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.

Man's dreams fall into lap

Jay Kenny, A Roanoke man, sat in his favorite comfortable chair Thursday, thinking the world would just pass him by as it has done for the last five years. That is, until a book deal and a Sports Illustrated contract fell into his lap from the ventilation system overhead.
American author Jay Kenny making headway toward goals

“I was just staring out the window thinking, ‘Gosh, the world sure does change as fast as the second hand counts a minute nowadays.’ But I remember noticing that my back lawn and the bushes and trees always look the same,” said Mr. Kenny, retail employee.

Jay went on to express his renewed attitude toward life, and lack of certainty around what he will do next. “Now that I can be the writer I always dreamed of bein’, I just don’t know what I’ll write about! Sports? Politics? Social trends, the government? War and peace; it’s all out there for me,” he said with a grin.

Jay Kenny said he’d already grown accustomed to day-to-day life without ambition. “Paper hits the door every mornin’. The songbird sings my favorite tunes,” he said. He went on to describe how he’d come to delude himself into believing a life without any distinction whatsoever does not evacuate the happiness from his soul, but in fact brings him a form of satisfaction. “Things here are just how I want them to be. Pretty much all the time. Grass stays cut. Neighbors are friendly. Known them about fifteen years now. What little money I get pays the gas bill, heating, lights, health insurance, life insurance, car insurance, homeowner’s insurance, water. With what’s left I buy food. Sometimes I have enough left and I’ll even buy myself a big old steak dinner. Me and Gus,” he said, pointing to his dog. “I guess I might just write about that.”

Mr. Kenny said he would not investigate the duct-work of his home, telling reporters the weight of the curiosity around what caused his dreams to come true by simply neglecting to actively pursue them can be remedied with a good Marlboro cigarette and a shot of whiskey. “I don’t like to ask no questions,” he said. “Something told me I’d be a big novelist one day and people would want to know what I’ve got to say about things. I just believed in myself. And that’s probably how I was able to keep my routine of television, forty hours at Staples, and shopping at Kroger. I knew it’d all pay off eventually.” And it did.

Roanoke Valley under fire

Virginia, U.S.–The local human plantation of Roanoke, Virginia is at the brink of destruction.

There is a major reason to believe, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that waves of mountain lions did descend on the people of the Roanoke Valley in the great retaking of the cherished homeland. Sources say it is the largest incident on record of the overtaking of an American city by the surrounding wildlife.

A peace treaty is being worked out with the animals, but no inside sources have yet indicated any premonitions around the terms of the agreement. Anonymous sources report that Roanoke mayor David Bowers, best known for having sold the town to Wal-Mart out of gambling desperation, denies any involvement with unpaid, lion-related debts, saying, “I wouldn’t make a wager with those penniless rubes. They only want your flesh anyway.”

Field analysts say the animals have taken to gathering in the Roanoke Civic Center where humans are hunted for entertainment following a sold-out Toby Keith concert.

Jim Fixx, our reporter on the scene, identified twelve positive kills before he himself was eaten alive by a ravenous pair of adult hill cats.

Town spokesperson Lightfoot Steifewagen recalled a feeling of terror, when on her evening run to Wally World was pulled over by lions and questioned. “They wanted to know where I was going,” she said. “They asked where I came from. Like it’s any of their business!”

Attorneys for the swarm of mountain lions have stated the occupation is officially a peace-keeping mission intended only to affect a very precise few people who took part in the alleged attempt to overthrow the laws of nature. But he added, “No one is directly at fault for the decline of the mountain lion’s land, but because all have systematically taken part in the mass rape of it as every nut and every cog is needed to turn the gears of Humanity – the Great Fucking Machine.” It is a principal moment in interspecial relations in which a beast, with an attorney’s help has leveled the playing field with man.

So far, the verdict is split. If no verdict is reached after a second round of hearings Tuesday, the Roanoke County vs. Mob of lions trial could move on to the Virginia Supreme Court, where experts say the level of clusterfuck is expected to be a critical mass situation. Commander Von Hertenweiner, lead gang-rapist of the lion’s crack legal team on the case, said, “I foresee a dimension of politics so unexplored that NASA scientists and mathematicians have been placed on temporary standby, awaiting transmissions from the top.” Judge Joe Mathis, who is expected to rule on the case, said “Next week’s hearings should go as smoothly as an abortion case, or a sudden lion attack.” He concluded, “If things get too hairy, I will back someone into a corner and hold them in contempt of court after they lash out at me with rage.” The press room then let out a chuckle, quit their jobs, and went home to ‘blog about it.

In other news, rising again to defend the Glory of Mankind, as he has done countless times before and forever will do into perpetuity, Winston Churchill had this to say:

[flashvideo file=”http://chronicle.su/wp-content/uploads/Winston-Churchill-backed-by-band-from-the-future1.flv” /]

Black hole unlocks quantum secret to cosmos, accretes Earth

This evening, a black hole instantly spawned inside our solar system. The event occurred so suddenly that scientists have not been able to determine its preconditions, but more presently, they are concerned with how humanity will go about tackling this catastrophic phenomenon of rapidly-impending doom.
Two brave Elf Waxtronauts

Commented Stan Stientenblauer, the Pentagon’s leading astrophysicist and top scientist on the case reported to the press moments ago that, “It’s dangerous to the Earth. It is also dangerous to humanity and her precious, precious domination over all of Mother Nature. Our clocks are beginning to speed up but our perception of time is slowing down. Tomorrow’s traffic report is not looking good. And you can forget about Monday.”

This small Virginia town is writhing in turmoil. To escape the confusion of what is shaping up to be True Armageddon, Roanoke citizens have taken to their televisions, watching emergency reruns of Frasier, Lost, and 24. Some have ordered pizzas. Some are on a savage looting spree Downtown. Other citizens, like Leesa Brenner, a Roanoke Junior High School teacher told E.W. Times reporters from her front porch, “I Just want to put this whole mess behind us.” Her ex-husband but live-in boyfriend, carpenter Steve Crowe, threw his hand up to the sky, and announced, “It’s time to get on with life.”

The couple would not agree to any further questioning and went back into their home, where Maury could be overheard declaring someone the father of an unwanted child. Overhead, the black hole can be seen clearly in the evening daylight. Streaming sheets of rearranged matter clouds together perfectly from all directions into the vacuum of the all-consuming abyss, and growing exponentially. Doctor Raymond Sexjoy has warned of a highly-inevitable spaghettification due to set in within twenty-five minutes, pursuant to our crossing of the event horizon, due to take place just moments after the upcoming opening credits to The Simpsons. Commenting on humanity’s ability to control the crisis, Sexjoy said, “Oh heavens no. We’re all fucked,” as he lit a cigarette, and twisted morbidly out of proportion until he exploded apart into a stream of atoms.

More as this develops into Hawking radiation.

LSD FOUND IN ROANOKE WATER SUPPLY, ALL WATER SHUT OFF


ROANOKE, VA–As a result of the recent findings of pharmaceutical drugs in tap water across the U.S., a local study in Roanoke, Virginia has found traces of lysergic acid diethylamide(LSD) in the community’s water supply. Experts say the water supply could’ve been “spiked” many years ago. Tragiluckily, police have taken necessary measures and shut off all water in the Roanoke Valley, leaving thousands waterless, hopeless, and, of course, tripless.
Local citizen and water enthusiast, Travis Parcha(pictured right), 22, stated that the mass water outage “kinda sucks, dude” as he realized he had no beverage to co-consume with his pizza(s). Roanoke OverEnforce Commissioner, Gordon Magwalice III, issued a statement earlier this lifetime stating that the outage is expected to last several years in order to ensure that no LSD is wonderfully ingested and perhaps could continue “until Earth dries up like a prune.” Commissioner Magwalice III said that this now solved problem may explain the design of the upcoming Art Museum of Western Virginia as well. Construction of the museum has been indefinitely halted. Back to you, Shep!

This has been generously brought to you by Lebal Drocer Inc.

This one's on me, Roajoke.

Now, I don’t normally do this. Hell, I never do this. But if anyone’s got the right make fun of Roanoke, it’s either a current or former citizen. NOT some wackjob from Tucson, Arizona! They can’t even spell Tooson right.
Lost? You should be. Here’s the deal. Dolla Billz came across this lovely article, describing the journalistic abilities (or lack thereof) of one Jennifer Waddell, a former reporter in Roanoke. Oh, did I mention that she’s smokin hot on TV and even hotter in person? Hell, in journalism that’s like 85% of the job. Now, this article, posted by some crazed, no-life at a gay people community in Arizona, bashes Ms. Waddell for being biased and prejudice because of blah blah blah. What struck my rage vein was this quote:

“Perhaps that kind of biased and prejudicial reporting worked in Ms. Waddell’s native Roanoke, Virginia, but I hope she has learned that in Tucson it is not acceptable.”

Nah dude, I think not. Not while there is a Ronald W. Nitro on this planet will this shit fly. No one from Arizona is going to bash Roanoke nor (more importantly) Roanoke goddess, Jennifer Waddell like that. He should be thanking Heaven that she even moved out there. But that’s not my point. Point is good ol’ Kent Burbank, for mentioned douche, got a nice ragemail from me. “Will ya post it?” Pleeeeeeease. Who do you think I am? Dick Cheney?

This is in response to your lovely, childish post, “Wingspan Responds to Jennifer Waddell’s Sensationalistic Journalism.”
First of all, you need a hobby or something if a simple news story causes this type of child-like behavior, I.E. you calling for everyone to email, call, and bother her at any expense to complain. Get a life, dude.
Secondly, I’m not one hundred percent in love with the tone of this statement:
“Perhaps that kind of biased and prejudicial reporting worked in Ms. Waddell’s native Roanoke, Virginia, but I hope she has learned that in Tucson it is not acceptable. We hold our journalists to higher ethical and journalist standards.” – Yourself.
What’re you implying sir? What did Roanoke do to you? Did I miss something or is Roanoke the biased and prejudice capital of America? Do you recognize your contradiction here? You post a full article criticizing Ms. Waddell’s “prejudice” and then you lower yourself to the same level by assuming that Roanoke is a Mecca to prejudice values simply because Jennifer Waddell used to be a reporter there. Shame on you, Kent. If there was “Wingspan” type community for the citizens of Roanoke, you’d be on their list, pal! Why don’t you give me YOUR personal cell phone number so I can call and harass you for being prejudice? How’s that sound?
Two wrongs don’t make a right, you hypocrite. Just because there’s no cacti in VA doesn’t mean you have to jump to conclusions. And by the way, just for your information, I’ve met Jennifer Waddell in person when I was living in Roanoke, and she’s so beautiful that she could turn any gay guy straight. Maybe next time, open your eyes, close your ears, and please, for the internet’s sake, turn off your computer. For good. That’s all… for now.

You’re welcome.
Ronny Nitro
More on this story as it develops. Hopefully.

Puntball for All

Welcome to Puntball, internet. The Game, the legend.

# of players needed: 2 – Infinity.
Rule’s are simple. Player 1 tries to punt a basketball over or in between two power lines. 1 point for clearing the lines, 2 for in between. If the ball makes contact with a wite, the punt is null and void. Behind a certain line lays the +1 zone, which works like a 3-point zone, adding one point to the punt.
Here’s where it gets saucy: The player(s) not punting stand on the opposing side of the lines, trying to catch the ball to deem the punt “out”.
In the event that a player can catch his own punt before the ball passes the wires, a re-punt will be rewarded. If after, an extra point will be rewarded.
The players rotate in order until one reaches 11(or however many) points and the game ends.

My favorite summer game. Soon to be seen in the Olympics for sure. Enjoy!