PLEASE, I'M BEGGING – For the Love of God, Stop Me Before I FailDox Again!

Victorious, the soldier returns from the battlefield. I am no longer engaged in Internet warfare. I have scrubbed this blog of all reference to the vanquished foe who lies vanquished in Westminster having been vanquished by me, the Great Vanquisher. But my victorious victory has not come without a price. In every battle I have ventured forth across the cyber-minefield of blogs and Tweets carefully planted specifically and for no other purpose but to intentionally aggravate my Parkinson’s disease.
Now that I have declared victory, I don’t have to respond to the occasional live round lobbed over the border. Because I am victorious by acclamation and Schmalfeldtian reality always bends to my will, all I need do is send it to law enforcement so they, like me, can do nothing.

Law enforcement needs a DOOM CLOCK!!

As far as I’m concerned, my participation in this war ended the day my neurologist told me to knock it off. Which I did. I always do what my doctor says, for as long as I can remember it before dementia wipes my internal hard drive and re-boots my brain to its default state of irrational hatred and perpetual victim statusssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssshit my finger froze on the keyboard again. Damn you, Hoge!

I took this blog offline altogether. I killed my personal and radio station Twitter accounts (although, for some reason that isn’t clear to me, Twitter suspended them AFTER I deactivated them. As if hiding the vile content doesn’t automatically excuse the vileness of it? I don’t get it. Whatever). If the boys and girls wanna fight, they can fight with each other. Except for Hoge, that guy is like a pipe calling across the room to a tweaker on a comedown. And PEMason54, I’m never gonna give up looking him (or her). Rain. Stephen Sheiko, Kyle Kiernan, Patrick Grady, Tom Puzio, Jerry Fletcher, SuperAaronBurr, the DimDimLibraryGirl.

Really, I’ll probably backslide in just a couple of days and start baiting and attacking the whole world. But I’m not obsessed or a stalker or anything like that. I can quit anytime I want. Seriously, I’ve already quit the whole internet four or five times just this year.

Anytime I want…

I feel like Nagasaki must have felt after Fat Man. I was crushed, flattened, burned to ashes and stone. But I survived, ugly, scarred, covered with scars and pus-filled sores. I prevailed (I don’t know what that word means, but it sounds good). But I was damaged. Oh, brother, was I damaged! Last time I was this damaged was after my father punished me for going first in a game of Whack-Your-Brother-In-The-Forehead-With-A-Ball-Peen-Hammer. That was the day before Bobber’s accident, and Dad blamed me until the day he died.

Repairing my damaged brain is a far more serious matter than rebuilding a leveled city or repaving an entire nation’s infrastructure and system of government. Because I am a screwed up individual. Seriously. Small animals come onto my porch and vanish forever. IYKWIMAITYD


This false victory is sweet, but I must admit I do feel better. I don’t feel like I have a constant weight on my shoulders any more. It’s more like a series of small weights that rotate from a yoke on my shoulders to manacles keeping my hands pinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnned to the keyboard to shackles on my feet holding me in this ever more cramped chair. I know law enforcement doesn’t give a shit. They think I’m batshit; everyone does. I don’t know why. Whatever, they’re all just obsessed deranged cyberstalker’s who envy my world class investigative journalist skills and my tight relationship with Howard County Law Enforcement. The cops always return my messages, but they never answer my calls. I don’t know why. Whatever. My “friends” in Shakey’s Legion of Invisible Midnight Experts (S.L.I.M.E) feel they’ve done all they can and that I am my own worst enemy. I don’t know why. Whatever. I no longer feel a need for revenge, but that crack pipe across the room is whispering to me in its seductive voice: “Bing! You’ve got mail.” Even if I did, what good would that do when law enforcement abrogates its primary responsibility to serve ME and protect ME from all the imaginary threats I create or dream up? I don’t know. Whatever.

So, the last several days have been peaceful. Good for my health. Made my wife happy.

But oh, that computer crack pipe and its siren song.

Just now, my beloved made a delicious lunch of corned beef hash and eggs. You know what I wanted, but I’d had one for three days straight, the mayonnaise was almost gone and my wife simply put her foot down. When I was finished, I pushed myself to my feet, holding the plate in one hand and leaning my rolly walker with the other.

And I stood there, trying to puzzle out, through the fog of ongoing doxes I’d left behind in the pipeline, just what in the hell it was that I was supposed to do next.

How in God’s name am I supposed to take a step while carrying an empty dox box, trying to expose myself to a passing walker and push my plate off the table, my brain puzzled. I stood there, unable to speak.

The computer whispered, “just pretend you’re investigating PEMason54 and you want dox him. Don’t let anything get in the way!”

“You stuck?” my wife asked.

I managed to say, “Yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy…”

She came over, took the plate… with some difficulty because I had AHOLD of that damn thing… out of my hand. My arm and hand just stayed there, hanging in the air. She took my wrist and lowered my left hand to the walker.

Nothing happened.

So she reared back and smacked me across the face with all her might. I haven’t been hit that hard since the Bobber body-slammed me off the top bunk one night when we were kids.

“How’s that?” she said, with a small, unmistakably satisfied grin.

“That did it,” I said, my teeth jiggling with my expansive gut. I took a step.

Just one. Frozen again. This time, I concentrated hard on that next step. Took it. Then, I was free. Gail walked into the kitchen with the plate. I followed, but then felt myself tipping backwards. I had suddenly made bigs and my center of gravity had shifted. I put the brakes on the walker and managed to keep from falling. Stuck again. Concentrated. Then, was able do the diaper-shuffle the rest of the way to the kitchen and give my wife a “thank you” hug and kiss… for the above average lunch and for saving me with a smack in the mouth. (I wonder if I’d be a better man today if someone had smacked some sense into me when I was younger. I don’t know. Whatever.)

This is why I cannot be left alone. I have this mental image of Gail going to work, I see her off, roll towards the kitchen with my empty coffee cup and freeze. I roll right through the kitchen, out the front door, flip right over the porch railing and land face first in the mud. I’m still frozen when she gets home, and covered in bird shit to boot. The dogs have been circling like sharks, licking my bleeding wounds for the past seven hours. At least they’ve kept the coyotes and raccoons away.

Nope. That can’t happen. Even though my wife does make a fine raccoon stew.

I saw a tweet today of someone comparing a video of me giving a five-minute monologue – me, a guy who can’t speak more than a sentence without stammering and stuttering, after 14 years of what MY DOCTOR calls “Advanced Parkinson’s,” – compared to a woman who had the thing for 32 years by that point. She had tremor. I do not. I have a gait. And a white picket fence, and a little rose garden out back. And don’t tell anybody, but sometimes I get brown paper wrapped packages with no return address and spend the day doxing people dressed in the skimpiest, most frilly and beautifully sexy silk underthings you could possibly imagine! Ooh! I get shivers just thinking about it.

Therefore, according to the idiot who tweeted the video, I have no business saying I have “Advanced Parkinson’s disease.”

Maybe if my gait had some tremor. Then they would think I was faking that, too. Believe me, it’s true. Just as true the identity of Kyle Kiernan, of Tom Puzio Sr., of @guntotingteabag, and especially of @embryriddlealum, whom I have correctly identified and exposed at least six different times.

So there. Nyah.


Author: Paul Krendler

The Thinking Man's Zombie

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