I’ve been keeping my peace about this, but let’s look at the facts.
- William M. Schmalfeldt filed a horribly botched Answer and Counterclaim and First (and Second) Amended Counterclaim in his ill-fated, woe-begotten, doomed-from-day-one attempt to identify and maliciously prosecute me for some very vague and legally specious charges of libel and some such bullshit. Read all about it in “Cheesinus Fromundies – Intent to Sniff.”
- He spent all of his mayonnaise budget for the summer on postage, and was willing to dig into the penicillin and cranberry juice money to pay for subpoenas and processing fees from WordPress and Twitter to smoke me out and persecute me for authoring a genius parody that gave him Jerry Falwell levels of epic butthurt.
- Before he even figured out how to affect service on me, he folded like a pup tent in a hurricane. He got nothing, because he’s a cowardly, no-account, shuffling lump of weenie-meat with no guts for a fight he claimed to be spoiling for. He claims victory, yet refuses to look in my direction, when his prayer for relief of $1.500.000 (no that’s no typo – he really did try to sue for twelve bits) results two fingers raised high and proud back at him. He paid his costs, I sat back, pointing, laughing and mocking for most of a summer at no cost to myself.
- Yes, Hoge lost at the hearing for a Preliminary Injunction. Let’s read that word again, slowly, like Bill does: Preeeeeeee-lllllliiimmmmm-iiiiiiiiiiinnnnnn-aaaaarrrrryyy. It means “early.”
- Legal experts like Eugene Volokh knew the handwriting was on the wall. They said, Sure enough; Hoge lost in a hearing for a preliminary injunction very, VERY early in the process. He lost to a slavering mad dog psychotic with Daddy issues and impulse control problems, a serially adjudicated harasser & deranged cyberstalker with a vile fixation on anything in or near the human body’s garbage chute. (Well, that may be a bit of a paraphrase, and I don’t think Professor Volokh knows Bill well enough to be quite so opinionated, but others do.) They also said the preliminary injunction really had nothing to do with making a case at trial. Bill had an AWFUL LOT OF TROUBLE remembering that part. He restated his offer to Hoge. “Let me skate, you vindictive, vexatious, stinky old prick.” Hoge told him to take a running fuck at a rolling doughnut. (Though his word choice was surely less colorful than mine.)
- Hoge files a peace order, again, and, as Hoge expected, the idiot political appointee judge denied the petition. He should have waited for a weekend when standards are much lower and you can manufacture enough evidence AND fear-pee to sway a weekend county court commissioner, amirite?
- Undeterred by the proclamations of brain-dead bumpkins, or Circuit Court judges, Hoge exercises his legal right to file an appeal.
- Now that Bill has convinced himself that Hoge has bungled his case, has misfiled his copyright applications, has thrown away all that money and has shown weakness, he gladly agrees to a settlement conference, thinking he can walk in with reams upon reams of printouts of comments that gave him epic butthurt and sadz for his widdle feeeeewings, and walk out with tens of thousands of dollars. He doesn’t realize that his attempt to muddy the legal waters to obscure his tortious violations has failed miserably.
- At the settlement conference, Hoge first demands everything he had originally asked for. The judge explains that his complaint is flawed and likely to be dismissed.
- The judge turns to Bill, who reaches for his boxes of printed hate-crack. He wonders why he calls it hate-crack, because Bill loves crack! He writes about it ALL THE TIME, by cracky! The judge laughs out loud at Bill’s “evidence” and tells him to cover up his butt stuff, as it’s only just a bit more irrelevant than Spankme Bill himself. The judge came here to broker a settlement, but Bill has been cawing like a magpie all week about getting his pound of flesh from Hoge. He can’t be seen losing face now. The judge quickly becomes exasperated with both men. He tells Bill that his counterclaim has more flaws and FAR less merit than the original claim against him, and that if he had wanted to pursue this seriously, even a high school freshman with lawyer aspirations would have been a better advocate for his cause. Judge Hollander is likely to throw the whole thing out anyway. Bill tried to tell the judge about all the money he’d spent on butthurt ointment the last two years, and how his wife was sad, and he DESERVED COMPENSATION for all the PAIN and SUFFERING and EXACERBATION he had endured during this period of ruthless stalking and harassment he had perpetrated. The judge wasn’t even listening, which was probably a lucky thing for Bill. He finally understood that his planned payday was not forthcoming. He said, “Fine. Instead of $1000 per hate-filled comment, I’ll take $800. And Hoge pays my costs. I’ll take down the infringing material (which can be seen in the book “Cheesinus Fromundies – Intent to Sniff.”) from my websites until I feel like putting it up again.”
- Five minutes later, after the roaring laughter subsides and the Judge and Hoge have picked themselves off the floor and resumed their seats, Bill realizes all is lost. Hoge tries to get him to admit that he infringed, but Bill, desperate to leave the room with a shred of dignity and something, anything he can grasp and call a “victory,” discovers that he possesses a very rudimentary, underdeveloped backbone and scrawls the word “alleged” right before the word “infringement” while Hoge was signing. HA! Too late! Then Bill snatched the paper away and signed with his favorite crayon – yellow-brown, just the shade where the stripe down his back faded into the stain rising out of his taint. AND HE GOT NOTHING. NO MONEY. NO KRENDLER. NO APOLOGY. NO MAYONNAISE.
But Hoge has wisdom. He knows Bill is, beneath all the blubbering bluster and blustering blubber, a fool and a recidivist serial harasser incapable of self-control or of acting in his own best interests. He knows that Bill will trip over himself jumping back into the sewer (probably causing some other minor injury that he can blame on Hoge, because – HOGE!), and that it will happen sooner than anyone can predict. So, he tells Bill that if Bill gives him half a reason not to do so, he is not going to press the Peace Order at the District Court. Bill thanks him. But both men know in their deepest hearts that Bill is already planning to do something really stupid, and he’s already planning to blame Hoge for it.
Still, in good faith, Hoge did ask his readers to lay off Bill, and let him make the promised changes to his internet presence which the two litigants (I’d call them ‘men’ if Bill hadn’t disqualified himself many years ago) had shaken hands on. And for the most part, the readers did. But sure enough, Bill is soon at work on a new cut-and-paste masturb-piece, a true story to put all the “facts” in the record. Less than a week after the settlement is signed, Bill attempts to all along, the plan was that he would show up anyway, and without me there to defend myself, he would win his peace order.
An honest person, an adult, a decent human being would have understood that, by changing his mind about cleaning up his online behavior, he had failed to provide the “half a reason” not to pursue the peace order appeal. An honest person, an adult, a decent human being would have realized that by baiting even one online ally of Hoge (that being me), he had publicly reneged on his own promise and vacated the informal handshake terms reached after the documents were signed. An honest person, an adult, a decent human being, would realize that he had just kickstarted (with a whole $25 tub of potato salad! Mmm-mm!) a fresh round of battle and revealed himself afresh as the repeat-offending, serially adjudicated, deranged harassing cyberthug he is. An honest person, an adult, a decent human being would have informed his opponent that he had decided not to change his online behavior and, for the good of society as a whole, he should pursue the peace order appeal with maximum haste and prejudice. But Bill is neither honest nor decent. He is an adult in the legal, but not the emotional, sense of the term, and the truth of his humanity is still very much up in the air.
Instead, Bill chose to believe that his lack of remorse and his failure to modify his behavior would pass unnoticed. He chose to believe that Hoge would not realize Bill had tried to dupe him, or if he did, would demonstrate a level of forgiveness unequal to that of an opponent under attack once more. He believed this fantasy so willingly, so completely, that he ignored the fact that the peace order appeal was still pending. He preferred instead to blame his opponent for not swinging by and giving him a ride to court and arguing his case for him. Instead, he assumed once more that, like most furniture, reality would simply bend and rearrange itself to fit him, and because he had convinced himself that Hoge would not appeal the peace order, the peace order appeal was beneath his attention horizon. Bill kept his previously scheduled appointment with his neurologist and had a late breakfast with his caretaker-cum-housemaid.
Assuming Bill would be there, but prepared for the possibility he would not, Hoge marched into the courtroom, presented his evidence to the judge, and was awarded his peace order uncontested. Just like Bill would have been if he hadn’t chickened out back in early June.
Hoge’s supporters celebrate his integrity, his compassion in forgiveness, his decency in giving Bill YET ANOTHER chance to change his ways, his utter lack of hesitation is stepping back into a battle he thought had ended, and his ability to treat a contemptible person with contempt regardless of the pathetic excuses Bill falls back upon as a patient suffering a progressive neurological disorder (wait – I thought Progressivism WAS a neurological disorder?). Bill pathetically blames Hoge for Bill’s failure to take responsibility for his life and check to see if his presence is required in court. Bill rejected REALITY and substituted his own, made his choice, took action and now wants to shift the responsibility for that choice and the consequences that followed onto his enemy. Bill is a weak-willed creature with a weak heart and a weaker soul. Hoge quietly does what he must.
Some people create. Engineers. Architects. Carpenters. Software developers. Artists. Quantum mechanics.
Others destroy. Serially adjudicated, anally fixated, deranged cyberstalkers.
Some leave a permanent, positive mark on the planet. Others leave a stain.
Some people rise above petty nonsense, join the fight against obvious, malodorous, trailer-dwelling evil parasites, win and get on with their lives. Others brood like venomous spiders in their webs, driven by evil intent and hearts consumed with bile, planning their next attack on an unwitting victim.
Most people are like I am. Basically decent (with inherent human flaws). Honest. Loyal to their friends and true to their word. I will admit that my sense of humor is warped beyond the extreme, but everyone needs a non-PC zombie to lighten the mood, goddammit!
A small minority of people are like Bill Schmalfeldt. Disgusting. Liars. Smelly. Anal-obsessed. Footlong-with-mayonnaise addicted. Delusions of grandeur. Narcissism. Sociopathy. Complete lack of self-awareness. Indecent. Incompetent. Incontinent. Twice cuckolded. Unloved by his children. Perpetual victim. Irresponsible. Reliably wrong. Supporter of objective evil and destroyer of objective good. Forever whining about the everyday cruelties of human existence. Responsible for nothing. Taking credit for everything. Lazy. Ugly. Fat. Burden to his spouse in particular and society in general. Credit to nothing. Friendless.
Until he wakes up tomorrow and fires up Twitter, he will have nothing more to say about WJJ Hoge III. He has, as they say, “Put the Cross Up” for him. He is dead as far as Bill is concerned, until he changes his mind, digs him up and tries to beat on him some more. 367 criminal charges is a sizable number, but I am confident that with the right motivation, Bill could eclipse that number as easily as he blocks his wife’s view of the television. But it makes no difference – Bill will soon be right next to his friend, Ted Kennedy — a corrupt liar, great drinker, bad swimmer and killer of innocent women – decomposing from inside, food not fit even for worms.
Bill thinks this is goodbye to Hoge. Only until tomorrow, or the next coming of the Handlers. May Bill at long last exit the internet to find peace and quiet away from the stressful online environment within which he has shat himself times beyond counting. May that be a victory for him. If the fates have it that he dies before I do (and they probably do, because I am one heavily-armored zombie badass), I may make a special trip to whatever landfill his surviving family sees fit to deposit him. And, I may have occasion to empty several industrial sized Gatorade coolers on his final resting place. But they won’t be filled with Gatorade. To celebrate the occasion, I’ll be throwing a house party/chili cook-off. Beer and wine will flow like… uh, wine. And beer. Chili will be consumed. Jalapeno poppers. Rotgut whisky shots. And the restrooms will be closed.
But there will be several industrial sized Gatorade coolers to fill. And the price of admission is that you may not leave until you’ve “made a deposit,” so to speak.
And then follows the field trip to the final resting place. For a guy who so loved “the butt stuff,” could there be a more fitting and appropriate send-off?
As he draws his terminal breath, I hope that he leaves this Earth with that image in his mind. Paul Krendler, surrounded by 50 zombie friends, dancing like dervishes atop his garbage-covered carcass, pouring gallon after gallon after gallon after gallon of human waste over his cold and already forgotten grave.
And then, for a final time, I will say the words
“Bill, I am sorry. Sorry that I couldn’t bring 100 friends. Sorry that I couldn’t empty an entire dump truck of something more vile and poisonous than shit, piss and vomit all over you to improve the smell. Sorry I forgot to bring a metric ton of rock salt to cover the land so that your passing will be commemorated by a memorial site where nothing will ever grow green again. Oh, wait. Home Depot is still open! Hey guys, let’s go buy some rock salt! Bill, we’ll be right back.”