a PSA – it is accidental, happenstance documentary footage of a young girl’s stupidity in real time. Critics of the viewpoint that the girl is stupid and killed people by texting fail to address that the conversation was working its way into sexting. She was texting a guy. Named James. “I think it was very brave of her,” said Crazy Pat, a full-time Verizon technician who was glued to the situation as it unfolded before him on his computer monitor. “So why’d they stop?” he later asked.

Fortunately for you, there are two solutions:

1) Abort daughters

2) Should choice 1 fail, begin slapping them as babies and do not stop until the redness of their skin somehow sends the message that texting is stupid, annoying, lame and pathetic. Should work.

More on this as we establish a live one-way video uplink with AIM user jo_baby_369.

Growing pains?

Suicide is becoming a widely accepted solution to the problems facing America. If you or someone you know is threatening suicide, do your part as a friend. Encourage him/her to do the right thing. And pull the trigger, wussy.

THIS MESSAGE IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT.

ELF ONLINE: TAKE THE MONEY AND FUN


Guangdong, Cn.–Unpopular Chinese gaming company HappyMMO has swindled roughly twenty-five gamers out of their American money in a bid to relieve personal economic hardships abroad using a “game” known as Elf Online, an MMORPG in which people get together, set up shops, and do quests with each other while an unknown entity reaps the unseen profits funneled in when users are forced to purchase in-game items in order to advance their characters.

In Elf Online, U.S. currency is traded for worthless in-game items and charm potions (US $20) that give users “1500 affection”, a meaningless statistic that arbitrarily changes a pet’s willingness to do what one says. Pets are “captured” for US $20 and offer no in-game advantages.

The official Elf Online Forums have fallen into disuse as one spammer by the name of “SidorooloFrom” generated thirty-five pages worth of posts containing links to pornography, pharmaceutical advertisements, and internet dating sites that don’t really exist.

Investigation reports broken English and poorly put-together sentences throughout the game, even on the opening screen, where the user must click, “STRAT GAME” in order to enter the mysteriously empty Elven world.

The website, happymmo.com, which is almost unnavigable due to its poor English and sparse Chinese dropdown menus, is registered to Chinese citizen Lin Yong, a known scam-artist and child pornographer who has not been publicly available for comment since May, 2008, when users began demanding both forum and in-game moderation in the wake of neglect.

Dick, Dedication, and the American Dream


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.

Internet Relay Call fails again

Roanoke, Va.–The popularly abused text-to-voice communications system AT&T designed to allow deaf or mute people to talk via telephone has scandalously resurfaced. People who are either too poor or too lazy to keep up with a monthly phone bill also find the sit-on-your-ass-and-type convenience appealing. However, the internet took a turn for the worst today when Internet Relay Call failed as a person with functional vocal chords and eardrums attempted to place a call to a local friend, who was aware of the caller’s ability to speak and hear.

“The conversation began very rudely,” the call’s recipient explained. “First, I say hello, like I always do, and some jerk-off interrupts me asking if I know how to use his service. This isn’t like rocket science, or trying to pay a U-Scan machine at Wal-Mart. This is Internet Relay Call. Every educated heap of flesh this side of Hell knows how to use Relay Call. Anyway, he [the jackass at the phone company] kept talking and talking, so I said ‘yes, I understand’ to get him to shut up. He said nothing after that, and he wouldn’t even answer me when I tried to talk to him. I asked him, ‘what now?’ He just kept saying, ‘sir, we can’t be having this conversation; please say ‘go ahead’.” Astoundingly, the recipient said he repeated “go ahead” several times with no results until finally the communication collapsed and the recipient was forced to hang up, frustrated and humiliated. “I don’t know why he won’t just get a regular phone like everyone else.”

Due to abuse of both the free online service and its relay assistants, AT&T’s Internet Relay Calling will be permanently shutting down within the next nine days.