(All pictures and other material, altered or otherwise, used under Fair Use Terms of US Copyright Law, which is really just another way for me to say The Law Means What I Say It Means, And It Says I Have Carte Blanche To Steal Anything I Want, Nanner Nanner Boo Boo, So There, And The Horse You Rode In On.)
I just found out yesterday that my new bestest friend – not to be confused with my excellent friend, convicted bomber, forger, perjurer and drug dealer, who has not served his full sentence and walks free every day at risk of being returned to federal prison if he violates parole Bert Timbaland
(oh, and did I mention he is the only suspect in the murder of Augustina Encoders, the grandmother of his at-the-time waaaaay underage girlfriend, whom the sick bastard had been taking on vacations without chaperones? Did I mention that? Well, I should probably keep that to myself, what with me and Bert being such excellent palsy-walsies and all that) – Marshall Mellow of 1416 Wellesbury Lane, Huntsville AL, 35807, phone number 256-555-2455, Social Security Number 422-51-2890, clean criminal record except for 2 speeding tickets, 10 unpaid parking tickets and an expunged juvenile vandalism arrest, FICO score of 700, owed $1600 on his Harley, carried a $1.7 million life insurance policy and a $128K mortgage note on his lovely home, a picture of which I would post, so someone who felt like visiting a newly widowed single mom and offering some “special attention” might be able to recognize the right studio downtown where she doesn’t actually live – died on July 18. Dreadful news, unless you have a thing for hot, young, mourning widows. But don’t do that. I would never suggest anything so vile and crass. It’s way too soon. Please, at least wait until there’s grass on the grave, huh? Show some respect.
Marsh (he let me call him Marsh, just like that racist, alcoholic hack wannabe journalist R. Stacy McCain insists I call him “Stace”) spent the last month and a half of his life blogging the truth about how evil I am. And motorcycles, and theater, and hidden places in Alabama, but really, who cares about any of that shit? Everyone knows it’s AAAAALLLLL ABOUT ME! ME!! MEEE!!!! His blog didn’t get any attention (from me, and it’s all about me) until he started writing about ME and how evil and stupid I am on May 28. In fact, he really didn’t start writing about me until after he found that fucking Thinking Man’s Zombie blog written by that fucking weasel Paul Krendler whose parody I stole and put in a book. You see, Marshall thought he knew more about US Copyright Law and Fair Use than I do, and NOBODY, and I mean NOBODY, knows more about copyright law and unfair use than me. Not even some Presidential appointed, Senate approved icky girl Federal Judge!
Because – HOGE!
But as soon as the Lickspittle Minions© got wind of yet another blogger who had seen through my steady stream of lies and other horse shit, and proved himself smarter than me, he was welcomed into the Hogewash! fold like a conquering hero. I have to make up commenters at my blog. Even Harridan O’FakeChik won’t comment on my blogs.
What Marshall did was what any decent journalist would do. He asked me questions. Sure they were obnoxious. How can you call yourself a journalist is you don’t hound your subject with obnoxious questions like, “What happened to your dead daughter? Did you drown her in the toilet yourself, or was it your wife? Where’s the death certificate? What about the paperwork on your underage porn models? When did you stop abusing your kids? You know I’m calling the cops on you, don’tcha, pervert? Why do you pimp out your wife, sicko bastard?”
Of course, those questions aren’t obnoxious; they’re tenacious. There’s a difference. I only ask tenacious questions. If I’m not asking, then they’re obnoxious.
They were even reasonably polite, and based in documentable history of some of my past award-winning journalistic and other online exploits. I mean, when I doxed McCain and that guy in Dallas on the same day, I got a dozen fresh jars of mayonnaise! There was no return address on it, but who cares? MAYONNAISE!!
Besides, those obnoxious questions had nothing to do with the the battles I’m fighting and the issues I’m facing.
Oh. Did I mention that it’s ALL. ABOUT. ME!!?!!ELEVENTY!???!?
At first, he seemed like a nice enough fellow. Earnestly trying to find out what black and malignant infestation makes an obviously mental deficient, unstable sociopathic narcissist like me tick. And I’m sure he was earnest and honest and nice in real life.
I wonder what that’s like? (Not really. Couldn’t care less.)
But this is cyberspace, where I can take off my mask and be the unrelenting, shit-smeared fuckstick bastard that I always am when no one is around to unplug the computer and mix a triple dose of lithium into my fro yo. Where I can say stuff like this:
And now young Marshall is gone, so tragically young, with an extra young widow, and two even younger young youngsters. And puppies! Young puppies! Barely out of the whelping box, so recently torn away from their own mother (oh, Marshall, you heartless piece of shit, how could tear those helpless young, young, YOUNG animals from the only love they’ve ever known only to abandon them to the tail-yanking, ear-pulling shenanigans of your soon to be homeless little criminal street urchins! O the cruelty!). I didn’t have the chance to make peace with him, after he reached the obvious conclusion that I am every bit the tumorous, vile, stinking, vomitous waste of human flesh that every right-thinking netizen believes I am. I’ve made peace with many make-believe Hoge readers who, once I realized I could not dox them because they don’t actually exist, have learned that I am a living, breathing human being who functions entirely on my autonomic nervous system and a deep brain stimulator that has been hijacked via Bluetooth by some teenaged creepazoid hacker living IN A VAN! DOWN BY!! THE RIVER!!!
It breaks my heart that Marshall spent the last month and a half of his life inserting myself (…add your own joke here, I can’t choose from so many…-PK) into issues that did not concern him. Issues like:
• what sort of professional association would a Pennsylvania dentist belong to, and how could I fuck with that?
• would a librarian be embarrassed by the fact that she finished last in a local election?
• why is some old broad in Portland sending me emails?
• that guy in Illinois I tried to get fired is wondering about jobs in Maryland? After I clean up the fear pee and creep his TL, I’m gonna get a peace order that I have no intention of pressing
• a guy with that name absolutely MUST be the same guy in the same state with a long arrest record, right?
Why would Michael want to do such stupid things?
Me? Of course, me. It’s ALL ABOUT ME!
Oh, that! Did I do those things? I’m sorry but I’m not going to participate in your stupid games so MYOFB!!! And if you don’t tell me Paul Krendler’s real name by the time I count three, I’m gonna count to FOUR!!!
Um…never mind. I recently learned about this thing called a Freudian Slip? I think I just broke my hip.
The more I pointed out to him that he’s not an award winning jomolista like me, and that he had no right to ask polite questions of me (BECAUSE IT’S ALL ABOUT ME!), the more he persisted in acting like a shitty fake internet investigative jomolista chasing a totally fake non-story down Texas way in a totally unethical and downright shitty manner that, if there were any true justice in the world, would land that shitty fake internet investigative jomolista behind bars for the rest of his sorry fucking life!
But that’s not me. I would never do ANYTHING like that.
But Marshall, poor young dead Marshall, just couldn’t let it go. He pushed me, and pushed me, and pushed me. And now he’s dead. Of a heart attack. So they say. Just by the way, did you know that drugs like cocaine and methamphetamine can cause a massive heart attack? It’s just amazing the things you can learn on the internet! Wouldn’t it be something if I knew someone who could get their hands on such illegal substances? Someone who’d been convicted of dealing drugs? Boy, it’s a good thing I don’t know anybody like that.
To give you
an idea of what we’re dealing with here, a couple months after conservative new media firebrand Andrew Breitbart died in 2012, some fucking shitbrained, pus-oozing, lunatic, festering-chancre-on-the-hemorrhoidal-asshole-of-Liberal-Assholedom hatemonger called “The Liberal Grouch” started a parody website called “Big Damnation” to mock Andrew and torture his fans. The same guy even had a Twitter account, @DeadAndrew, to go with it. That this would come to mind upon hearing about the death of someone tells more about
ME that person who isn’t me (EVEN THOUGH IT’S ALL ABOUT ME!!!) than anything I could ever say.
But this is what Twitter and blogs have created. I hate people I’ve never even met. I can try an entire federal case and declare myself victoriously victorious without even knowing what FACTS may be presented! I Hate for the Sake of Hating. And, because Hate Is All I Have Left.m It’s the sort of thing that people who should know better engage in. Thank goodness I’m not intelligent enough to know better; what a perfect excuse for being the pluperfect leaking sphincter that I am. Not like Hoge and Aaron Walker. They both have treated me like a human being. I’ve had pleasant conversations with both of them. They seem decent enough. Yet the next day, there I am, back online, ridiculing Aaron’s “mail order bride,” making up transsexual masturbation fantasies about Hoge’s son, or painting his wife as an alcoholic. And for what? To build readership?
I have no readership! I have to comment with sockpuppets, for crissakes! Nobody comments at my blog-of-the-week because everyone knows I’ll dox anyone who doesn’t praise me to the skies. Everybody disagrees with me, but everyone knows that IT’S ALL ABOUT ME!!! so everyone knows that everyone who disagrees with me must be wrong so everybody must be doxed, and if I could exercise just a tiny amount of…what’s it called again? Self-control, then I would not feel so all alone, EVERYBODY MUST GET STONED!
Where was I?
Ask my wife what 764 radio stations, 86 defunct blogs and 10,648 abandoned Twitter accounts will mean to her when I’m dead. Ask my kids if their father’s me-me-me-against-the-world pissing contest with an army of people he’s never met, knows nothing about, wouldn’t know if they somehow managed to endure the stench and squeeeeeeze into an elevator with him and his rolly chair and hope he doesn’t fall on top of them…ask them if they think his last years of blogging futility are something they will look back on with pride.
Then look at the posts I’ve managed not to delete out of shame and cowardice. OR JUST COUNT ALL THE LINKS TO ALL THE POSTS I HAVE WRITTEN WHICH NO LONGER EXIST. Read the hundreds, maybe thousands of screencapped Tweets that I’ve deleted or hidden.
I’m an award-winning jomolista of three decades vintage! You’d think I would be proud of what I write, proud enough to leave it up for posterity to judge my legacy.
But no. I am a coward, with no spine to stand behind what I write.
My sins, and they are both LEGION and EPIC, were committed in the pursuit of personal and political vendettas. The CARDINAL sin of the jomolista is lack of objectivity. And I am guilty.
GUILTY! GUILTY!! GUILTY!!!
But that is absolutely irrelevant. I have given up the practice of journalism, because I could never get it right in the first place. The fact that I hate all of you does nothing to tear down the illusion that I have ever accomplished anything in my life except drive two ex-wives into the arms of other men. That takes some effort.
Look at what I’m writing now. Is this the sort of legacy I should leave?
Why am I asking you? I hate you.
I admit that I am not proud of every word I’ve written (especially that word “hubris,” you’d think there would be at least one synonym for that), but I’ve gotten pretty good at memory-holing the worst of it before anyone screencapped it (ohpleaseohpleaseohplease let it be true!), so on the surface it certainly appears to the uninterested observer that I’ve done far more good in my time on the planet than I’ve done evil. (though I may be borrowing against EDN* time in that calculation) but I can say – knowing my own heart and mind – that I have never done evil –
– without fully rationalizing away the fact it was evil. I will admit that I have done things that turned out in a way that hurt people, but hurt was never my intent (merely a glorious, bordering on orgasmic, sweaty-palmed unintended consequence).
Can you say that?
As a matter of fact, I can. Because all I have is fun! – PK
My conscience is clean, even if my drawers are not. And I look forward to winning this case which I have tried and won 562,854 times in my head without knowing what evidence or argument that HOOOOOOOOOOOOOGE!!!!!!!!! will bring to bear and blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda, IT’S ALL ABOUT ME ME ME!!!!!!!!! And fuck you. And fuck Hoge. And fuck Mellow, too.
Still, I ache for the Mellow family. (Nah, I don’t – fuck ’em. And their little dogs, too!) I know the sting of unexpected loss, of when my irresponsible, careless, selfish twin brother and wrestling partner shuffled off this mortal coil in 2004. I only mention it BECAUSE IT’S ALWAYS, ONLY ALL ABOUT ME AND DON’T YOU FUCKING FORGET IT. EVER.
Marshall had a lot of questions that he wanted answers to. He didn’t want them bad enough to call in a spousal abuse report, or to suggest that I might be mentally unstable, or to threaten to have my kids taken away (I would have done all those things, but that’s what separates the truly ethical journalist from grimy sewer-dwelling turds like me). Plus, I already knew that everything he knew was already in the public record, so all he was trying to do was “Mike Wallace” me and get me to confess to stuff that’s already been proven true. What’s in it for me (it’s all about me)? I chose not to play along, which of course only made me look guilty. But I am guilty, so who gives a fuck?
I wager, if there’s such a thing as Heaven, that Marsh Mellow now has all the answers he sought, and he knows he will never see me again except from inside the pearly gates, whilst I suffer across the infinite chasm with great wailing and gnashing of teeth, shackled between the Bobber and Fatty Arbuckle for all eternity. With only one kind of deodorant, that smells like Bigs and rancid mayonnaise.