Alex Jones Compound Under Siege

Wednesday Photo of Genesis Communications Network Compound: File

MOUNT CARMEL, TEXAS –Alex Jones, famous shock-jock and gun enthusiast responsible for popularizing Waco conspiracies, found his compound under siege after a brief, but violent, confrontation with local police. After recently claiming to own over 500 assault weapons on-air, police responding to a noise complaint decided to take extra precautions for their safety, kicking down Jones’ door with fully automatic assault weapons. Witnesses disagree about what happened, but both Mr. Jones and a police officer were grievously wounded in the exchange.

Mr. Jones, holding his many wives and children hostage, continues to broadcast the first of many revelations considering the true nature of the Illuminati, Bilderbergs, Bohemian Grove, chemtrails, 9/11, and other folk tales which explain away the collective guilt of America.

Meanwhile, Jones has been accused of rape in Sweden, and Interpol has issued a red notice for his arrest. Jones has brought his many wives on air to talk about their perfectly happy sex lives, extolling the many holistic benefits of the kind and gentle touch of Alex Jones. “People, this smear campaign is just the beginning. This is Waco, this is 9/11, this is Ruby Ridge. Wake up, people!”

I Am America – A Herman Cain Fanfic

ATLANTA, GA. – “Hey, she’s a dame. What do ya say, Hermie? We pick her up and show her a good time, give her the presidential treatment?”

Two pairs of eyes met in agreement on the rearview mirror. As it slowed to a stop, the campaign van brakes cried out in protest.

“I’ll introduce myself.”

The man in the backseat watched through tinted windows. “Yes, what is it?” the woman inquired of the driver, who approached her on foot now. He was a stocky white gentleman wearing a sportcoat, stylish prescription glasses, and a stained yellow mustache that matched his teeth.

“You want to meet a celebrity?”

“What are you doing?” she asked as he got closer. Her face changed, although an expression of politeness remained. “Now, wait just a second, what do you want? Back! Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The driver had grabbed her by the wrist, but when she pulled away, he slapped her across the face and took her by her curly brown hair, leading her into the side door of their idling press wagon. She noticed it now, out of the corner of her eye: 2012.

Perhaps you’ve seen him on TV. He’s bringing jobs back to America. He believes we can take this country back. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be here today. His marriage fell to ruin in the wake of a series of sexual harassment scandals that surfaced as researchers snuffled for anything that might drop him out of the running. The hours were getting short; the days, much darker. It was only a matter of time now.

With their fly in tow, our two spiders drove around back of a warehouse not far from where they acquired a thirst for young flesh. Once inside, they removed her blindfold. The building was stacked to the tits with beer koozies, picket signs, boxes labeled “flair,” cardboard figures and T-shirts in every color and size ranging from small to medium to large, extra large, extra extra large, and the unthinkable XXXL. With no small degree of confusion, she absorbed her surroundings, forgetting for a moment the two dark figures just ten feet behind her. She struggled for breath at the sheer immensity of wall-to-wall fascism, lights shining on American flags, and in her eyes, too. She squinted to ascertain the meanings of slogans and effigies. America never looked so cheap. That is, until a red crowbar wedged itself between her right eye and the inner socket, hooking itself on her temple. The pain was insurmountable. She could not scream, and collapsed instantaneously under shock. Dull sensations of otherness were shooting off at random locations around her body. The pain was unfathomable. Reality ceased. A voice gave instructions. She followed them, without question, without understanding, with no intellectual capacity whatsoever to guide her through this terrible nightmare. She was no longer human.

The young woman – a skinny waitress in her thirties – with her fist in her mouth, put the other hand down to her gingham skirt. Her broken hand was gnarled into a claw, but using that claw, she tugged upward at her skirt with pathetic incapability, in a bid to satiate the verbose bloodlust of her attacker, candidate for the U.S. Republican Party presidential nomination, Herman Cain – a Georgia Tea Party activist.

The hairs on Herman’s neck bristled with anticipation. In the dark, he could not see it, but a flash of recognition darted through the young lady’s body as she made out the face of a man she once knew. A man who, before, had told her what to do in a more professional setting. She worked in one of his restaurants. Her boss. The owner.

Your God is Power. You have no shame.

“Rape victims are sluts who produce their own birth control. But you’re no victim,” declared Mr. Cain, a former deputy chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank of Kansas City. “You like this. I’m going to teach you to like me.” As he pumped, and huffed, and breathed scotch into his victim’s mouth, his eyes glazed over and fixated on the corner of the room, where he imagined a younger, better looking rape victim. And briefly, he pictured his wife. “Now secrete it!”

Herman Cain crouched down over the woman, who was now bloody, disheveled and used, and he asked her politely if he might take her out to dinner sometime, and if he can get that phone number.

Black dots patterned across his vision, bubblewrapping the terrible scene beneath him, the product of his undoing. One last passenger aboard the Cain train. As he struggled to breathe with that thin, tobacco-stained breath of his, Herman’s blood flowed like sand.

“She’s done for, Herman. Now let’s be on our way.” Chief of Staff Mark Block, Herman’s driver, sucked the last trace of life from his cigarette. He could not take his eyes off the scene. Her ripped white underwear with blue trim, bloody at the crotch.

“I– I thought her body was supposed to shut down to keep this from happening.” Cain withdrew an unlabeled bottle of blood pressure medication and took four tiny white pills.

“If she gets pregnant, then it means she liked it. Who can blame her? We’ve run a campaign like nobody’s ever seen. But then, America’s never seen a candidate like Herman Cain.”

A smile bled from the open corners of Herman’s mouth, from which sprung twin puffs of gaseous hate that twisted up his thin, dark mustache, and moved in a vapor around his furrowed brows, tracing the restaurant manager’s gray, receding hairline. Sister demons danced a double helix in the midnight air, assuming the form of matching parallel negative impressions, shaped like dervishes with forked tongues slithering, their writhing agitations, spied ever so slightly amid the shifting breeze in Block’s polluted exhalation. Graciously, they pulled his mouth wide into a devilish smile.

Trollman Cain

This story is part 2 in a 2 part series entitled “What was the deal with Herman Cain?

Sent from my iPhone

Rapist Speaks Out In Support Of A Delusional Barrett Brown

“We are the pee-pool,” says Tiessen.

Internet legend John Tiessen spoke in defiance of IRC bans and IRL double trouble Barrett “The Wild One” Brown Monday. During his Internet podcast, Tiessen once again decried the rats amongst us, referring to undercover agents at Occupy meetings, and outlined the divide and conquer mentality of government opposition, referencing Sun Tzu’s Art of War.

Barrett Brown is in police custody after threatening the children of federal agents.

Tiessen quietly yelled to his audience of no one, “We’re rootin’ for Barrett Brown to get out of jail, and we’re fuckin’ protesting against that. They say they’re protestin’ against them but they’re not – they’re tryin’ to stop it. They’re tryin’ to stop the movement and they’re winning. They’re winning and people are listening to ’em. We are the pee-pool! We are the pee-pool!”

As something resembling emotions rose up within him, Tiessen got carried away with himself and, remembering why Brown, on whose behalf Tiessen is speaking, was arrested, corrected himself midstream: “We have our minds and we’re going to do what we want to do. If we want to take down the feds– if there’s five people that want to take down the feds . . . they’re gonna do it, leave ’em alone!”

Tiessen concluded by encouraging his presumably sleeping audience to “wake the fuck up.”

The following is funnier than anything we could possibly write ourselves

Those Sandusky Boys – A Major Motion Picture

Sandusky
He's got that look on his face like he's been sucking on little boy scrotums and little pinky shaped boy penises. Sucking on little pink nutsacks.

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.

Extra Rage Comics

You know all those exaggerated bullshit stories you read on Reddit, which trick you into believing it really happened to someone? 99% of the time, people embellish their stories dramatically and this is the only reason they get upvotes. Yet somehow, you want to believe it because it’s disguised as a sillyass cartoon that gives you chills of cult like love for your precious, sweet, loving redditors. Oh, you know about the trolls, though. They’re always downvoted and exposed because of Reddit’s precious direct democracy.

Well prepare to have your mind completely shattered, REDDIT.

I use hundreds of sockpuppet accounts to constantly push MISERABLE rage comics into Reddit – HELL, I INVENTED THE LIVEJOURNAL RAGE COMIC.

I did this by making sure the comics would play to all the fucktards who go “aww” and upvote something that isn’t funny.

WELL BY GOD, I’ve got something you’re going to HATE. This is designed for all the little trolls out there, who are now going to RUSH to f7u12 spamposting and spamvoting up horrific comics which will possibly ruin the seriousness which has taken over this CANCEROUS and HIDEOUS scar upon the internet and possibly the worst abscess in COMIC HISTORY.

YOU WILL RUE THE DAY, REDDIT!




Imagine the comments… Infiltrate Reddit…. Upvote…. Profit???

I LOOK EDGY AND FUN WHEN I MAKE TEH IMAGES TOO BIG

 

Fanfiction: Righteous Indignation – Excuse Me While I Rape The World!

An Andrew Breitbart fanfiction

“No, Mr. Breitbart. Please!”Victim of Andrew Breitbart

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.”

Th3j35t3r’s lie

Feels bad, man

On Sunday, Chronicle.SU was attacked by th3j35t3r, noteworthy Anonymous pedophile. On Wednesday, Chronicle.SU rose from the dead – kind of like Jesus over there, except this really happened. Now, while th3j35t3r is carrying out yet more superficial attacks on WikiLeaks, we’d like to share with the world exactly how petty and powerless this “jester” character really is. Read on, citizen.

During our outage, sockpuppets for th3j35t3r claimed that we had not, in fact, been attacked. They demanded our former host force the removal of any and all references to th3j35t3r and assumed that is what actually happened. Actually, our host refused. But when the Chronicle went down from th3j35t3r’s subsequent attack, his child porn ring claimed victory because they’re really just that dumb.

The real attack, a distributed denial of service,  proved that a traditional botnet is a functional part of th3j35t3r’s arsenal. We reported accusations of th3j35t3r violating children – and the computers of children – which provoked him to flat out attack us. He attacked us because it was true and we are a threat to him. We are a threat to his pedophilia. He stated several times that he didn’t attack us, and that he didn’t use a botnet. He lied.

Isn't she just so damn sexy?

Th3j35t3r commits libel as routine, d0xing anyone who looks like they might be LulzSec, peace be with them. He d0xed us, implying that we should fear the consequences of exercising the freedom of speech. Implying that we are criminals, for speaking the truth.

He abuses the infrastructure of the internet and breaks the law for personal glory and fame. He’s not helping anyone out, and especially not soldiers at war.

What kind of sheltered first world dildo would believe that th3j35t3r’s attacks are demoralizing or debilitating terrorists? More to the point, what kind of terrorist sits at his computer, trying to refresh some fucking forum before he goes out to kill infidels? “Gotta Jihad but first f5 to make sure we’re still game.” The same kind of terrorist who sits in Northern Virginia eating Hot Pockets refreshing 4chan, discussing the same old revolutionary bullshit that’ll never happen. Noko! 404.

Th3j35t3r is all misdirection. He’s a living lie, if you can call that living. Every time we’ve called him on his lies, he’s doubled down and socks a threat or five, claiming that each one is the “first and last” – retweeting his own faildox to a miserly 300 views. This internet try-hard has no power he doesn’t fake or take. That is, none of it is earned anymore than you earned access to the Chronicle.SU today.

Hey jesterfag, you just lost the game. Or, has the game lost you? Since reporting on th3j35t3r, the Chronicle.SU has enjoyed no increase in traffic although we did pick up seven Twitter followers – or 700% of living, breathing followers who know what “th3j35t3r” is. If there is anything to be learned from our coverage of the declining child pornographer and pseudo-hacker (scriptkiddie), it is this: The Jester is officially completely utterly irrelevant.

JesterAttacksChronicle320 by ChronicleSU

On the phone: James K. Galloway

James K. Galloway
Yep, James K. Galloway is Old Brutus. So what?

Stalking Brenda Song

Brenda SongBrenda Song is the fuckably-hot Asian girl from Disney’s Suite Life On Deck. Don’t ask why I was watching this because it won’t be covered in this article (click here for an explanation for why I watch Disney Channel at midnight).

In a flash of delusions insight, I thought, “I should stalk seek her out.” So I went on her website. Looks like somebody’s already one step ahead of me.

Some creep asking Brenda Song how best to stalk her
Location: UNKNOWN

But only one step ahead of me, though he clearly has his eye on the prize and puts my rapist ambitions to shame.

I found the above post on her message center (her guestbook). Believe it or not, it gets even better.

Brenda's Creeper
Just tell him where to mail it, Brenda.

I don’t even know what to say about this fellow. He posts faithfully, every day, and the screenshot you see here is his shortest post yet. By the progression of his messages, I predict total emotional collapse, coinciding conveniently with the Rapture set to take place Saturday.

And just when you thought the weirdness was too much to bear, this happened:

Brenda's Baby-Daddy
OK, now WTF

By this point, I just feel bad for Brenda Song. This guy Mickey – no relation to Disney’s cartoon mouse (I think) – has been trying to make their one-sided relationship work which, unbeknown to Brenda Song, appears broken beyond repair; all this, in spite of Mickey’s anticipation of their second love child (his words, not mine). Mick’s obsession appears to have lasted roughly two weeks, or the average amount of time necessary for a Hollywood stalker-rush to degenerate into angry masturbation.

The Suite Life On Deck is the reincarnation of Suite Life Of Zack And Cody, a show on the Disney Channel chronicling the misadventures of two latent-homosexual cousins.

After reading this, Brenda Song will resort to puritanical moderation of her website, before removing the comments section altogether.

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.

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.