It was a dry day on the motherboard when Frosty, the malignant wizard of the west coast appeared with Magic: The Gathering cards of wisdom.
He opened his robe methodically revealing full frontal nudity to the Elves. He showed them there is no way other than his own, as he exposed his mechanical penis which unfurled into a tentacle hose and proceeded to fuck the nearest child-elf from where he stood.
Pneumatically, he pumped and surged his pulsating hentai-cock of hate into the elf as he realized its striking resemblance to himself. Actually, it was his daughter.
For Frosty hath fucked more than a handful of elves on a drunken night out, in the days of Elven Wax and cloven hooves which stamped upon the two-sided face of liberty under a downpour of alcohol, bile and piss. Yes, beneath many moons, he did rape religiously.
Tossing his daughter to the ground, Frosty was no longer thirsty for sexual assault.
He then proceeded to peddle worthless Magic cards to the bustling Elf community, among whom he is still revered to this day for his propensity to give away too many free cards, even in spite of his bottomless hunger for rape, which seemed to never end.
“Fwosty,” a small boy tugged at his robe. “Fwosty, won’t you sing fow us?”
Frosty was a magical singer but today he was in no mood. He handed him a Black Lotus without telling him it was fake. The boy was ecstatic and immediately went home to finger his sister in celebratory ecstasy.
Just at that moment, Frosty began to feel disgust with his life of trading card games and unabashed rape. His cock formed into a pistol and reeled out of his tan Big Lebowski robe to jam itself instinctively into his mouth. Being unlike any normal gun, Frosty the Wizard performed autofellatio in the town square for at least 45 minutes, before townsmen arrived, with the jesters and even the Elf King and Queen who all received news of a powerful wizard giving himself a blowjob, sucking what appeared to be a .45 calibur handgun.
He ejaculated a three-round burst of gunfire into his own brainstem and was promptly cleaned up by Waste Management, who exist on the Internet, too.
The man winced as a meaty fist came down again on his lifeless girlfriend.
Four army rangers stood in a circle, preparing to gangfuck her when Frank could stand life no more. He cried out,
“You fucking rotten-ass jarheads! You disgusting pigs! War-mongering shit-for-brains rednecks, I pray to God there’s a hell and you fucking rot there.” Frank’s eyes were hate-tipped daggers.
“Hey, boy.” A fat-necked man with a blond-colored buzzcut turned around. His belt was unbuckled and his puffy cheeks were flushed with alcohol and hormonal rage. His whole body shone with a sweaty glaze under the streetlamp.
“Boy…after we do her, you’re next.”
The sounds of continuous, repetitive smacking syncopated his threat.
Frank stared into the rapist’s cold beady eyes. He spoke again.
“You do me first or I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll kill all of you right here in this parking lot.” Frank screamed hoarsely now through sobs of frustration and pure and total sadness, defeat.
Frank attempted to clamber to his feet but his hips and knees had already been kicked and beaten into uselessness. He collapsed again, knocking his chin on the pavement and cracking some teeth. All he could do is scream. And he did, with blood and bits of teeth dripping and spraying from his beat-up maw. Frank bellowed a throaty, hellish war-cry that could be heard for at least two miles, or three from the direction in which it bounced off the mall walls.
He could not bare witness to the rape of his best friend. It burned like acid on the frontal lobe of his imagination.
He closed his eyes and instead imagined her riding along with him to the grocery store, where they threw cheese at other and made a mess of the place. Then he imagined their hot walks through the Appalachian mountains, and DVDs of cartoons, and cold showers in the summertime. And then — a hot sensation overcame Frank’s entire body as something like pure anti-matter replaced the right side of his face. A crowbar smashed into his jaw, and then into his temple.
Rolling over from the pain, Frank lay on his left side and looked out through the one good eye not swollen and dark, to see the fat buzzcut man standing in his underwear, with the dark cast-iron weapon in hand.
That is when he knew that he recognized the man. Weeks earlier, he’d seen him somewhere. Where was it?
Another blow landed on Frank’s abdomen, making his insides feel like a squishy stress ball coated in pure spongy agony. As the crowbar came down on his guts, he noticed a wedding band on the man’s finger, clenching the tool.
Frank’s girlfriend, he hoped, was dead by this point, so she could suffer no more.
“The coffee shop!” he screamed out. “I know your fat ass from the coffee shop! You were there with your dipshit wife! She’s cheating on you, bro!” Frank laughed out hysterically. “Ha – ha – haaaa!” Frank felt, on some level, that he had won.
“She had a big stupid forehead and was shopping for Us Weekly. Her blond hair looked like shit and even though she’s pregnant you bought her a coffee and cigarettes.”
The fat man stood shocked. Frank went on.
“But that’s not what is so funny! Before you appeared with her, she’d come into the coffee shop with another man, some guy in biker spandex. Ha, she was cheating on you with some shit-for-brains liberal. Ha – ha – haaaa!” Frank laughed again, rolling around in the gravel. Moonlight and street lamps shone into his deep cuts to reveal dirt and rocks wedged into his face and abdomen. He was sure to get an infection from the liquid seeping out of the dumpster where he lay.
“Yeah, looks like she’s been cheating on you for a while, dude, maybe because you’re a meat-headed gung-ho redneck motherfucker. I doubt that’s even your baby. I doubt you can even get it up to rape my girlfriend, or why else would you be standing here watching over me? You impotent fuck. You worthless scum sub-human being motherfucker! Whose war are you fighting here in this alleyway? Will you ever fight your own? Piece of shit. Your wife gave me this look like she wanted my dick, I don’t fuck with bitches who got big foreheads and their hair pulled way back like I’m supposed to use it for a marker board during a presentation. Nah, man. I didn’t fuck your wife. But you go ahead and rape me and my girlfriend. See you in hell, sir.”
Frank lay back and wait, now, for death.
It was quiet. He looked toward his girlfriend’s limp corpse. It lay motionless, bloody and pathetic. He looked back at the fat man, who was gone completely.
Washington, D.C.–To the relief of all opposed to America’s involvement in yet another overseas conflict, President Barack Obama made a statement during air strikes on Libya that there will be “no boots on the ground.”
But more than a handful of sources say otherwise, and one of those sources is a Marine Special Operations Regiment soldier who is being sent to fight in the nation of Libya, where an unprecedented revolution is underway.
Just kidding. They're already there.
I spoke to a Marines Special Forces Lieutenant Friday who asked not to be named. He told me that in August, he will be sent to Libya.
“We’re going in, to . . . find something,” he said, shaking his head.
His eyes fell to the floor and bounced up and over my shoulder, and then into his clasped, wringing hands.
“Are you nervous?” I asked.
He stroked his stubble with one hand and with the other reached for a pitcher of beer.
“Yes,” he replied. “Very.”
He said he would soon be commanding troops throughout covert skirmishes and desert-crawling that no one will ever know took place.
The United States has returned Armed Drones to battle following NATO’s inability to stay on certain targets in Libyan air space.
Defense Sec. Robert Gates was asked during a Pentagon briefing, “Are we witnessing mission creep here? Are we going to just keep doing one slice of salami at a time as the U.S. gets further and further reinvolved in this operation?”
Gates replied:
“No, I don’t think so. I think that the president has been firm, for example, on boots on the ground. And there is no wiggle room in that that certainly I’ve been able to detect in his views. This is a very limited capability. He said from the outset that where we had unique assets that could contribute, we would do that. I think this is a very limited additional role on our part, but it does provide some additional capabilities to NATO. So no, I don’t think there’s mission creep at all.”
The young soldier went on: “Now, I told you this only because you said you wouldn’t tell anybody,” he said.
“You won’t say anything, right?” The Lieutenant looked regretful, because he knew I was a reporter. Yet somehow, his eyes told me he wanted the world to know, but for no one to know it was him who leaked the details. He seemed to want justice; justice which might prevent more of his buddies going needlessly into war. He spoke to me, like many others before him, on the condition of anonymity.
“People don’t realize what’s going on,” he explained. “We’re already in there, we’ve been there, we’re going there and we’re probably going to stay there. We rotate out, and right back in, just like anywhere else. But I don’t know what my orders are. They say we’re just going to find out what’s going on, so we know what to do next.”
Chronicle.SU correspondent and Washington Insider, Tyler Bass, had the chance to ask Colin Powell why President Obama said we don’t have boots on the ground, when we already have special forces and CIA in Libya.
Bass reported:
Tyler Bass: “How are you, General? So recently White House Spokesman Jay Carney has repeatedly said there are no boots on the ground in Libya. So has Barack Obama, but we have reports from the New York Times and other outlets saying in fact that there are, as well as CIA, which I guess is ‘shoes on the ground,’ right?
So why is – why is Barack Obama saying this? Why is Carney saying it? Or are they not aware, which I think is really unlikely? Or why are they saying it?”
Colin Powell: “They’re obviously aware of what’s going on, but what they meant by ‘no boots on the ground’ is that we were not – (off mic) –ground war – (off mic) – sending in our combat units – (off mic) – infantry or armor to fight these units on the ground, but to send in intelligence agents and –”
TB: “Or Special Forces.”
CP: “—or Special Forces –”
TB: “OK.”
CP: “—they are not going to be actively involved in fighting either the government or the rebels, but obviously it’s a way of gathering intelligence and helping the rebels fight more effectively. So there may not be boots on the ground – (off mic) – shoes on the ground – (off mic) –
The 24-year-old said he has already fought in Iraq and Afghanistan, but this is the most anxious he has ever been leading up to military action.
Upon return home, he will make many tens of thousands of dollars for about three months of action, half of which will be spent training.
“We’ll train for six weeks,” he said, “Then we go in for six.”
John McCain is currently out on a high-profile rampage through revolting Arab nations, where he has stated the United States should give firepower, weapons training and air strikes to Libyan rebel fighters, calling them patriots who are certainly not connected to Islamic extremism or Al Qaeda.
White House Press Secretary Jay Carney said the administration disagrees.
Carney said, “We think it’s for the people of Libya to decide who the head of their country is, not for the United States to do that.”
Philip Gordon, an American diplomat and high-ranking official in the State Department, said during a Pentagon briefing:
“I think it is important that we all support Mr. Khatib in his efforts, but also that we continue to talk among ourselves — that is to say, members of the broad international coalition that is working on the Libya issue — about what Libya’s political future might be, which, I want to underscore again, is really up to the people of Libya.”
“Oh. And whoever we send there and don’t tell you about,” said Tyler Bass. “I don’t want to sound alarmist or anything here, but they’re conditioning everyone for the ground invasion they say isn’t coming but eventually will.”
