Your daughter's a whore, and not even the good kind

Your daughter
Your daughter

You sick fucks. Stop coming here. Elf Wax Times doesn’t need you.

You dress up your daughters like little Tijuanan whores. Let them wear makeup. Tiny shorts. They’re twelve years old for god’s sake. Grow a pair and be a dad, you disgusting fuck, and stop pimping out your child. She doesn’t need to lose her virginity before she’s 13. Or did you already take it, because you’re just that fucked up?

Maybe in a way you did, because you didn’t give her any rules, any love, any direction, or any discipline or motivation to be anything besides fucked, because you yourself lack the cognisant ability to provide even a small child with the stability and love necessary to keep her from going to bed with the first guy who promises to make her a woman, because you couldn’t take care of her as a little girl.

Your little girl wants to grow up faster than she can ditch My Littlest Pony for Hannah Montana for a pregnancy test. And it’s all your fault, Dad. Instead of pissing in her panties and sniffing them at 4 AM, maybe you could have been telling her how to keep them on. Or keep her hymen, or your respect. But instead you just jerk off to internet porn and fantasize about fucking her little friends and you’re a bit too rough as you tuck her in at night. And you don’t read her one god damn story about a bitch running for president, or inventing laser technology.

You make me fucking sick. You sick fucks. I know what you’re thinking. “Who is this prick to call it like he sees it?” I’m me. And you’re worthless parent number 3271407498357.

You know the score. I shouldn’t have to be the referee, but here I am. Telling you that I see you walking right behind your slutty tween daughter when you come in to where I work every week. And each time I ask myself, who bought her the clothes? Who never slapped her to the floor and said, “Don’t be a little slut Janie!” Who never thought twice about the way the crumbs hit the table as he ate his thousandth meal in front of an awkward table of people he calls family?

Your kids are your fucking pets. So why don’t you lock them in a dark basement for 24 hours and let them know that you’re in fucking charge, that you buy their clothes, and that you think Miley Cyrus, that little slut that Billy Ray Cyrus pimps out to the cameras, is a whore who sucks off Mickey Mouse and sells sex to minors with lipstick, blush, and a show that is neither funny nor intelligent?

Oh, I will tell you why. Because your wife knows you actually think about fucking your daughter when you’re huffing away on top of her, stinking of cigarettes and panting your rotten booze-breath down her resistant nostrils, just trying to close your eyes and pretend you aren’t really fucking a fat-ass soccer man. Because she knows you didn’t get that promotion. Because your boss knows you’re a creep. Because your boss has seen your daughter and also secretly jerks it while thinking about fucking her, too, because you dress her up like a little Disnified Harlot servicing the Magic Kingdom. “Rent the ‘Tiniest Princess,’ honey. We love that one, don’t we?” But mainly because you are a crummy parent, and you’ve failed your child, if not yourself.

The only time you spend with your warped daughter she doesn’t even know about, because it all takes place in your delusional mind via rationalization for your shortcomings as a pseudo-parent.

You’re a sick fuck who lets her dress the way all the boys want her to dress, and you would rather believe she’s going to a sleepover at little Suzy’s and staying there instead of actually facing the reality in the back of your mind in which she’s at the park losing her virginity to a nineteen-year-old with a motorcycle on the swingset you never pushed her on.

Get your shit straight, American Dads. Or The Elf Wax Times will start phoning your homes. We have your information – your phone numbers, addresses, social security numbers. Driver’s licenses, credit cards. We have the means, we have the motive. We have the sense of self-righteousness that sets us apart from regular human beings, that makes us better than you. And we aren’t afraid to use it. Now close your fucking browser, delete your cookies, erase your history, and forget you read this. We don’t want you reading another page of this shit because you aren’t fucking good enough, motherfucker. Eat shit and die. I hate you. We hate you. We hate your family. We hate your friends. We hate the house you live in and the Mercedes you drive – you fucking Nazi. We hate the valley you poison. We hate the tradition you spread, of ignorance and television, and of slutty daughters and of forged integrity and false systems of values and morals and definitions of what is right and wrong. We hate you.

Analog versus Digital

It’s the great debate: is analog, with its potential for diversity, superior to the convenient but rigid lockstep of digital technology? Billy Walshe has argued the former and, traditionally, I side with him. But I have found a group of corporate researchers who don’t: twenty-five percent of all women.

1 in 4 women misread a pregnancy test.
That’s why there’s Clearblue Digital.”
Clearblue television advertisement

Is this sort of thing really necessary? Throughout the entire history of human evolution, the billions and perhaps trillions (depending on where your definition of human draws the line) of people born and died to get us here did not need any kind of test. But, then smart people figured out how to tell a woman’s pregnant, so the pregnancy test came out. It was a great chance for us modern folks to say, “Oh shit.” Just like in the movies! What a novelty.

Okay, so the pregnancy test came about and life improved, but as a device, it remained simple and still has not become so advanced that it is more telling than a late period. But it would appear that some “researchers” concluded that in America (persumably this is not a commercial directed at Comedy Central’s viewers in Mali), a country where 99% of all women read, 25% of them can’t read a pregnancy test – or reads it incorrectly.

No, you know what? I almost believe it. Let’s get real about this. From personal experience, I can tell you right now that there are actually adult women who don’t know what ovulation means and therefore have no idea what the point of a period is. “Wow that’s a lot of blood! I must’ve had a lot to eat this month.” I know some women who might piss on this thing before you even have sex.

But let’s be fair to Clearblue. The company wouldn’t stand behind a claim, commercial or otherwise, if there wasn’t some merit to it. [Editor’s note: at The Elf Wax Times, we blindly trust large corporations for your convenience] Someone probably did a very biased study, but I’m sure it was a study nonetheless. So I beg the question: what are these women doing? Are they delusional? Are they seeing shit that isn’t there? Are her eyes crossed from being beaten by drunk Larry who “don’t support no kinda pullin’ out” and it causes her to see a positive plus sign where there is actually a minus?

Are they just glancing at the strip to get an idea of what it might be and then throwing it straight into the trash before they’re certain? It seems like it should be more important than that. I think a pregnancy test deserves at least a double take, about as equally as when you’re about to pull into a busy street where they put Wal-Marts and Western Sizzlin’ steakhouses and all those other shitty chain stores.

“Well, you know doctor, I looked at it, I used my eyes, I waited fifteen minutes. I even listened to the litmus paper to try and hear whether or not the urine was absorbing through it in any telling way, but I just couldn’t tell what the damn thing said. The instructions on the paper were Greek to me. I sat there for hours, just waiting for it to come to me, but I honestly could not grasp the difference between the plus sign and the minus. And that’s why I need this abortion.”

Not believable? I agree. Who in the Lord Fuck are they talking to for these statistics? Were they standing outside of the Helen Keller School For The Blind when they conducted the poll?

If a woman genuinely can’t use a piss-on-a-stick pregnancy test then maybe she shouldn’t bring a child into the world anyway. Or if she’s really that stupid, maybe she needs a set of bowel tests, too, to know whether whatever just passed through their midsection is a child or dinner from this weekend. “Should I wipe my ass or call an ambulance?” Simplicity. “Yep, it was just shit.” Or, “Just as I suspected: a baby!” she’ll say to her husband. “And you said I should get out of bed!”

And don’t you know most of these women are fat, too. I’m talking about the dumb ones who can’t operate the piss-on-a-stick pregnancy test unless it’s beeping, displaying words, making announcements and congratulating them out loud. If they won’t look for a plus sign, they aren’t looking at the Nutrition Facts on the box of Hamburger Helper either. That’s why they’re fat and that’s why they need bowel tests. Am I pregnant? Have I always been this…sick?

So we don’t know, they don’t know if the baby inside them is coming or going. Maybe they just ate it. They look down at themselves and they can’t tell if they’re pregnant. They can’t even tell what sex they are. Eventually these morbidly obese piles of skin forget their gender because it’s been so long since they saw something besides tits above their knees, so even some really fat men have been found taking these digital pregnancy tests, pissing and then listening. Their diets have reportedly become so unhealthy that when they stop bleeding from their asses, they believe they’re missing a period and start to freak out. But they’re a placid people, sighing once per month in relief because they’re never pregnant.

Switching gears now…

And I’ll tell ya what else. They’re relieved, but not the most relieved. The person of highest relief would have to be chronic masturbator Bill O’Reilly. Well, to be fair, this guy actually physically spanks it just once a day but the relief he garners from it and his sense of accomplishment is unrivaled by any primate. That’s because for all those people that he fires each week of each month of each year, who for whatever reason does not meet his standard of devoutness in their pledges to limit freedom of expression, another packet of sperm is oozed into his scrotum via wormhole from a better, perhaps more heavenly dimension, as part of Mother Nature’s attempt to balance out the lack of decency in his soul. Except this egotistical fuck is so thick with evil, like the bile/liver-combination Hitler was probably throwing up as he committed suicide, that there is a shock-absorbing desktop so technologically-advanced that Clearblue had to come in and install this thing into the steel frame of the building under his desk in New York to prevent the already-reinforced foundations of Fat Fucking Government-Asshole-Sucking Media Mogul Headquarters from buckling under the sudden pressure of the resulting seismic wave of his orgasm.

In an interview with his spawn point, Mrs. O’Reilly – who is not the devil and really exists – the still-glowing mother revealed a sudden burst of pride felt and the inherent certainty she took on, as though it were knowledge she’d carried since her own birth, when she looked down at the little minus sign and knew she was pregnant with who would later become the biggest jackass of all mankind, her son, the laughing-stock of the logical universe, whose show is sponsored by the alleged stupidity of the women watching his program.

Clearblue. So pregnant you can hear it!