I got a VERY nice note from a friend of mine on Facebook. I won’t reveal her name, but it shouldn’t be hard to figure out because I only have one friend on Facebook. Anyway, the note moves me to comment like a turd moves through the colon. The occasion of the note seems to be my status update on Facebook about praying for the downfall of America so I can blame it on Booooooosh and Cheney. And HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGE!!! KREEENDLERRRR!
Here’s the note…
I suppose you could classify me as one of your new “Progressive” friends if that is what a follower of Karl Marx and Saul Alinsky is. I am a Communist and have been since I was 4 1/2 and I am now 54. My husband Larry is a Communist as well. Speaking as one, I would like to tell you all apples in a basket are not rotten; it is unfair to place all of us “Progressives” in a basket. Speaking for myself alone, I do not pray for the fall of America…Communism recognizes no God, though many an empire in history has fallen due to turning from God and turning to moral decay as we witness in America. Instead I WORK ACTIVELY to bring about the fall of America. I have been personally undermining quality control processes during my time in prison, advocating for the repeal of statutory rape laws (not because any personal stake I have, but because it’s the moral, ethical thing to do), and working to get mentally ill spouses hospitalized so they can get the help they so desperately need. As far as electing a Progressive, I am a registered Democrat, which is nearly the same thing; however I do not vote now or ever for the party…I vote for the man running under the party banner – His integrity, his political experience, his heart for God…none of those matter as long there’s that big ol’ (D) behind his name. If he says he follows the laws of God as in the New Testament Bible, don’t make no nevermind to me – because I know no Democrat in this nation values the notion of a greater power above his own goal to consolidate one more scrap of authority and power under the aegis of The State. I am a firm believer that if the morals of a country are corrupt…then so shall the decline and decay of the government evidence itself. Nothing in the last 50 years, excepting the years 1981-1988, has occurred to make me question that belief. Every man has the power and the right to choose what he thinks is true and right….as only that one man will be eternally responsible for the result of that thinking. Unless he lives in a Maryland trailer park, because then, and only then, must everyone else be at fault for all the bad decisions (and bad decisions are the only kind there are). In true love, we must give every person the right to choose for himself what he believes and thinks is right, and to hold them responsible for all the consequences that follow.
Deep set anger with name calling (“Bill Schmalfeldt never ceases to be amazed at how the vexatious, stupid, doddering, senile poop-flaked old fool WJJ HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGE!!! continues to thrash him in all matters at law, despite being a vexatious, stupid, doddering, senile poop-flaked old fool who fails to recognize Schmalfeldt’s obvious superiority and legal acumen.”), will not solve the issues at hand. I will pray you can be set free of all your anger expressed whether in blogging, on Twitter or in the Irish sunglasses you dole out with every new humiliation. As life and death can be given from our tongues extracting the protein delights of truck drivers or of fellow inmates at Jessup…what we consume is what we become.
Words written and spoken have much power as I am sure you know and realize. You read what they say, and you suffer epic butthurt and think it tortious and actionable. You are stupid on so many levels, influenced by what they say about you, and so astoundingly ignorant of the law. Ultimately, your are responsible for your stunning lack of common sense.
I sense that your poorly conceived so-called humor is nothing so much as a gossamer veil disguising your fear, cynicism, jealousy, self-hatred, bitterness, hopelessness and lifetime of constant failure. I care about you, Bill, though we have never met. I will have hope for you….and I will pray your fear will cease, your jealousy will fade, you will find something likable in yourself even if no one else can, you will soften heart to match your brain, you will come to know that your only chance of redemption is in repentance and acceptance of your sin before God.
There is so much more waiting for us after this life. Whether your reward is of eternal peace or of eternal suffering is a choice only you can make.
My husband, Larry, who also has Parkinson’s (not as advanced as yours – he’s only in stage !!1!1!1TENTY!1!1!!11!), shares in my feelings and views. He does not enjoy computers in his daily endeavors – nor do I, at least not to the degree of stalkerish obsession that you do, Bill…really quite creepy, however, but wishes to express his support and friendship through this letter as well because he doesn’t know you any better than I do. We have enjoyed 29 wonderful years together on April 4th, and it is a gift to share a life with someone whom your heart is bonded with forever. I so appreciated reading the overshares of your family. You are blessed with a lack of self-awareness and a capacity for self-immolation rarely seen as widely as you insist on displaying your faults, foibles and overall lunacy.
It was a truly lovely note and beautiful sentiment and is greatly appreciated. But she’s wrong in a couple of areas. She’s also RIGHT in a couple regards.
Blessed with a lack of self-awareness, and a vast capacity for self-immolation? YOU BETCHA!
Am I a cynic? Oh, YES I am! Ever since I was a kid, I’ve always been one of those “totally brain dead idiot” types. I used to get kicked out of Sunday school classes for asking questions that the priest couldn’t or wouldn’t answer. I wasn’t being a smartass about it either; I genuinely wanted to know if he knew any other boys who were as obsessed about their own butts as I am about mine. I never saw a grown man blush like that, before or since. Some years later he told me that I was the best altar boy he’d ever had. But I never actually served at Mass…he just let me wear the outfit. I also spent more than my fair share of time with the principal (who turned out to be a great teacher and wound up becoming a special friend just like Father Fitzwilliam, which ironically was also the name of his most favorite game) when I challenged my teachers to fight my big brothers on the playground.
So, “cynic?” Guilty as charged.
But “hopeless”? “Fearful”? You got da wrong man, lady! I’m ALWAYS hoping to sue WJJ HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGE!!! III and all his Lickspittles who cause me level 10 butthurt. I’m not fearful, because I have no self-control of any kind, and the fear-pee leaks out long before I can fill my bladder. Never full is never fearful!
I admit to some anger. Anger over this disease that has taken over my life. Anger over the eight years wasted in research because the evil right wing nut job President Booooooosh! chose preservation of stupid unborn clumps of cells over unproven, results-free science in the Embryonic Stem Cell Debate.
I admit to frustration when I try to say something and end up sounding like Porky Pig. When I swallow a sip of protein delight and it ends up in my windpipe. When I try to record a podcast and have to edit the hell out of it because of the Tourette’s-like stream of vile profanities that run from my mouth like diarrhea the day after Meals on Wheels’ “Meat Loaf Mondays.” When I try to walk and my feet freeze to the floor because we can’t always afford to pay the gas bill and I forgot my shoes and socks again. When a slight, playful tap from my wife makes me have to give her another pair of sunglasses. When we run out of mayonnaise.
But dear friend, and gentle readers… I don’t have TIME for “fear” OR “hopelessness.” If you were to read my book about DBS surgery (and if you haven’t bought your copy yet, relax – you can probably find it for free somewhere. It’s great for kindling or papier-mâché), you would know that I have no time for any of these things because I’m too busy scouring the internet for anybody telling the truth about how great a failure I am, saying mean things on my blog, doxing people and looking for reasons to sue HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGE!!! If there is any story that I would hope my life would tell, it is that I LIVED TO BE A VICTIM. But in the meantime, you can find many oversharing posts and mewling Twitter rants chronicling my many failures on archive sites across cyberspace. Did you know I crapped my pants once, and felt it was such an important milestone that I was compelled to share it with the world?
I was thinking about this very subject last night as I was drifting off to sleep. Look at this list of things I have done in my life — (not all of them are what one would call “family friendly” but are included here).
I have traveled nearly 3/4 of the way around the world because the Navy ordered me to. I would never have been able to afford such extravagance otherwise.
I’ve dangled by my crotch from a helicopter, and have jumped out of said helicopter into the ocean wearing full 782-gear. After that I learned never to volunteer for anything ever again.
I was once almost killed by a mistakenly-dropped white phosphorous grenade. Those things are slippery.
I lived in Japan for 18 months. Then I got kicked out.
I’ve been inside the Great Buddha in Kamakura. Which is why I got kicked out. You know, I didn’t know before then that K-Y came in 55 gallon drums. That’s been handy knowledge in the years since.
I once took a train ride from Pusan to Seoul, South Korea, because I didn’t want to hang around with my friends, and chose hookers.
I once had sex on a revolving stage in Japan. In front of paying customers. Of course, it may have been a mayo-slathered hot dog, which is almost as good as sex. I forget.
On New Year’s Eve, 1983/84, I had drinks in a Tokyo disco with a guy from Libya. We clinked glasses and toasted each other. “Ronald Reagan is an asshole,” he said. “Yer right,” I said. “So’s Khadafi!” “You’re right,” he said. Later that night, I was so wasted I asked a girl to dance with me and it turned out to be a guy. (Sorry…I got nothin’. – PK)
I’ve had a kneecap removed (from my ass. I was drunk. I don’t remember anything butt pain.).
I’ve been in all 50 states. Quite an accomplishment for an OTR truck driver. It would be more amazing if I hadn’t.
I’ve been married three times and cuckolded twice. This last time for 20 years and counting. (She’s a keeper, which means she was too slow and weak to stop me putting the shackles on.)
I’ve had a novel published and have self-published fifteen other books I’ve written. They’ve sold a total of 92 copies, and I eat cat food from my shoes now.
I had a national radio audience when I worked at XM Satellite Radio. But I was a complete jackass on the fan forums and got fired because of it.
I have six children — some of which love me, others of whom are ambivalent at best, others who hate my guts. I have two grandchildren, one I haven’t seen since he was a baby, one I’ve never seen. I have no idea what’s wrong with the kids who want anything to do with me. The smart ones keep their distance.
At the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve 1974/75, I kissed a stripper in a Jacksonville Beach strip club who was old enough to be my mom and had half her nose missing from skin cancer. She was the best looking woman who’s ever talked to me that wasn’t a relation or a phone sex operator.
I had a national radio audience when I did the “NIH Health Matters” segments heard on XM and on radio stations around the country. On an unrelated note, did you know the NIH employs fifty people, one in each state, whose only job is to listen to “NIH Health Matters” segments on the radio?
I’ve stood in Dealey Plaza and on the grassy knoll where President Kennedy was killed. All those pictures you’ve seen of him getting shot in his limo on Elm Street, from the Texas School Book Depository? WRONG! He was actually on the grassy knoll. Or maybe I’m a crappy writer.
I’ve been a newspaper editor, columnist and reporter. Never held any job in those fields for more than a year. Maybe it’s because I’m such a crappy writer.
I’ve been on top of the Empire State Building. The toughest part of the whole caper was hauling that 55 gallon drum of K-Y up there.
I’ve been a radio station program director, news director, talk show host and disc jockey at 7 different stations in 5 states in one six month period. Yeah, my work history is a little spotty.
I’ve participated in the search for a cure for PD by having volunteer brain surgery as part of a Phase I clinical trial. At first I volunteered to perform the brain surgery, but they said I was more suited to being the patient. I don’t understand why. I read about brain surgery on the internet, and ACME Medical School gave me a certificate. I have since earned certificates in Oncology and LAW from ACME, and let me tell you they are worth every penny I paid.
I’ve been to Disneyland. Worked there for an entire summer. They say my Grumpy was the toast of Anaheim.
I’ve flown in a plane that landed on an aircraft carrier, grabbing the cable with a tailhook. I didn’t have anything to do with it; I was just cargo.
I sat in a grass-roofed bar with no walls in the Philippines, sipping 10-cent rum and cokes during a torrential rain storm, because all the hookers were taken and drinking was the only other option.
I’ve done stand-up comedy in New York City. Manhattan, yet! It was an open mike night and the only other people there were six other aspiring comics. I wore a t-shirt with my name on it. Never was able to get the tomato stains out of it after that night. I still don’t know how six people were able to conceal 80 rotting tomatoes, or why no one stopped them after I fell down.
I’ve been to Tokyo Disneyland. They say my Dopey was the toast of all of Japan.
I’ve set foot in Spain, Italy, the Vatican, France, Lebanon, Mexico, Canada, the Philippines, South Korea and Japan. The foot was from a Filipino transvestite hooker. After I cut it off, I dumped the other body parts in a canal. But the foot stayed in my sea bag for the rest of the time I was in the Navy.
I’ve been to the NFL Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio. I must have gotten kicked a hundred times that day. I had no idea my bullet-shaped head looked so much like a football. I still get headaches every time I watch the Packers play.
I once ran for elected office, coming in second out of four candidates. I came in first of all the losers. Yes, it’s true – nobody is a bigger loser than I am.
My ex-wife and I were on the pilot for a game show (mildly interesting factoid) shortly before we broke up (now totally ruined by the overshare).
I’ve been to the Green Bay Packers Hall of Fame. It’s not as big as Canton, so I only got kicked in the head 20 times.
I’ve stood in the majesty of the Sistine Chapel. I have no idea how they made the holy water boil off when I dipped my finger into it.
I’ve walked in the Roman catacombs, seeing the bones of early Christians. It took four days to find my way out…I survived by catching and eating rats.
I had late night sandwiches with a German couple a friend of mine and I met during a performance of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony in an ancient ampitheater (hey, Joe Proofreader! Is this “amphitheater” or “armpit theater?”) in Taormina, Sicily.
I’ve been propositioned in the apartment of a beautiful German girl in Naples, Italy — and said no. It was her grandfather who propositioned me, the lecherous old bastard. He was a good kisser, though.
I took part in the evacuation of Americans and Lebanese nationals from Beirut in July 1976. I was a Navy medic participating in Operation Lactose Intolerance. The terrorist Abu Nidal had arranged a shipment of overripe goat cheese to be delivered to the Marine barracks, leading to dozens of cases of severe constipation. I was dropped from a helicopter and waded ashore with full 782 gear – 1400 pairs of latex gloves and 1400 suppositories. And a 55 gallon drum of K-Y.
I once saw a guy get his head lopped off by a helicopter blade. I got there before the paramedics and stole away with it. I keep it in a jar by the door.
I once took my wife for a drive all the way around Lake Michigan because I forgot the turn signal was on. Most expensive grocery trip I ever made.
I went to Wrestlemania XIII with my late twin brother and his son. The missus was visiting her sister in Sheboygan, and dinner wasn’t gonna cook itself, so I had six stadium dogs. No mayo, though. I’ll never visit the Rosemont Horizon again.
I was once a contestant on “The Price is Right”. Bob Barker called me the worst contestant he’d ever seen. Or maybe it was the biggest loser. I don’t know. Whatever.
I mourned the death of my father, a twin brother, an older brother, an older sister, and the abandonment of her family by my youngest sister. Which is all the mourning I can do. None of my friends will die before me. Because I don’t have any.
I’ve had Stage !11!!!ELEVENTY!1!1!SEVENTY!!1!11ONE!!!1!111! Parkinson’s disease for 10 years.
And I’m only 55 years old. Physically. Emotionally and intellectually, I’m 4 and a half.
When my time comes, which I hope is soon, I will leave with no regrets. Having made up my mind in this, I’m going to spend my remaining years working to harass, stalk and dox as many random right-wing nut jobs as I possibly can. I might even try to work in some Parkinson’s Disease research advocacy and fundraising in there during those dull moments when I can’t find anyone insulting me (oh, who am I kidding, that will NEVER happen). I’ve already donated my immoral remains — all of ‘em — for the furtherance of medical science. My understanding is that there will be a coin flip between representatives of the Parkinson’s Disease Research community and the Mental Health Research community, and whichever team loses has to take me. (Actually, I hope I get “plasticized” and posed in some bizarre fashion (my will directs I be posed naked, bent at the waist, head down, hands around ankles) to be placed on display with my best side forward in some art gallery where someone I knew in the Navy, checking out the exhibit, will tell his companion, “doesn’t that one look like ol’ ‘Bop My Bunghole’ Bill?”)
To quote “Old Blue Eyes…”
“There are moments when it’s too quiet. Particularly late at night or early in the mornings. That’s when you know there’s something lacking in your life. You just know.”
So, dear Facebook friend, thanks for your offer of “prayers”. I’ll take it and add it to the pile I already have, which does me no good at all because what I really need is MONEY, you damn cheapskate! These lawsuits aren’t gonna pay for themselves, ya know! Get off your knobbly little knees and Hit. The. Freaking. Tip. Jar. You’re one of those idiots who donated to the potato salad Kickstarter, weren’t you? I hate potato salad. A waste of perfectly good mayonnaise for my footlongs.
Peace, my new best friend…until I figure out who you really are, where you live, who you work for, and whether or not you are using work time and work resources to harass me, you evil bitch.
Yes. I think so. The doxing starts now. It starts. The doxing. And no one will make it stop. The doxing. Now. Yes. The doxing. S tarts. Now. It starts.