The person that I thought might be the slime ball I want to frame for threatening to gut my dogs is not the person I want to frame for threatening to gut my dogs.
I know, I know. You’re shocked. I’ll give you all a moment to regain consciousness, splash some water on your face, maybe get the smelling salts.
As it turns out, she is a very nice, very sweet lady who has no idea why a poor, indigent, disabled, creepy old man from the other side of the country would call her up and threaten to publish all her personal information on the internet for no good reason other than pettiness and spite.
She returned my phone call about an hour ago and we had a very pleasant conversation. She was far more polite to me than I had been to her. Because, let’s face it – I couldn’t be more of a dick if my feet were testicles. Regardless, after she spent 50 minutes trying to convince me that I was wro**, that I was incor****, that I had made a mist***, that she wasn’t the motherf*cking bastard LICKSPITTLE!! who threatened my mayonnaise-loving puppies that I’m going to track down and expose if it’s the last goddamn thing I do.
What was I talking about?
Oh, yeah…so, anyway…
I apologized for calling her out of the blue and scaring her like that, but I needed to be sure – or let an arbitrary deadline pass – before I went public with the info I had, which everyone knows is always right (even today, no matter what this poor bitch says, it’s probably her husband, just you wait). See, unlike Chris Heather (or Jeremy Kinsey) and Robin Wesley Causey (or Howard Earl) and Patrick Grady (or KimberlinUnmasked or OwainPenilyn? Frankie? Johnny Tyler?) and Nancy Gilly (or Tom Puzio), I did not have independent verification that the person I thought to be the slimebag was the slimebag.
I wanted to post something online, in case the slimebag was keeping an eye on me, the way I stalk all the blogs and Twitter feeds of Hoge and all his little HOGEIST LICKSPITTLE MINIONS!!1!1ELEVENTY!1!!
But I didn’t reveal all her info. Now, I don’t have to. I have to keep digging because I was wro**, because I was incor****, because I made a mist***, because she MIGHT not be the motherf*cking bastard LICKSPITTLE!! who threatened my mayonnaise-loving puppies.
This is what happens when a person who has never heard of me and has no idea what a leaking sphincter I really am or what evil I’m capable of, ignorantly treats me with infinitely more deference and respect than I deserve simply because I say I’m a “journalist,” which is a little like saying Barack Obama is a “good President.” They don’t hang up, because they’re completely oblivious. They don’t pretend to be something they’re not, because the “world’s greatest investigative journalist” – yes, me, you MORON! – concluded that Google Hit #1 Must Be The Perpetrator. You ask questions, you get straight answers from gullible senior citizens who have no clue who you are.
How much simpler would my life be if Ali Akbar had done that. Or Lee Stranahan or any of the scum sucking bottom feeders who refused to be coerced and bullied into answering sick, twisted questions from a sick, twisted Puhrtend EHRMAGERD! Germy Lust.
She wanted to know how I got her cellphone number. I told her that one does not question the magical talents of the purtend jurnurlirst. No, seriously!
I’d love to be able to say I had to dig seriously to find the number, that it really was a serious journalistic achievement, but I came by her number the same way I always do: it was a total accident. The stupid broad left it on her answering machine message. I told her the best advice I could give her is to get offline and don’t ever come back, because I’m very likely to forget the whole conversation ever happened and dox her anyway. I’m sure she’s a very nice lady, but, well…I’m a leaking sphincter with a hole at the top of my head and testicles where my feet should be. What do you expect?
This is what I have been saying all along. Ignorant people answer stupid questions when they are asked. If the answer is, “none of your business,” that’s fine. But don’t duck, dodge, hide, try to twist or slime the person who asked you ignorant questions that are “none of their business.” All you do is get my curiosity aroused.
And if there’s one thing NOBODY needs to see, it’s me when I’m aroused. I don’t think they sell eye bleach in 55 gallon drums.
And you really don’t want to see how that turns out. Every time I’m humiliated, I just hide for five days in shame and bitter embarrassment, then re-double my efforts. Do I give up? Do I give up pursuing the people I am pursuing?
Golly, no. There’s only one thing that will stop me and that will be the day the men in white come to the tornado-magnet, put me in the extra-long sleeve jacket and take me for a ride to Spring Grove.
Until then, scumbags beware, because The Great Walking – well, Rolling, actually – Skinflute of Elkridge is coming burst your bubble. So do a better job of covering your tracks.
OK, PXXXXXX Mason of Portland?
Is that Maine, Oregon, Texas, Tennessee, North Dakota, Indiana, Connecticut, Michigan, Arkansas, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Missouri or Kentucky?
NAILED IT AGAIN! LIKE A BOSS!!