BITING REVIEW: I just watched Those Sandusky Boys, the finest piece of investigative journalism there’s ever been since the Watergate scandal revealed Richard M. Nixon routinely trafficked little boys into the White House.
[Editor’s note: This was the biggest little boy scandal until Penn. State’s Coach Sandusky proved it could be more easily done with free tickets and promises to meet certain heroes in the shower room]
Stan Marivan, main character of the Hollywood blockbuster Those Sandusky Boys, which grossed $40 million on its opening weekend, plays himself: an Internet millionaire working for chronicle.su who donates half of his earnings to right-wing conservative hackers in the form of bitcoins. Marivan said the film incorporates fictional elements to make it more interesting, such as bitcoins being worth something.
“I’ve experimented with men before,” said Marival. “But I have a girlfriend. I am very interested in the things I can do to her, sexually.”
Marival is like M. Night Shamalayanayea except he’s talented and the only twist he needs is a titty twist as he’s getting his rocks off so he can bust a nut up inside his girlfriend and Those Sandusky Boys.
Attorneys are awash with litigation pertaining to the film’s sensitive subject and refusal to change the names of neither the perpetrator nor his victims. “But all in all,” Marival said, “It’s just a bunch of whatever, we’re making money. Shit.” Marival threw up his hands and squatted so hard he tore the ass out of his khaki slacks, and shat liquid projectile feces directly into his own rare human-face carpeting in the Whollywood Whills.
Marival yelled to a woman named Henrietta, attaching profanities in Spanish, and pointed to the brown stains in his living room. The woman exhaled a whimpering cry, and wallowed in it.
Andrew Breitbart’s stringy gray hair was greased back with sweat as he loomed over a child, heaving and groaning. In his shadow, the small boy covered his naked shame with both hands and fixed his eyes on the wall, where a picture of Jesus was hung. He was supposed to meet a star.
Through blurry tears, the fresh boy pleaded silently into a haze of pastel colors, bargaining with the figure in a helpless bid to take away the blinding pain he knew was coming again, and again. The picture, slightly a shift, just stared back.
“Please,” he mewed. “Don’t.”
Breitbart reached under his well-fed and sagging One Percent gut where he fished around in an area of fat – barely distinguishable as a human crotch – to release his flaccid member from an outcropping of silvery pubic hair, and he peed on the child. Neither said a word.
Breitbart wiped coke from his mustache, then lost his balance, collapsing into sturdy hotel furniture, driving a chair into the wall with a thud and a smoker’s cough. He quickly regained his composure, squinting to combat double vision toward the bed where a guest with backstage passes cowered palely in the fetal position. Across the floral pattern of a posh Hilton comforter, the child seemed a rare delicacy served up on a platter of foliage among which he was the flower.
“Spread ‘em,” commanded Breitbart through the darkness. “Roll over, and spread.”
The boy looked about seven, or maybe nine. His dad was a staunch supporter of the Second Amendment and admired Breitbart’s throbbing tirades against the Fourth Estate, who just lie to propagate the Jewish agenda. “Nothing but the best for my boy! Let him spend an afternoon with a real American hero, and see what a modern businessman does.” This was nothing new. The man was secretly afraid his son might be “turning into a faggot,” so he once bought him passes to the New York Giants locker room after their 2012 victory against the Patriots.
The boy rolled over and, with uncomfortable familiarity, did as he was told.
“Mm, good,” burped Breitbart, pumping his limp genitalia. “Now what does Daddy say about Reagan? You know the presidents, boy?”
“Reagan was a good president!” he recited tremulously.
“He was the best!” roared the conservative orator. “He won the fucking Cold War. He beat the Commies!” Breitbart was now sporting a self-supporting second stage erection, which he aimed at the child. But the young boy had not proven his loyalty to Reagan well enough to satisfy Breitbart.
“You like Star Wars?” Breitbart cajoled the child who still lay submissively on the bed. “Like the movies?”
“I like Jar Jar,” he said in a lighter tone. His muscles relaxed as the TV star and author appealed to his love for science fiction.
“Yeah, Ronald Reagan knew Star Wars. And with it, he scared those rubes into submission!” Breitbart pulsated, allowing a single drop of conviction to seep out, forming a clear bead. “Thanks to Ronald Reagan, we didn’t have to fire a shot.”
“Reagan liked Star Wars?” The boy was confused.
Breitbart dropped to his knees on the bed and positioned himself directly over the quivering mass of dry, supple flesh, which assumed innocent passivity. And reeking of fermentation, Andrew breathed hotly into his left ear, “Yeah. Reagan liked Star Wars.”
I am extremely high on opiates, and this is being written from a hospital bed. Beautiful women involved. I am a ray of pure light energy, eternal love, a message of hope for the deaf, a line of sight for those blinded by their own insecurities, propensity for greed destroyed – I am the One. Listen.
I was doing vince in the bay when some bitch came a knockin’ at my front door. some bitch named chest pains and shortness of breath.
I wanted to troll you all and say, “Folks, I’m dying…” but that’s only as funny as Hell actually existing and me asking to go there. Folks, I’m going to survive to see another many years of this headlong shitshoot we call life and I am just fine with that.
Today I laid with the most beautiful woman in the world – and she fed me grapes because I can’t raise my good grape-eating arm. I can’t even masturbate because one arm’s an IV-hub and the other is crippled by the pain of today’s surgery. The pain feels good, though, because opiates are the answer.
I love that woman. She is everything you could ever ask for in a very best friend, plus gorgeous long black wavy hair whose silhouette spider-webbed my indigo window picture and re-taught me the joys and appreciation of the limitless beauty of the human figure in her everyday power.
Well, lovers of the night, I was sidetracked by a beautiful young woman on the Internet just now. So my rhythm is fucked. Also I’m totally loaded on pills and I am becoming a sleepy vessel of nature, trawling down the stream of consciousness – looking for fireflies.
I’m pretty fucking tired of the egotistical free wrong-hood of the Internet, the failures of prominent leaders and the realization that some people only become well known because they’re famous at sucking. Like whores.
I’m the newest writer to come out in support of – fuck, I forgot. This note’s about to lose its structure fast.
I’m the leader of black operations of a peaceful and pleasant nature. A rebellion of the self, by the self – for the self. We are all children born into the human condition which most people agree gets worse every second, if you look at the corporate bottom-fucking of every man, woman and child with a gleam of hope in their eyes for something better, something good. Something pure. You can die, they’ll help.
Sell ya poisoned food regulated by the same FDA that turns around and stuffs you full of the medicines they approve to keep the population drugged dumb and full of fear. What will happen if I don’t take this drug? I can deal with the fact that American political leaders have manipulated the “debate” of whether or not national health care plan can ever be implemented – but America is one of the only countries in the world where you can watch the “news” and are told at least once per commercial break to “ask your doctor about [insert drug here, in your ass because we’re fucking you with it.]”
They’ll also help you die by feeding pointless, useless “news” media into your useless faces day by night.
They’ll also kill you by enforcing and regulation ignorance upon yourselves and your family. Political career suicide should not be an excuse not to do the right thing, to vote in the decent manner. NOR should 45-year-old hard-working pipe-fitting, gas-pumping, home-constructing Americans accept such an excuse. “Oh, he could lose his hundred thousand dollar per year job if he voted for workers to have a bump in their minimum wages. That would be career suicide. He could go from making $100,000 per year to making $80,000 and having less power to abuse. I understand why my quality of life doesn’t improve; and because I understand that, I’ve already accepted it because I have become conditioned to equate information or thoughts which appear to be of my own manifestation – but are in fact someone else’s implanted by the globalsocioeconomic warmachine – with unchangeable fact that can never be overturned. And I’d be a fool for thinking otherwise. That is not what my neighbors do. That is not the example by which my parents lead. That is the example set by two generations of reinforced patterning and distorted reward systems that perpetuate ever-lowering expectations of the self and at the same time devalue hard work.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I believe the only answer is to commit political career homicide, rather than hold out hope that one day someone white-haired fuckhead in thick glasses will suffer a stroke of humanity – or worse – goodwill toward men.
Am I inciting violence toward elected officials? No. But do I endorse it? Hell yes.
I encourage readers to write in and share your dissent, disillusionment and condemnation of your very own government(s) which have corrupted their figureheads, convoluted our collective unconscious and create self-propagating cynicism, narcissism and other social diseases stemming from total lack of empathy and represented by a national bloodlust and call to action against one high-profile babykiller and not an entire army of them.
Fuck the power. Discuss it here. Fight it now. Form the revolution.
Hoses dropped from a chemotherapy bag stretch around a rosary and into the blood-soaked needle-fed arm of Shaemarie Skaggs, whose hand clutches the withering flower of life.
It is just after sunset when I pull into the front yard of the budding Clarksville artist’s home. Clarksville, Tennessee is the worst town I’ve ever been to. The chance to interview an artist is a relief from the brown solitude that comes with living in a dry, burned-out military town. I wonder how creativity can flourish in a place like this. How can she?
As instructed, I call to inform Shaemarie that I have arrived and I approach her front door. It’s a beautiful McMansion nestled within a sloping subdivision. If I hadn’t seen the other homes driving in, I’d be inclined to believe it’s a real original piece of modern architecture. It is the same as the others if not slightly different. It is a floor plan. From up high, I can see the lights from Wal-Mart, Kroger and whatever else every town keeps along Commercial Avenue.
She says we can’t do the interview here – this is where she lives and takes care of her mother who recently suffered a stroke.
We drive around the neighborhood as I look for an exit out of Skaggs’ labyrinthine subdivision. Right away, she unfolds a picture of her arm with a rosary and chemotherapy supplies, and jumps right into explaining it to me.
Pointing to her artwork, Skaggs tells the story as she’s told it countless times before. She says flatly during her chemotherapy treatments, this picture hung on her wall as an expression of her own humanity – but that she took joy from others’ reactions to it.
“The doctors would come in and freak out, and I thought it was really funny when they’d freak out and shit,” she says. “I like how I wrapped it around the cross because I just hate religion.”
Skaggs was diagnosed December 2009 with Hodgkin’s lymphoma, a cancer originating from white blood cells. Shortly thereafter she drew a relatively simplistic self-portrait featuring peeled-back skin and decay of a long-haired vixen – a living corpse aware of her own mortality.
“It was really bothersome, but that was the point,” she says, looking out the window of my truck as we sit at a stop light. Then came a long silence.
We are headed toward a spot with free wi-fi where Shaemarie says we’ll access more of her artwork. She changes the subject to me and my work. I oblige but keep it ground-level, explaining that I’m a writer and editor. While booming down Clarksville’s main drag to the finer cuts of Led Zeppelin II, the sexy young artist asks more specifically what else I do besides interviewing her.
I explain how I write politics and local government articles for the newspaper, which gets her onto the subject of President Barack Obama and the superficial similarities between his efforts and those of Franklin D. Roosevelt. FDR’s New Deal may have gotten us out of the Great Depression, but Skaggs believes Obama is an actor.
“He’s trying to make it look good and doing this whole cover on it, like, ‘Oh, everything’s going to be fine,’ but really it’s starting to suck. It’s a fake aspect that he’s making everything look good but it’s not.”
-Skaggs, on President Barack Obama
“He’s trying to make it look good and doing this whole cover on it, like, ‘Oh, everything’s going to be fine,’ but really it’s starting to suck. It’s a fake aspect that he’s making everything look good but it’s not.”
She says her grandfather was a lawyer for a Philippine president while his daughter spied against him, causing controversy within her family and within the nation. She says her pursuit of liberal arts made her a black sheep when everyone else went into politics or has an “amazing job” as educators and government employees.
“It’s because we [Skaggs and her sister] are liberal and – ‘Fuck the government’,” says Skaggs, “And because we grew up in a stern family and we’re just like anti-everything.”
By now, we’ve reached our Internet source where Shaemarie discovers she can find specific Tumblr compositions through a simple Google search. She exclaims, “Google is a fucking creeper!”
Skaggs is exceptionally proud of one of her pieces of writing, which was reblogged by a website called The Whiskey Monologues and subsequently reviewed by its followers. The piece is about a drunken night of indiscriminate sex with an unnamed lover, notable for its sensual, emotive language and highly-revealing self-analysis midway through the exposé on passion itself.
Shaemarie is forever affected by cancer, emotionally if not physically. Skaggs’ friend, Cara Roman, who she called “a fiesty little thing,” died July 2010 after a four-year battle with leukemia.
“She was my friend before I got cancer, I used to visit her all the time. And then one day I showed up to her hospital room and told her I have cancer. We both cried. I was the only one who spoke at her funeral. She was the closest person I had. She was so alive.”
Shaemarie says she will seek a liberal arts degree from Austin Peay State University but for the time being cares for her ailing mother at their shared home in suburban Clarksville.
Like a flash in a pan, the blinking of an eye, a star’s lifespan and all the time in the sky – Shaemarie Skaggs taught me that expression is only as beautiful as the time we have to appreciate it. That memories last as long as we can remember them, lest we mark them down.
On a long enough timeline, all things are finite, no matter what efforts we as human beings make to archive, categorize and chisel them into stone. On a short-enough timeline, all things last forever.
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?”
In the heart of a black sun morning, my chest was pouring my love adoringly over you, but
In the overcast overmind soul decay, the tooth aloof amassed fast to say what’s real is only phony.
All’s baloney, Jim Mahoney!
Come what may, the preachers pray Karl Malone, he shoots a three and earns him lots of money ’cause my bet is on the pony.
Sick dilution soul’s pollution come come come on restitution
’cause this destitution’s tripping me
Out on the fields of sea lions and seals
I’m looking for the Walrus, man the bridge, is out and Paul, Ringo, and Saul of the Molemen, please, come in.
The Chronicle speaks and leaks truth and disease, mal-ease and pleases the masses
to hear what they fear on deaf ears and dead eyes,
paralyzed by marketing, advertised lies, loan sharking and bastardized
the size of a scene in a dream that seems brighter, beautiful, more green
than previously perceived, deceived by the president, relieved by the precedent,
set crescent moon in the view of the smog, over pogs, peace frogs and hippies with the drip,
acid tripping, time perception clipping, nation-overstepping
conglomeration double-pacing human devolution
loss of the thumb, get dumb, watch crack, listen to choosic, it’s a revolution.
And lose it, drink beer, this bud’s for you, the blue’s clues, it’s
Bred to bleed these thoughts, get taught that your brain rots
swallow, chug, belch and absorb salt, Heart’s shot, here’s a shot
And prescription, no description of what it is or what it’s not.
Don’t sell yourself short, get bought, Stamped and dated,
register yourself online and get rated,
And in just in case it wasn’t plainly stated,
Your ass belongs to Lebal Drocer Incorporated.
“You better watch out. She’ll lay that pussy on you.”
Drinking beers, sharing fears. Drunk and eager women splay themselves across me while the fire burns our legs. And I look into her eyes to find lust and distrust, and an attitude of despondency coupled with belligerence, if it feels good.
It’s open season on the American way of life. The FBI can safely and legally plant tracking devices on your car now. Until it goes to the Supreme Court, which it might never, it’s legal – even if “outlawed” it will go on. Who enforces the law? The criminal dogs that oversee us.
Fraudulence infects every facet of human behavior, life, and lies are the ethical way, so as not to hurt or dismiss another’s potential to suck you off.
Fuck this fake-ass charade, puppeteer conglomerate meltdown frenzy. Millions of Americans ready to work and can’t get shit off the ground. Credit bubble human enslavement crisis not only on the horizon but in our faces. In our blood, in our bank accounts, the freedom virus lives, breeds, counter intuitively thrives on your ignorance, and pattern of submission.
The government knows what you do, where you sleep. Get your cars checked out. If you’re trouble, then you’re watched. Of course, you’re not trouble. You just write stupid shit. Bomb shit.
If you write anything at all, which you don’t.
Empty notebooks stare back at you in a jealous fit, so eager to be full as you, and yet so blank and pathetic. Like you.
Executive Editor, Senior Coordinator of Staff for Lebal Drocer Incorporated, and janitor James Galloway indefinitely crippled the popular search engine Google this morning.
“I typed Google into Google and then Google turned off,” the 23-year-old transvestite explained to reporters moments ago outside his home.
Galloway, whose hobbies include dividing by zero and asking “Why?” told the press he feels no remorse for Google’s “horrible foresight,” what he alleges “got them into this mess in the first place.”
“How could they not see this coming?” James asked The Elf Wax Times. “I mean, the Googlebot Googles Google. Shouldn’t Google?”
Following James’ keen sense of observation, for which he is well-known, The Elf Wax Times dug a little bit deeper. A little bit deeper. A little bit dirtier – into the shitstorm swirling out for thousands of miles in every direction from directly over top of the Googleplex.
Elf Wax Times’ top computer scientist, Jerry Chevrolet, was called in by Google for expert analysis of the controversial dilemma. Professor Chevrolet said Google is locked into an infinite loop. “It will not stop Googling itself now until someone can unplug it,” he warned. “But there are just so many damn wires back there, we don’t know which one is which.”
Fortunately, the eye of the “Googlestorm” as scientists have dubbed it, is as calm as a Buddhist whorehouse. Still, workers on site are hesitant to pull any plugs until they know what they are.
“We’re trying to avoid having to reset the timer on the VCR,” explained one on-scene technician in the most non-metaphorical way possible.
The Googlestorm has reportedly ruined what little bit of fun was left from Silly-Tie Tuesday for offices around the area and could bleed into Casual Friday, pending the outcome of the unexplainable swirling storm of computer shit in the sky overhead.
Elf Wax Human Rights Watchdogs report the incident has “changed nothing” for Africans, adding if more money were sent to the continent for those little green computers and wi-fi access, then they could join in the world’s frustration at the loss of Google.
Google CEO Johnny Cocaine said, “They’re a strong people. If anybody can take it, they can. I hear Africans, like most humans, can be forced into things. So we want to force them to love Google, that way they still feel the loss even though they never knew what it was.”
Google is calling this branch of AdSense AdPsyche, because it develops a psychological “proto-love” synthesized out of the hardcore manipulation of pure human emotion, playing on people’s fears they may have killed God and any remaining knowledge of Him.
Churches are filling at a record pace, many overflowing into the streets and parking lots as people turn to their primitive roots seeking answers because Ask.com still sucks.
“It used to be Google had all the answers. Now, we come here for answers. I get on my knees and pray to God, “how to google without google,” and I can’t hear the Lord’s search results, ’cause all these other sons of bitches are out-praying me, and that’s fucked up.”
Many citizens have begun petitioning the Lord with prayer for Prayer Neutrality, arguing no prayer should have priority over any other prayer, and prayer traffic should move in the order it is received, and never discriminated against based on where it comes from. Unfortunately, these people do not have enough money or political power to talk to the Lord so they are largely ignored.
You never know when your time is gonna come,” said Peter Sullivan, a 43-year-old carpet-cleaner, adding “I just hope and pray my time comes soon, because I am in Hell already.” He then brandished a gun, pointing it at reporters before turning it on himself and asked everyone to clear the home while he “does some cleansing.”
Some people go insane gradually, others snap all at once, killing thirty to forty people in extreme cases. Incidents of suicide are a terse forewarning of the ever-nearing apocalypse of information.
More as this develops for the first time ever without Google’s oversight.
Richmond, Va.–“Protesters” gathered behind the VCU Student Commons last week where they rallied around their anti-hate values.
Automatically failing to realize being anti-anything is a form of hate in itself, students and activists, mostly lesbians, unquestioningly stood around holding signs carrying messages of peace, or of hatred for anti-loving attitudes.
The demonstration was staged as a counter-protest to the Westboro Baptist Church picket in front of the Holocaust Museum, where cold Richmonders apathetically gazed on in bewilderment at how religious fanatics are still more educated on current events than themselves.
“Where are the Westboro Baptists?” our reporter asked a bystander shortly after arriving at the event, which was heavily publicized on the social fuckworking site Facebook.
“Oh, they aren’t here. They were at the Holocaust Museum earlier today around twelve,” replied the hate-hating lesbian whose sign read “I SAW FRED PHELPS NAKED AND NOW I’M A LESBIAN.”
That’s right. Nobody saw each other, in spite of the fact one group gathered as a counter-protest to the other. You can’t make this up. Let’s consult a map.
WBC were at the Holocaust Museum, denying the Holocaust on behalf of Iranian Dictator Ahmedinejad. It sounded like a good spot to rally, so why didn’t any counter-protesters with signs show up there instead of between school buildings where nobody could see them?
“I believe the museum asked people not to bring signs and keep that sort of thing on the downlow,” said Midlothian resident Niki S. who did not attend the counter-protest because “it sounded lame.”
And it was. There were choirs preaching to choirs, singing the gospel of their anti-hate agenda.
“I am proud to see so many of you come out today. Your unity restores my faith in people, even though, uh, you have shown up where there is no specific concept to get behind, you have all still come together. And that so many of you showed up tells me something.” -male speaker who bravely attempted to intellectually justify ambiguities of the peace protest
Most everyone stood in a semi-circle around a group of people holding signs with one word per person that read “VCU STANDS TOGETHER AGAINST HATE”, holding their signs up pointed at each other, apparently protesting themselves.
Soviet-Russia was well-represented. Enthusiastic Communists held a flag over the banner facing toward the podium. They said it represents freedom. Our reporter agreed.
This event was actually so bad we took equally bad video footage so you could believe it for yourselves. We’ll post it as soon as it’s ready.
Some girl got on the microphone and said, “You do not have to be a rug for someone to walk on with their big, muddy, hate-filled boots,” and that was the last thing Elf Wax could stick around to report. Not because it was intolerably stupid, which it most certainly was, but because we were illegally-parked and the meter-maids have a personal vendetta to kill our reporters slowly with towing fees and child molestation charges.
[Editor’s note: he was acquitted of those charges.]
In conclusion, VCU’s silly bring-a-crazy-sign-day is an insult to all forms of protest and serves only to de-legitimize true protest when people who really stand up for what they believe in aren’t taken seriously, diluting the effects of actual protesting around real problems like war, genocide, and corporate takeovers.
Do you people even realize what you did? You made stupid signs and stood around other people who made stupid signs and fucking pretended to protest. Some of you wore iPods. This is what people associate with protest now – masturbatory, self-serving meandering that gets literally nothing done. It literally brings tears to my eyes to recall the memories of how you “protested” on that day. Oh Lord you people are terrible. Get fucked.
Do you want to stage a protest? Get a can of gasoline, make an effigy of members of your local government – or who cares, Obama – and get to work. Don’t let the word ‘work’ scare you dirty anarchohippies, because you will gather enough supporters by simply copy-pasting Elf Wax onto posterboard and ranting it continuously over a burning Dennis Kucinich doll. This kind of work does itself, gets results, and gets you fucking laid, bitch.
Once you have been forced off the grid by your legal obligations to the uprising, you will find support in Lebal Drocer’s password-protected, hyper-encrypted closed local networks in key underground areas that will be emailed to you by the [email protected] listserv when the time is right.
So protest is ruined. However, a molotov-cocktail through the back windshield of a squad car has always sent a stronger message than protest songs, anyway. Why’d we ever stop that?
This is Elf Wax Times signing off, requesting violent revolution.
If you want the change you had in mind while voting for Obama, you’re going to have to organize yourselves and take it by force – Elf Wax style. Then, maybe one day the pawns might become the knights, and we will ride together, storm the white house gates, the corporate high-rises, closed-off hotels, and Silicon Valley boutiques, and our new order will force the king to cook for us and the queen will serve as the town’s newest whore, and our skin will become greasy and tight, our souls shut off by the newfound power vested in our elected military leaders by the gun and hand grenades; until we become uglier than the pigs we overthrew; coups-d’etats will occur on a near-weekly basis heralding the collapse of Western Civilization once and for all under the suffocating forces of newly-required anarchosocialism that just won’t seem to work no matter who we kill. So go to the grocery store and don’t forget Hot Pockets…and posterboard.