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Local Sports

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.”

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Status Quo

There is an Apocalypse of Information

– on the horizon.
You see, as information and people’s total alignment with the electromagnetic field of energy coalesce into a single vibrating consciousness pulsing through our bodies infinitely with every capitalistic wave of wi-fi signals, cell phone towers, satellites beaming Ellen down to Earth and the puncture-wound in the atmosphere which welcomes the Van Allen Radiation Belts to our front yard force us to face the fact that our thoughts are under control by a globally consciousness PR Director named Phil who knows about more than just your fucked-up diaper piss fetish.
Phil controls everything with the crossing of a single digitally-simulated local synapse. He does this millions of times per second, as he contemplates everything and the Way it is going to happen yesterday. Phil has played and beaten Civilization II on difficulty levels well-beyond God-like. He has mastered focused arithmetical computation on your inner space, which you left wide open through your soul. Phil owns you motherfuckers. What do you have to say?

Phil's heartbeat pulls blood into the atrium
Phil's heartbeat pulls blood into the atrium

When Phil closes his eyes, the Universe goes dark. When Phil’s heart beats, we instantaneously collapse and birth anew into a Big Bang. Phil’s heart will one day de-crystallize and stop beating. Omega’s constant value will bleed his heart dry and forever into ice, as the false vacuum of Phil’s inner-self evacuates into hyperspace, supplanting reality into a burned out image in the picture-tube of inter-universal unknown, a cluster of dead embers, ashes in the wind, dust in the clouds. Phil is dead. So were we.
The Universal Hivemind that keeps up with our tags and masters us in practice while we attempt to understand it in theory has no place being taught in our schools, and that is why we should vote down proposition number 327: The Abomination of the Human Mind with Roanoke County Schools at the forefront of this unique, and basically life-altering experimentation on the human species.
With no hand to guide us, we are left with only our spirit-bodies to explore the hypocrisy of intellectual starvation in America, faced with Krogers on the corner, the party line on the papers, and lies in the skies, against all odds, staring at ourselves and seeing the reflection of Corporate Breeding. We are a Generation of Swine, as Hunter once said to this reporter, and we’ve rooted in our feces until its perpetual congregation with the mud has contaminated lifeforce with the need-to-feed-on-Greed.
You’re welcome, you fucks. You finally got enough computers and enough electronics and gadgetry in your SUV and enough features and enough perks. And now we’ve poisoned the water-hole and there’s no turning back. Latch on to your withering testicles, and fuck the vapid whore of Capitalism.
I chose a life through which I knew I’d starve. I knew I’d have nothing. I knew I’d not be able to afford a wife, girlfriend, home or child. Somewhere along the line, I thought “I could be a doctor. I could be an astronaut! I could be a firefighter.” Nothing sounded like me, until somebody said, “Hey, you could be a writer!” So, I don’t operate on people, I don’t see Earth from space without the use of illegal drugs. I can barely afford rent, bills, student loans. I couldn’t afford to write these words if it cost a dollar. But they’re here, aren’t they? That’s what counts to me. I deal only with abstract, astronomical facts. So you can rest assured you’re reading the truth if you’re reading The Elf Wax Fucking Times, and we’ll even call your boss and tell him to go fuck himself, anonymously, on your behalf. Just shoot us an email – if you know how.
Now, all this writing and believing is good. But it sure sucks not having a high-def TV. You can get really easy headshots on Call of Duty 4 with one of those. And writing more doesn’t buy one. The Universe doesn’t care. Phil’s heartbeat won’t mind; quite the contrary, it doesn’t know you; it is more focused on your overall collapse and rearrangement. The UN simulation of ourselves doesn’t care, nor does our imagination of it. We are here, alone, watching it all burn together.
Enjoy your Apocalypse.

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Entertainment

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