Categories
Editorial Politics

VOTING DOES NOT MATTER

A vote for the president is a vote wastedI don’t understand why people still vote.

Who honestly believes the president will do what he says and as a result goes in to punch his ticket?

Based on their track record of failing to keep promises, you would think logic dictates that, “If a presidential candidate says he will pull our troops out of [insert ongoing foreign war here], but extends their tours of duty once in office, then shouldn’t I vote for the guy who says he wants war forever, because that is what I don’t want, and it’s what he is promising?”

Shit. I think I just figured out how I’m going to vote in 2012. That is, if I vote, which I won’t, because voting is for tools.

YOU HEARD IT AT ELF WAX: VOTING IS FOR TOOLS.

Because when you vote, you become a tool of the state, not of Democracy; and not a strong, useful tool but something more like a bullshit-absorbent sponge that when squeezed, produces a vote for whatever filth you retain. When they teach you that “the system works” by showing how when the majority votes on a candidate, or an issue, laws and policies change, it matches superficial cause-and-effect logic, but the side effects are neither seen nor tested. The system works, sure, but not for you, me, or the American people, or the people of the world. The system you legitimize through the practice of voting (or not) serves only the rich and privileged who ensure the elite maintain power.

This includes statesmen, conglomerations, corporate America, and people you’ll never know exist who orchestrate conflict-of-interest nightmare deals between government agencies and massive, reality-altering corporations. The end result is a sort of reverse-socialism where our decisions are made for us not by the government as Corporate News might have you fear, but by corporate interests themselves. The government is virtually powerless when one considers the proto-oligarchy of Wal-Mart, Google, Lockheed-Martin, the pharmaceutical industry and petroleum companies whose leadership is not comprised only of Americans but extends to all countries, including America’s enemies, in a trend called globalization. They vaguely touch upon this in high schools but due to an increase in difficult questions have shaved this discussion back dramatically.

So when people vote, and the faces change around – and new portraits are slapped up on the television screen, I know nobody’s surprised that the end result is the same, but they still complain like it’s that individual’s fault. The modern President is no more a leader today than Rush Limbaugh. That’s why he goes on shows like The View and talks to women. The illusion of power comes with his presence. But the truly powerful, any thinking man knows, live and die in the shadows. And tell Bush, Clinton, Bush, Obama, Sarah Palin, and General Patreus what to do.

So why do people vote? What I thought was funny in a tragic sort of way is how massive numbers of people came out to vote in the 2008 election. It was based on hope, or perhaps to ‘shake things up’ if they voted for Obama and old-fashioned common sense if you voted for McCain – that is, until Sarah Palin miracled his penis erect long enough to coerce the Vice President slot out of him with sex. And then everybody knew better. But now Americans are probably learning the sad truth about how neither Hope nor ideology can overcome the gauntlet of constituency and special interest groups a president is faced with during his first week in office.

“You can’t change that fucking policy! And you’ll owe me billions, if you do! Also, I guess you like having Michelle and the kids alive, right? I like ya, Barack. You shoot a straight line. So don’t fuck me here. Go out and flash that toothy grin of yours and get me paid before I put your balls on the shelf next to Kennedy’s skull fragment, motherfucker.”

So…ignorance, I have concluded, is why people vote. And yet, because they vote, they consider themselves to be informed, as if it takes knowledge or a certain degree of intellectual prowess to vote. Hardest part is overcoming the distrust of a voting machine, these days. These things can be programmed to get Proxima Centaurians elected. I think dogs make just as good voters, what with their gut instincts and all that. And people’s guts probably said, “Go with Obama. At least he’s smart and seems well-intentioned.” However, no amount of good intentions can erase the cold hard fact that we are at war with our own inflationary military industrial complex, to feed the need for War, and for oil to propagate the American Way – even though we’re still shooting at the brown people. We were on our way to war on the New Pipeline and people were screaming “bring the troops home.” It’s eerily quiet and suddenly Obama announced pulling combat troops out of Iraq and leaving an infrastructural force. But, the people were told to expect our troops to come home based on an empty promise, so falling in with the narrative, he provided that. Enjoy your Kandahar Province push, American citizens. Because it’s happening. We got troops preparing to pipe oil in from places you don’t dare imagine during your drive-time commute, and you call yourselves good Americans because you vote. What are you voting to receive? The sticker on your shirt? “I voted!” Checkmark. Get fucked.

Nowadays, we vote with our dollars. Stop spending money on pharmaceutical agents and you’ll see marijuana legalized. You’ll see LSD testing start back up to truly cure the depressed and mentally sick so you don’t have to watch your loved ones lurch around like doped up zombie shells to the beat of the pilltray. Vote against war by protesting en masse at the gas station. Let ’em collapse. Nothing’s too big to fail, except the human race and the war machine will ensure that happens, on a long-enough time frame. Information is on the horizon that will destroy the need for current needs and probably your way of life. Get ready, voters. 38 liars just a month away. Another chance to feel good about yourselves. Another chance to respect these people because they’re good at putting money together and flashing a smile on TV. Another chance to destroy the human race, one action – or inaction – at a time; it makes no difference.

Categories
Hate Reviews

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.

Categories
Editorial

FUCK YOUR BLOG

Oh hi! Didn’t see you there. It’s difficult to see anything beyond The Elf Wax Times’ blinding white flurry of success, but we’ve got a finger on the pulse, and we hear you asking yourselves:

How can I get more people to read my [worthless] blog?


It’s a two-step process.

  1. Don’t be such a fucking douchebag. Seriously.
  2. And don’t start a blog.

A man blogs furiously

A long time ago, I was sitting online, my ass was numb, I was talking to my friend and I felt like I needed to break the uncomfortable silence, so I said “fuck people with blogs” to which my friend responded, “Nobody cares what they have to say.”

“Of course not,” I said. “That’s why they start blogs.”

And that’s the kind of fucking genius thought-dissemination that absorbs your blog’s readership before their sunken eyes even leave The Elf Wax Times: your puss-blog about how you don’t get any puss because you’re a giant, throbbing, cheese-flushing pussy is simply not entertaining, and everybody knows it already. Some blogs are so bad that it boosts our readership when people come here in need of healing.

  • Maybe it’s because you don’t have any insights beyond what simpletons uncover within an episode of Touched by an Angel.
  • Maybe you really don’t get any pussy and you try to post about it on the internet, but your half-assed approach to writing fails to capture even the wildest sexual imagination of, say, a pubescent child, who, possibly having never seen the internet before, couldn’t even pay twenty-five seconds of attention to your sex-laden drivel if it were printed off and handed to him to read as an alternative to restriction ad infinitum. In fact, for most folks, reading your blog is probably the equivalent to tasting some cold, stale piss.

But we’re talking about children here. All children are retarded, so they’re a bad example and I should not have used them; if for no other reason than people hate to be reminded of children. Check back next year for an apology.

Conversationally, The Elf Wax Times reporters, staff writers, editors, and our glorious masters are intellectually potent, and should we have a moment in our busy day of cooking up and serving the truth, we need to read thought-inspiring equivalencies of miniature Cat’s Cradles, should we get the chance to read anything at all (usually we have our assistants read to us as we masturbate to rare, uncensored Asian pornography).

So, to us, your Tucker Max attempt at a blog leaves a taste in the mouth of cold piss, too. That is to say, we see through your attempts to piss in our mouths from behind your dual-core PC and you fail to even keep it warm, much less hit your target, whatever that may be. Nobody knows what you’re trying to accomplish. You’re worthless and you suck.

Let’s briefly drop the pissing metaphor for a moment to talk more about why people hate blogs.

I hate blogs because they fail to properly inform. The Elf Wax Times takes an ambivalent stance on blogging, because it is not officially recognized as a medium of any form. A blog is simply something you accidentally click on Google because it contains the most keywords in the most relevant order contained in your search. Maybe you host a copyrighted picture nobody else has, and so people click it, save it, and never see your site again. In all likelihood, if you think people are visiting your blog because your “statistics say so,” look closer and you’ll see that accidental clicks account for at least 99% of your “readership,” and the only reason copyright lawyers have not yet contacted you is because no human is actually looking at your “site.” [Editor’s Note: blogs are not real websites.]

Nobody is looking at your perspective on the world. Nobody is sharing in your unique, subjective experience of reality in the abstract. Nobody is taking the journey as your narrative prose degrades into broken poetry with faulty rhyme scheme followed by ellipses and a question mark. Nobody feels the way you do, because your mechanism for emotion is so completely distorted that you actually believe people are reading your fucking blog. Normal people are not as self-important as blog “authors.” [Editor’s Note: blogs are not authored by anyone because authors write for a living, and bloggers do not.] Nobody will ever identify with a blogger.

Blogger

Now, I know I’m just farting into the wind here, so we’re going to have to break it down another level.

You write a blog, you have one. You maintain one, as you put on your resumé or MySpace page. No cute girls are reading it. Maybe there are two people who make comments on your posts from time to time, under the unspoken arrangement that you reciprocate. One’s a fat chick, the other’s your online friend who once agreed over AIM that the government sucks. You put a lot of time into your CSS code, your margins are perfect, the padding fucking fits and you feel good because you’ve got shit all figured out, so this doesn’t apply to you – right? Oh boy. How glad I am not to be you. How thankful I am not to be so misled, so delusional, so willing to lie to myself as you; so wrong as you are.

I’m talking to you, blogger. Blogosphere. The bastion of truth–shit, I mean, self-importance. Your thoughts are impure, your opinions invalid, broadly unsubstantiated by anything other than your George W. Bush “gut feeling” fueled by the insights of Neil Cavuto, or name-a-CNN-pundit.com.

Your vision is filtered through orange glasses or red, depending on where we’re at on the Terror Alert scale. At best, you’re the unseen, unheard afterthought of a political mechanism – lost to all keepers of history but your own web browser. At worst, you serve the political machine as they reference your voice among millions in the blogosphere, speaking for you, making determinations about you, without reading you, or knowing you, or seeing you, or even consciously being aware that someone like you might actually exist.

And we here at The Elf Wax Times for once share their anti-sentiment. So without further ado, fuck you and your little blog, too.