We come bearing gifts!

It is one thing to know government officials are corrupt. Meeting the indecency face-to-face, however, is another story.

Mike Webert, Career Criminal
Mike Webert is a white collar criminal-in-training who paid his freshman dues to the power structure, attempting to legislate extra money and power to police forces near you.

The neoliberal hate machine known as “The Virginia Way” is far more gruesome than newspapers can tell – or are willing to tell – and this spring I was fortunate enough to learn firsthand just what a nightmare we live in. It was a good experience, but I had anxiety attacks on a near-daily basis.

What I could not articulate at the time is why I thought a “bad” experience was a good thing. Since I believe in myself and the content of my work, I was never so happy to have a story as I was disillusioned by the facts I reported. But I realized that even though I cherish the experience, I never came back from the capitol with a smile on my face, because what I saw there was truly horrific.

I never thought to myself, “That was nice,” or, “That went well.” Each day shocked or disturbed me in new ways. Politicians accept money directly from contractors, for example, to vote on initiatives that put those contractors to work rather than opening jobs up to bidding. And if the rally against Medicaid expansion wasn’t an attack on the working class, then neither was Jim Crow.

I often paced the floors wondering how to communicate basic legislation in the context of Virginia’s descent into hyperlibertarianism.

It was my job to report what I heard and saw, but many times I could not put even the most basic practices into words. The question of ‘why’ was always answered with money, but whose money? The real story felt like it was hidden beneath layers of intentionally misleading arguments, a deceptive smile, or the tone of voice rather than the empty words themselves.

As I continue to follow the money into my own arranged accident, I am still connecting evidence. But the best example of money in politics at the literal level, when dealing with public servants, is the story of a fellow CNS reporter once waited patiently outside of a delegate’s office.

He is an enthusiastic journalist willing to do whatever it takes to get an answer, so when a legislative aide told him his source might be available sometime between the morning and lunch, he decided to wait for that opportunity. With a pen and paper in his lap, he waited for hours.

Legislative aides are people in the capitol building who manage a legislator’s public image, send emails and schedule appointments. They are known to sometimes offer vague details about a politician’s whereabouts or activity. It is a game of their own, and aides control access to our elected officials.

He waited a long time. During his third hour of waiting for a chance to interview the representative, a small group of lobbyists appeared with flowers and gift baskets of fruit, cheeses and dried meats.

“We come bearing gifts!” the female announced, holding up a gift basket with a smile.

“Well, hello!” replied the aide, taking the flowers and displaying them on her desk. “Please, come on in!”

The group strode by as my reporter continued to wait. They disappeared into their mutual representative’s office and closed the door.

If ever a politician was honest, it was a notoriously hateful Manassas Tea Party Republican named Bob Marshall who said Gov. Terry McAuliffe’s executive order – to limit the amount of gifts politicians may legally receive – pushes corruption underground. They still accept blood money; they just don’t publish it on their website.

What nobody will say, however, is why publishing gifts in any amount does little more than add insult to injury upon our political system: when you can purchase a public policy vote, and list the going rate.

"Corporations have money on both sides of the ball. If you still think it's an issue of liberals vs. conservatives, then you still believe in Santa Claus." - Bill Burr
“Corporations have money on both sides of the ball. If you still think it’s an issue of liberals vs. conservatives, then you still believe in Santa Claus.” – Bill Burr

Occupy Roanoke: John Edwards chased away by own sense of shame

With original reporting by Kilgore Trout of the chronicle.su

Some believe Edwards is capable of lying even while not speaking, through photographs.

Roanoke, Va.– Occupy Roanoke turned hilarious Saturday when career politician John Edwards (Criminal) attempted to subdue a crowd of hundreds with the soothing sounds of meaningless rhetoric and campaign promises.

Edwards was promptly chased away by an angry crowd who demanded from him explanations on his dubious voting record of transparency, neoliberalism and human decency. Lacking decency, the North Carolina Senator retreated back into the shadows so everyone could enjoy their day.

Decency is one of many criminal cases brought against the old money presidential candidate, who left his wife on her deathbed for another woman. [Editor’s note: Edwards later told reporters he knew his decision would send a strong message to constituents that he is willing to give “whatever excuse” for anything shitty he may inevitably do.]

The Roanoke occupation continued as planned, Trout said, and will reside under the umbrella of Lebal Drocer, Inc. and her subsidiary, Chronicle.SU “until it gets boring.”

To Roanoke

For looking at the most glory holes!

Roanoke, Virginia wins The Elf Wax Times award for most likely to initiate a glory hole over any other city in the entire world!

Glory goles to the left of me, glory holes to the right. Roanoke, Virginia is the town for glory holes, tonight!

Roanoke, Virginia googles more glory holes than anything else in the entire world according to our latest statistics.

Conversely, Miley Cyrus is the most googled thing worldwide. According to analytics, she even googles herself.

This article is part of an ongoing series known as Miley Analytics

Glory Hole for me, Glory Hole to you. Glory hole whoa whoa mole mole dig little mole into the gloriest of holes.

Dig into the glory hole.

Whoa.

-The Elf Wax Times

Dig Into The Glory Hole, Little Mole.
Dig Into The Glory Hole, Little Mole.

The Elf Wax Times is brought to you by…

We’re not doing advertisements.

This is what you get.

AdvertisementBack in Roll-a-toke, where I went to high school, my friends (circle of friends has changed very much since then but these are good guys) still get together to play four-player anything – Mario Kart Wii was first, then CoD4 and WaW, and now Modern Warfare 2. I really appreciate that they keep the gaming true to its form. They don’t play WoW, they don’t even have Internet. Everybody’s getting high and enjoying each other’s company around a videogame, just like it was when we were kids. When I grow out of that, just kill me.

One of these guys is an Elf Wax Times writer, and if it weren’t for our basic agreement on this fundamental way of life, we would probably have forever lost contact. But there comes a time in life where one looks around himself and sees nothing familiar, and rather than again venturing into the mist, he opts, just for a little while, to get back to what’s not only familiar, but truly rewarding. In this case, it is videogames with my friends. People don’t get enough of this. Oh, and that’s right – one of your beloved Elf Wax Timers doesn’t have the Internet.

Since moving back to my college town of Larger City, USA, I have not found a friend as good as the one I left behind. You might know him as our best Elf Wax Times writer on staff. He invented Elf Wax. He wrote a program, or maybe two, that spammed MUME into the ground for hours at a time. MUME is EverQuest Online Adventures without graphics. They invented IP-banning because of him. And because I’ve been needing a distraction from reality lately, I have been playing MUME; playing this text-RPG based on LOTR is kind of nice, because it’s a chance to enter a world which he helped create, by attempting to destroy it. But that’s not really why I play, it’s just a nice effect. I actually play MUME because since moving back to the intellectual hub of Any State, USA with an income tax so high it would make the Queen of England grow a dick and jizz her pants, my brain is starving. Can you believe it? In a college town, where I’m surrounded by “smart people,” there’s not a healthy dialog for miles.

When people go to college for the prescribed amount of time, it has this effect on them in which their ideals stagnate, their eyes jade over, and they sort of get by on the notion that “I’m in college. Doing what I can. I don’t feel like I need to be doing anything extra.” Extra includes starting or helping a publication, like the glorious Elf Wax Times. Extra can also include, and does also include thinking. Just plain old critical thinking about something besides your girlfriend and your schoolwork. College makes people forget that the whole point of structured education is to serve the working world. By living under the illusion that they’re serving themselves, feeding their own heads with someone else’s drivel, they’re systematically destroying their ability to hear the real ‘other voice’ inside. It might have something to do with paying for your classes, or the classes themselves. I know that they preach self-discovery and they talk to you like adults. But professors are as indoctrinated as middle school teachers. And 21-year-old graduates are as sheep-like as sheep themselves. There’s nothing adult about being ground up in the same commercialization of human dejection as everyone else – unless you understand it enough to “be able to explain it to your own grandmother.”

See? I learned that quote in college. I think I was on LSD at the time, reading an Einstein quote on somebody’s AIM profile, but I was enrolled in classes. Just like secondary school, college lessons can be applied to the problems of college itself, or of the world in general. It’s just logic. But it’s logic presented in a deceitful way, carefully twisting your brain out of your control, and into theirs. The military-industrial complex, and the pressures it puts on a society lead us to distrust, band together in a xenophobic fury so we may better divide from one another, hate each other more than anything else but ourselves – who we hate the most. Cellularize our lifestyles. It used to be the police showed up to dangerously large parties; now, the “Party Patrol” busts everything up, adding charges, too. Welcome to the cellular lifestyle. Why do you kids still need to party when the government maintains Facebook for your use and enjoyment? The only measurable value left in our world is the artificial value of the paper fucking dollar, and people are convinced, maybe not that they’re happier this way, but that this is the best way for everyone.

Come to college – where anti-intellectualism is taught.

Out the proverbial window went the idea that there is some worldly value for things besides monetary value divided by time over output. “The Elf Wax Times is a huge success these days.” – Hey, that’s great. You going to advertise?

No, I don’t think I will. We’ve talked about the idea. We’ve shot it down inside while keeping it on the table outside. And now it’s begun to rain on the idea we left on the table outside, eroding the glitter from the thought of a Pabst Blue Ribbon banner ad on The Elf Wax Times. Advertisements are fucking ugly in ways exceeding aesthetics. Why would I put ads on the front page of this website?

They represent everything I hate about society, information, the media, our thought processes which advertising poisons. We won’t do that to you, dear readers. Although we stand to make possibly tens of thousands, we have jobs outside of this website. Good jobs, provided lovingly by Lebal Drocer, Incorporated. We work hard to suckle on the tit of the hard-working, and it pays. Not great, but well enough so we may healthily bring you the Truth. If we advertised Elf Wax Times, we’d be no better than Maddox. The Best Advertising Site in the Universe. The Onion did it, so why shouldn’t George Ouzanian? That’s Maddox in case you don’t know. We figured it out somehow, and we got stoned in high school, called his mom and told her about the site so she’d give us his phone number. She did, and we called him asking for beer, telling him the site was really funny. “How’d you get this number?” And that’s how Maddox’s mommy found out about Maddox, and it created a lot of grief for him. I used to feel bad for doing that. Not so much anymore.

Every day, I listen to the “people” I ‘work for’ fucking up the economy in real-time behind my ears, and I think about how they get away with degrading my quality of life, and yours. Every day, your beloved Roajoke writer goes to his work, which is better than mine in all ways, and thinks about the shit I hear where I work, not knowing that I hear it, but agreeing nonetheless. We need this as people. Why don’t you have it?

I lost a good friend when I came back to this dump of a city. My smartest friend, the friend who laughed with me about shit nobody else even realized is going on, the friend who helped me move, and who chopped a mountain down with the edge of his hand is back there in the life I left behind. He was the only friend who ever thought on my wavelength, and I think it might be because we learned how to make music together. From the first-or-second day we met, we’ve always thought on a higher plane together. That’s not the clandestine Elf Waxian arrogance you’ve come to know and love – the truth is that musicians think on a higher plane while playing music than most humans are able to recognize. I left him behind to pursue my useless college degree. Mother Fuck this place, and this world, and fuck you to help propagate it; you sick fucking bastards.

And now things have changed. I’m having to get by without him; keep this site going without him egging me on to do it; keep seeing things my way, and not television’s way, or the Dollar’s way. But Our Way. I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t afraid of losing who I really am. I’d be a bigger liar if I said I don’t care about becoming someone better. I’d be Oral Graham if I told you money doesn’t actually matter to me, and I’d be a sell-out for admitting it.

So stay tuned to the Elf Wax Times for a brand new ideology.

“The reason our institutions, our traditional religions, are already crumbling is because THEY’RE NO LONGER RELEVANT! It’s time for us to create a NEW philosophy, and perhaps even a new religion, you see, and that’s okay because that’s our right. We are free children of God with minds that can imagine anything, and that’s kind of our role. How do you evolve ideas? I’ll give you an example right here… Why is the drug czar in this country, well I’ll go back, why do we HAVE a drug czar in this country? A. B, Why is he a cop? Why isn’t he a guy in recovery who’s HAD an alcohol and/or drug addiction and overcome it, and why doesn’t he HELP people with the same problem, with compassion rather than condemnation? Why do we put people who are ON drugs in jail? They’re SICK! They’re not criminals. Sick people don’t get healed in jail. See it makes no sense! And if we evolve the idea, you see, the planet might be more compassionate, and something like HEAVEN might dawn.”

Bill Hicks

Richmond Mayor forces two children to fight

The two Richmond boys were allegedly paid in cookies to fight "to the death"
Mayor Jones is seen here applying force on two reluctant boys' pressure-points

Richmond, VA–Mayor Dwight C. Jones (Mister C.) allegedly forced two children to duel for their lives Monday following their “art” submissions to a new program intended to renew inner-city schools by funneling coke money into Jones’ own pockets.

“None of this would have happened if art wasn’t allowed in school,” said the losing victim’s mother Courtney Harris. “I have never felt so ashamed,” she confessed, “until I realized my son is a dead loser.” Ms. Harris later indicated she is “glad” her son is dead, a shift in opinion analysts say is “notable.”

Dwight Jones made no comment about the duel, citing federal gag-orders due to unpaid gambling debts to crack dealers in Jackson Ward, but he did have this to say:

“I have always felt that art in public schools is a waste of money on kids who are inherently talentless but are, as I have proven – better fighters; at least – half of them are.”

“Who knows about the dead?” he quipped.

Who knows, indeed? Richmonders are in an uproar over the whereabouts of the dead child’s body, who can not be named, due not to legal implications but to the fact that authorities have been unable to locate either the whorehouse to which the boy’s mother supposedly belongs, or any records on the child who authorities now believe was born “under the radar.” City officials said due to the loser’s mom being a straight-up crack-whore, no father can possibly be determined. So far, paternity tests have narrowed the possible fathers down to a short list of five men who share the GCG, or Gary Coleman Gene. But their semen is allegedly so polluted with King Cobra malt liquor that no testing machine can solve the “Riddle of the Richmond Ghetto.”

“I hate children, and I support Mayor Jones’ decision to enslave them for use in his personal gambling dens. I wish they’d all die, or at least be forced to do other violent things, like fight in wars.”

-Anonymous

Let's go to the river!The boy’s severely-battered corpse is thought to be somewhere in the James River, a popular dump-point used by the holographic chemical plant Allied Chemical, the shell of a company who once allied with Capitalism to dump kepone, a popular ‘cool’cinogen used in roach poison, into the James River, which consequently flowed straight into the kepone-intolerant nervous systems of many workers in Hopewell – a move Mayor Jones applauds enthusiastically as the James River’s claim to fame. The forty-year poisoning of Hopewell factory workers marks the country’s first environmental disaster that would later give rise to unprecedented shirking of responsibility employed by corporate entities across America.

In the eclipse of U.S. President and War Strategist Barack Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize, Mayor Jones finds little reason to carry out a search for the boy, especially given his intimate, but silent knowledge of the child’s do-doubt gruesome fate which Jones’ publicists said “might spoil the endorsement.” Inside sources say the mayor had the boy contaminated with several carcinogenic compounds that would ferry their way via his body to South Carolina lowlands, where the child will cause countless still-births and unexplainable cancers.

No one from the school board or any of the childrens’ teachers were immediately available for comment. This is due in part to the fact that people in the ghetto are constantly avoiding bill-collectors, so they don’t answer the phone for any unfamiliar number.

More to come on this, as Mayor Jones’ indictment goes awry in the second part of our wacky, cocaine-powdered adventure of “Richmond Mayordruglord to the bitter end.”

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.

Area man visually defines lost concept through ironic failure to do so

Springfield, U.S.–Dignity found a face when local cracker factory worker Kirk Van Houten attempted to draw it during a game of Pictionary Saturday night, twelve years ago. Ordained with failure after his wife, Luann, could not guess the image, he challenged her to draw a better one in front of the party. What resulted was the iconic definition of a human concept so complexly intangible, it should have never been included in an ice-breaking party game.
Kirk Van Houten: It’s dignity, Luann.

Van Houten’s visualization of dignity was largely rejected by his wife, whose own portrayal was subsequently confirmed by the party’s attendees to accurately depict dignity in all of its possible variants, definitions, and contexts, even as it had been comparatively stripped from her husband in the act.

Unfortunately, the piece was never released to the public and experts say statistics indicate the drawing probably arrived in a Virginia landfill in or around Gloucester County. “This estimation is given on the grounds that Waste Management buys trash from twenty-six other states, including New York and New Jersey, to dump in Va. landfills as a means of protecting its citizens from encroaching swamps, wetlands, and bothersome natural habitats,” said Virginia governor Timothy Kaine.

Waste Management is a friendly neighborhood conglomeration of Wall Street businessmen and the mafia between whom your trash is a commodity.

Dr. Hibbert, Ph.D., commented on Mr. Van Houten’s piece after the Simpsons’ party, saying, “It lacked any distinctive characteristics whatsoever,” as he released an untimely chuckle.

After frantic weeks of phone calls, strongly-worded letters, and death threats, Noam Chomsky, professor emeritus of linguistics at Massachusetts Institute of Technology was made available for comment. After reviewing the scene between the now-divorced Van Houtens, he said, “The dispute is inconsequential and with the exception of their resulting divorce, most likely will not change anything, ever.” He then followed this up with a question for reporters, asking, “Is this really why you needed me so badly? Do you even know who I am?”

Noam Chomsky, powering a small
village with his cognitive prowess

Indeed, after more than a decade the ripples of rejection can still be felt for miles around Springfield, where reporters say the veins of failure running through Kirk Van Houten’s shrinking intellectual circle of neighboring low-rent apartment tenants in their mid-20’s are still being smoothed out similar to air-bubbles under a sticker.

One neighbor, who wished to remain anonymous, said the man is by this point so unfamiliar with dignity that he may never be loved again, and is most certainly not currently respected by his peers, colleagues, or even the American Gladiator his ex-wife married shortly following their divorce.

In other news, Elf Wax reporter Stan Crumb was arrested outside the Elf Wax office building for harassment and attempted kidnapping following an unscheduled, unrelated, and mostly unwanted interview with Mr. Chomsky about quote, “the 9/11 conspiracy, man.”