A Social Experiment

Some bitch using the myspace angles
Something like that

I was 18 years old when I agreed to meet up with a fat girl I met on the Internet. I think I met her on myspace. Up until that point, I’d never even hung out with fat girls, because I didn’t have many fat friends.

She was from my hometown, just three hours away, and apparently she’d seen my band play live while I was still in high school. Also, she read my website and followed the controversy behind how it went down. So she claimed to know me and, after a few phone calls, was very interested in seeing me.

‘What could it hurt?’ I thought. I said okay. She seemed nice, and her voice was cute. Besides, why be down on someone just because she’s heavy, right?

She arrived in town shortly after I gave her the okay to come out and John – my roommate and best friend at the time – offered to help us out by meeting her at her car and driving us back to the dorm together.

We parked and walked casually down the sidewalk toward the street where she was parked. Then, he spotted her about a second before I did and asked, “That’s her, isn’t it?”

I fought the urge to grimace and forced myself to continue smiling. “Yep, that’s her,” I replied through gnashing teeth.

John laughed.

And on that fateful February evening, as the girl lumbered toward me, wearing flip-flops and a light hoodie, I braced myself for what would turn out to be twelve laborious hours of tolerance. It was then I knew nothing about this night could be romantic.

On the car ride home, she told us how difficult it was to navigate through Richmond, because of all the one-way streets. John and I stared silently forward, but I knew it was important to keep the mood light so I pulled out a pipe, and some marijuana.

“Oh muh Gawd!” the fat girl exclaimed. “I only done this like once before, so don’t y’all laugh at me.”

‘She didn’t sound this southern on the phone,’ I remember thinking. ‘Why is it coming out now?’ And that is how I learned that some people – when put in unfamiliar situations – will revert to a simpler version of themselves, as a sort of defense mechanism.

And it works, because I realized even though she can talk like a regular person when she wants to, she is a bumpkin at heart and no matter what happens, I’d better just go easy on her – as in, no intense debates, no really deep conversations. She’s already in the “big city” and I wouldn’t want to rattle her cages.

We all got stoned and talked about our favorite bands. LSD came up during the conversation, too.

For security reasons, my dormitory required visitors to be signed in, and in order to do that you have to fill out a few lines in their binder and leave your identification at the desk. This gave the security guards plenty of time to look us up and down and make assumptions.

As I handed ID cards over to the security guard, I detected an air of superiority from him. I could feel him judging me. But I was also very stoned – and as John and I had only very recently discovered LSD, I had become overtly aware of every little vibration – or so it would seem. Or maybe I was.

The three of us got up to the dorm and listened to Kyuss, smoked some more weed and discussed our ambitions. Mine include fame; John wants money; the RA wants to know what that smell is; and the girl was so stoned she didn’t know her name.

On that note, I wish I could remember her name so I don’t keep referring to her as ‘the girl.’ It was something like Lynn, and Laura Lynn makes bread, which is food, which fat people love to eat, so from now on I’ll call her ‘Lynn.’

John left to meet our friends – and not wanting to be seen in public with my adoring bumbling behemoth, I offered to stay back at the dorm and just hang out for a while. Quickly shutting down was my naive open-mindedness I had going into the night.

Finally alone, I was afraid her eyes might fall hungrily upon me and I would have to fight off the bear. But I’d clearly suffocated Lynn’s ego with weed, an effect I had not foreseen but was eternally grateful for. Recognizing the benefits of intoxication, I offered her a beer; however, it was not beer that she wanted. Nay. What does the beast require? She squealed out in ecstasy when I offered her a Little Debbie cake from behind the mini-fridge.

“Ooooh eeeee! AHHH! OH my GOD!” Lynn shrieked, tearing into the packaging. I felt almost as sorry for the little snack treat as I did for her.

She gorged herself on junk food and flopped onto my bed, grinding her filthy black feet into the pillow, where I lay my face at night. I watched in disgust as she wallowed around on my bed like a dry manatee. The situation was worrisome but I still found it hard to hate someone willing to go in on a ten-strip of acid with me even though she’d never tried it. For that I figured there must be something to her, some insightful spirit that needs nurturing, as we all do, and at the very least I could be friends with someone like that.

I had a paper due the following morning so I told her I needed to get to work, and she passed out quickly. Over the course of the next three or four hours, I finished her beer, wrote my paper and smoked more dank marijuana.

Then she woke up again, hungrier than a hell-hound and quite vocal about it.

I had no real food, and I was hungry too, so we decided to walk down to the 7-eleven. I knew Lynn’s visit to Richmond was the most walking she’d done up until this point in her teenage life. Her flip-flops made an aggravating “suck-pop!” noise as she followed behind me and we strutted boldly down a frigid, windy Main Street. I felt bad for her. I would’ve offered her my jacket but it was too small to fit her.

And then all at once, within 18 minutes and 45 seconds, my sympathy for this person disappeared rapidly.

We walked in the front door of the convenience store and I headed straight for the back of the line, which is very long the closer you wait until midnight. Suddenly my hairs stood on end as I heard her squealing like an injured beast behind me. “Sweet Jesus,” I said aloud, and turned to look at her.

“Oh my gawd!” she screamed. “These Cheetohs turn your mouth blue!”

I got hot in the face, turning bright red and I tried to pretend like I didn’t know her.

After ravaging the Cheetohs display, Lynn cut ahead of a guy standing in line with a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, to stand beside me. He politely said nothing but I could sense his annoyance. We awaited our turn to order Taquitos from the bar and, seeing as how I am a gentlemen and the bitch had already cut in line, I let the lady order first.

She demanded cream cheese Taquitos. He said they weren’t ready, but all the others were. She rose her voice and used my name, saying, “James! Can you believe they don’t have my favorite Taquitos? What kind of fucking 7-eleven is this? Arright, gimme the taco kind.” My asshole tightened, forming diamonds.

“Would you like three Taquitos for $3.33?” the man asked her.

She shook her head irritably. “Oh yeah, I want that. James, tell ‘im what you want sugar. Maybe they got what you like.” She bent over, placing one hand on the counter and the other on her equator, “‘Cause they sure as shit ain’t got what I like.” As if crippled by grief, she stared over her little bags of chemically-enhanced Cheetohs strewn across the counter.

I looked to my right, where at least ten people stood watching and waiting. The man holding PBR was now amused. I looked back at the clerk as I gripped the counter with both hands, afraid that I might lose control at any moment. Suddenly the idea of even ordering Taquitos was embarrassing. ‘What’s in this shit?’ I thought. ‘It’s probably giving me cancer. Diabetes. I am a disgusting human being. What the fuck.’ I mumbled my order to the clerk, swiped my credit card and almost left before he gave me my food.

On the way back, Lynn ignored a homeless person. He asked her for change and she pretended not to hear him.

“Hey wassup man? Your girl can’t talk?” He demanded an answer while approaching me with haste.

“I guess she didn’t hear you,” I said, and gave him a dollar.

“You could’ve said something to that guy,” I prodded.

“Yeah I know, but I never had bums ask me for money,” she explained. “I don’t know how to respond to that.”

“You just say ‘I don’t have it.'” I was nearly in disbelief at this point.

“But I do have money, silly!”

I said nothing.

I suffered through the excruciating pain of signing her in once again, making fat jokes in my head.

‘Will I need to sign her in as more than one guest? Maybe there’s a weight limit since I’m on the top floor.’

While writing her name in the book, I heard her wolf down at least one whole Taquito. By this point, I didn’t even care anymore. I just wanted the night to end.

As I typed away on my paper, Lynn sprawled out on the bed, dirty feet on my pillow once again, eating Cheetohs and yawning her mouth at me. From her open maw slid an indigo-blue tongue, flecked with orange pieces of Cheetoh.

“Blaeegh! Is my tongue blue?” she asked gleefully.

“Yeah, it’s like you ate dye.”

“Nuh-uh!” She ran into the bathroom to see for herself. “It is! Oh m’god, it’s so blue!”

 

 

Historical evidence that fat girls like gimmicky Cheetohs

We smoked some more marijuana, had a few beers and I blew her away with some very basic political discussion. I took this opportunity to transition into the social revolution of the 1960s, and then got her talking about acid.

I told her $20 would get her two hits of acid, and I’d just mail it to her after I bought the ten-strip. She said alright and eventually fell asleep.

I kept her money and took all the acid myself.

Apart from the occasional, “Where are my drugs or money?” emails, which came in for a few weeks and then stopped, I never saw or heard from Lynn, ever again.

Why I can't do Facebook

I hate my conscience

Okay, there are some things in life you just can’t pass up. I almost clicked the Comment button. Seriously. And what do I have to lose? I should have just done it, but now it’s not funny anymore. Or maybe it was never funny. Or maybe it would just hurt that girl’s feelings because she is not who she used to be and I should not enforce a negative image upon her in front of everyone we’ve ever known personally, and my friends would say, “Come on, man, seriously?” and then I’d feel something called remorse.

That’s because I am a conscious, thinking man with the impulses of a terribly cruel bastard. Meh. What goes around comes around. I’ll get mine one day, but that day hasn’t come yet.

That being said, let’s talk a little shit about Facebook:

A lot’s changed since the last time I used it.

Why is it now considered stalking to look at someone’s profile?

Maybe I’m fucking interested. Am I a stalker now? In high school I dated this girl with a stalker and we didn’t have Facebook yet; in fact, myspace hadn’t even come out yet. What we did have was the telephone, and her back yard where we’d find him standing from time to time. That’s a stalker. This is a website and read this little factoid hot off the news feed: YOU CHOSE TO PUT YOUR INFORMATION ON IT.

I honestly don’t see what’s wrong with camping on a girl’s profile who you like and spamming F5 for hours at a time, or even all day. If that makes me a Facebook stalker, then I’m a Facebook stalker and my wrist hurts.

Why am I a “creeper” for hitting on girls with it?

Because if you do something as simple as using a communication device on a dumb girl, that word comes out. It’s not that sophisticated, honey. I didn’t go out of my way. Not for you. Maybe I can’t find what they call a good girl (which may or may not actually exist) at the bar because her face looks like a leather bag with a cigarette hanging out of it. Maybe I don’t find them at parties because *whore* Maybe I don’t find them where I work because they only hire men to do my job. Although, there is that one cute chick…but she’s a cocktease with a vendetta.

“WHORES AREN’T THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO GO TO PARTIES, MR. SMART ASS ELF WAX WRITER FOR THE INTERNET, MR. I FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING, MR. I CAN’T GET LAID SO I GO ONLINE AND RAGE ABOUT IT.”

Point taken. Still, fuck that.

I operate Facebook like a vast net, trawling the murky unknown for a good conversation, intelligent insight, a funny joke, adding strangers in the hopes of discovering a classy broad who isn’t afraid to go out on a limb and meet a religious rapist-murderer zealot she talks to online. Because I looove to rape me some bitches. So what if I filter out all the ladies except those whose relationship status has just changed to “single”? That’s how you find the ripe ones!

brb jerking off to facebook

Why do people refuse to hang out with me and then have three-hour conversations with me across Facebook?

Maybe it’s because I’ve always been friends with lazy stoners. Or they just don’t like me, which pretty much invalidates our friendship status. -1 friend but there are still 257 left

“Wow asshole, you sure do have a lot of negative opinions about Facebook. Maybe you should stop using it?”

Maybe. But for now, I have developed a sort of perverted fondness for it – like Wal-Mart. Facebook bastardizes human interaction. Wal-Mart destroys local economies. I think the friendship economy is in a recession.

There is intrinsic value in the understanding and hatred of many things, and I encourage all of you to attack something or someone you hate today.

Now, I’m going out to throw some alcohol onto this roaring fire of rage and then I’ll come back to report its effects.

This has been brought to you by Lebal Drocer

“Facebook is garbage.”

-Mike Odum

Edit: I’m home again. I did not drink too much, as I took a look around at my surroundings and into my glass and decided that I’m not reaching my full potential sitting at the bar around people I hate more than myspace. My perspective has not changed, but it did occur to me after some conversation on the matter that Facebook is occasionally used for its intended purpose, like catching up with an old friend after many years. However, my opinion that it is a cesspool of immeasurable proportions will never change, but only reinforce itself as that website gets older and more used, like the girls on it.

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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.

Social networking sites lead to 'pregnancy and marriage by age 23'

Mediocrity
Jan Lewis, 29, and Felix Mulholland, 32, finally look happy together in their 9th attempt at a positive Facebook profile picture they now share.

Everett, Wa. – A new study shows social networking websites such as MyPlace and Fakebook are responsible for up to sixty five percent of unwanted, accidental long-term relationships.

John Andrews, 24, is one of many Everett area residents who found themselves attached at the hip to the previously unimaginable dregs of society.

Andrews said, “It’s true love. Sure, it’s codependency, but we love it. Truly.”

Demographers are alarmed by the growth in pregnancies reported in the first quarter of 2009. Over “seventy five percent” were “secretly intentional,” because most of the girls found on these sites see themselves as being “too socially awkward” or too lacking of a “positive self-image” to continue dating casually as normal people have done in the eons leading up to the internet. “So they just lay on their backs and let their revolving-door-style reproductive systems trade commitment for responsibility.”

The breeding of lazy, insecure women has reached unprecedented levels which ALR scientists believe led to a spike in obesity. The FDA, or World’s Largest Conflict of Interest, has reported a sharp increase in consumer spending on trendy medical treatments such as liposuction and gastric bypass surgeries.

Dane Ginjuns, the 48-year-old FDA researcher famed as “the world’s most bribable man,” said there was a direct connection between the poisons we eat in our food and the medicines needed to treat long-term illnesses such as Britney Spears’ Disease (diabetes) and cancer, the leading cause of death for /b/.

Additionally, many of these women are unwanted to begin with and will probably have to settle on child support as a means of survival since their inherent laziness is what got them into this mess to begin with.” Ginjuns continued, “The rest of these womens’ lives will probably be spent in a dark room behind a computer screen while their smelly, unlovable bastard children raise themselves on Jerry Springer and Hot Pockets.” Ginjuns eyes then lit up as he became visibly excited, and exclaimed, “Good Lord! Cash cows, that breed cash cows. We’ve struck a fine balance, haven’t we? Just goes to show that in America, any dream really can come true, just so long as it’s rooted in corruption–I mean capitalism–I mean–aww hell!”

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.

AL QAEDA LEADER IN IRAQ NOT CAPTURED

On an unrelated note, the War will continue.The man suspected to be the Al Qaeda leader in Iraq was found snoozing in a house in the Northern city of Mosul. The man confessed to being the owner of the long, unpronounceable name shown above but the military has yet to confirm whether or not he’s a lying sack of shit. There’s a chance that these men are trained to lie about their rank in order to throw off our forces, but that’s why they’re working on figuring out exactly who he is. There is a bounty on his head for $5 million so if they wanted to save time figuring out whether or not he’s the man, a guard could check on him periodically from outside the cage to see if there is shit all down the backs of his legs.More as this story develops.

Elf Wax Update [Editor’s Edition]: I was right.

BAGHDAD — “We can confirm that we do not have al-Masri in custody,”Major Peggy Kageleiry,U.S.forces spokeswoman said today in an e-mail.Yes, that’s right, she sent out an e-mail.Sources say it was sent through the popular social networking site, MySpace, a Rupert Murdoch company.

You heard it yourselves.The $5 million man was not caught yesterday and what’s more is that U.S. forces believe he may have already been killed – twice – in the last two years, first during a raid on al-Anbar in October 2006 and later in the town of Taji on May 1, 2007 so it should come as no surprise, then, that they thought he was captured yesterday.Elf Wax Times Military Analcyst Harry Woodcock estimates that al-Masri will be “bombed, exploded, shot three times, and re-captured twice before 2010,” but Woodcock then warned that the man will remain “at large”.Military officials hail al-Masri’s resilience as “commendable” and are elevating him to the legendary status of Terror itself (the entity at whichAmericais indefinitely at war).In an Elf Waxclusive Interview, Major Kageleiry baldly stated:

“Despite being killed twice and now captured, al-Masri is still out there, like Terror, a creepin’ and a crawlin’, and a lurkin’ through Google Earth to learn the street patterns of America’s homeland subdivisions, so that Charlie may more effectively bring this War on Terror—I mean Freedom—no wait, I mean Terror, yeah, into your own back yard.You’re gonna edit that out, right?We’ll PATRIOT Act your ass!”

Until every terrorist leader, subordinate and grunt who may succeed his slaughtered Commanding Officer is eradicated, the War will continue unabated, or until someone realizes that shooting into the darkness at Specters is a waste of time, energy, morale and resources, and not to mention a failure in the application of logic to the art of war.It makes a country look pretty fucking dumb when it loses to itself in a war against nobody, standing out in the desert, swatting at invisible enemies before finally falling on its ass like a helpless drunk.But don’t blame the soldiers, those tough motherfuckers can’t help that their leaders are guided by tunnel-vision and fluked reasoning.Still, history has shown us that even a moron can successfully engage in war.Only a true fool, then, could take the most powerful military in the world and with it, break its master nation, the homeland, down into a nervously bumbling, on-edge State ofFearand Loathing.

This son of a bitching fuck-up in hasty judgment over al-Masri is just one more example of how this shit is allowed to go on.Either way, the message that leaks through the mass media looks like this:“We got a terrorist, oh wait, no we don’t, Terror’s still alive, we must keep fighting!” or “We captured a terrorist!The War on Terror is working, people.Remain complacent,America.The government is in control.”

When will you bastards learn to think for yourselves…?God in Heaven, save the Earth and bring on the Nukes, but leaveChinaout of this.All they know how to do is poison food.No, we need to Nuke something more poisonous, more dangerous, more contrary to human existence.BombIceland.

This is the War on Terror and expect more of it, Dear Readers, because our economy is not yet at its knees, no it’s only been whipped into a slump for now, but give it time and all that overhead swatting will finally throw us off-balance.Then we’ll really have a reason for war.The hungry will rise up, and challenge the guardians of what last little bit gas is left; gas that is now set to hit $4.00 by summertime (thank the gas companies for using the war as an excuse for added inflation).That will happen in your back yard, becauseAmerica is smartly, or perhaps not-so-smartly hording what will eventually be the last of the gas.So naturally, the safest place on earth at that time will be any small island, whichever is farthest from that crude shit.

On an unrelated note, the War will continue.

Experts Agree: Lakeland Girl Owned

Lakeland, Florida—Six malcontent teenage girls became popular yesterday – as per their goal, when they were filmed beating up best friend Victoria Lindsay and the video was subsequently uploaded to YouTube, a popular video sharing website on the Internet, a series of tubes used to connect telecom customers to a World Wide Web of pornography and jailbait videos such as this one.

In the video they can be seen increasing in popularity because you’re watching it.The victim is seen being beaten, punched in the face and having her head slammed heavily into a wall, all the while whining, screaming and complaining in astonishment that people would rise to a challenge.

Since filming the video, the popularity of the high school girl who slammed the victim’s head into the wall has soared tremendously, and even though the girls responsible for face detail could not clearly be seen throughout the entirety of the production, three of them are alleged to have “made some more friends,” whereas the female holding the camera has since received little public recognition for the reason that her face is visible only to the imagination.Throughout the journalism community, she is hailed for her courage in the line of duty and some photojournalists are citing this camerawoman’s badge of honor in place of any superficial fame; however, she has already expressed that the sacrifice of her own popularity is “worth it” in light of the purportedly higher popularity ratio of her friends, and the nationwide attention her video has received.

“I consider it a sacrifice to a good cause,” the teenager, who can not be named for legal reasons (but will be anyway) shared in an Elf Waxclusive Interview.“A lot of people take film seriously,” April Cooper explains, “but I just like filmin’ people gettin’ beat up on.”The mother of 14-year-old April “Fool’s” Cooper (as she’s now known in juvenile hall) feels differently. Mrs. Cooper expressed deep regret for her daughter’s actions when she heard she was to be tried as an adult, yet would gain little to almost no popularity at school.“It’s a God [dam] disgrace to social injustice inAmerica,” the woman exclaimed from within the bowels of her inaccessible trailer.“My daughter’s the reason that little strumpet’s famous, why ain’t we gettin’ no [royalties]?”

Expert anal lists have pieced together this composite sketch of what the heroic April “Fool’s” Cooper is thought to look like:

Forensic scientists say the steady gaze of a seasoned eye accounts for April’s natural ability to videotape violence.

The six females had two potent young men standing look-out in the front yard, “in case any do-gooders showed up,” says Mercades Nichols, one of the popular girls who beat upVictoria.Some thoughtful sympathizers have been leaving funny messages on Ms. Nichols’ phone which then got into the hands of Greta Van Sustren, a common whore who out of pity was given a primetime TV show onFOXNews.Also, plans could be heard through two separate voicemails, in which each male could be heard offering his services as a front-door bouncer, as long as Mercades “put out” (at which point each man promised courteously to “pull out”) – oddly enough, the same favor was requested by both men, indicating a premeditated scheme of cocktease and manipulation leading up to their shared duty as bouncers at the front door of a house where a 16-year-old girl was getting her ass kicked.

“When I showed up at the house, and I saw Zach [Ashley] there, I flipped,” says one of the unidentified boys.His name could not be obtained because he was “about to have a conniption.”

Elf Wax Update: the boy’s name has been confirmed as Stephen Schumaker.

It is believed that the beatdown issued to Ms. Lindsay was not unprovoked, however.Now surfacing are claims of alleged “MySpace drama”, involving name-calling and accusations that the assailants are “bustas” – a word indicating they would not fight Lindsay because “they are too scared.”One of the bulletins read as follows:“NUH UH THEM BITCHES AINT NO WHAT IM ABOUT WHAT THEY GON DO?WHAT THEM BUSTAS GON DOCUZTHEM BITCHES AINT SHIT [but] MOTHAFUCKIN NIGGA-ASS HOS!”In the hospital,Victoriawithdrew her remarks, citing a concussion and disabled vision as reasons for her spineless backpeddling.It is categorically assumed then, that it was not such a wise idea to publicly call out some trashy white girls with something to prove, because according toFOXNews, “their skin might be white, but their soul is blacker than night.”

Elf Wax Update [Editor’s Edition]: Truth-Time, Dear Readers, I fabricated the ALL CAPS LOCK quote used in the previous paragraph because I did not think I would have access to a real quote like it. Note: I completely made it up.

Here is the actual quote, taken straight from Mercades’ myspace bulletin: “TO ALL OF YOU HATIN BITCH ASS NIGGAS SENDING ME BULLSHIT HATE MAIL…FUUUCK YOU. ILL BEAT YO ASS TO! BRING IT BITCHES DONT BE JUST SAYIN IT! AND IF YOU GOT SHIT TO SAY TO MY MOTHER THEN FUCKIN SAY IT TO HER. SHELL KICK YOUR ASS TO!” My sincerest apologies; I was so far off the mark on this one.

All eight adults involved are being charged with assault, false imprisonment, or both while the minors await juvenile sentencing.Top lawmakers are now calling for the establishment of an anti-MySpace-whoring motion in connection to an eHarassment and eBullying bill already passing through Congress.The victim is reportedly being harassed via telephone, MySpace, and emails; however, her father welcomes the attacks because he lives vicariously through his ‘ghettofied’ (street slang for darkening) daughter in the perverted, piss-soaked panty-sniffing nightmare that his life has become.