Congratulations, Zombies! Give Yourselves A Round Of Applause!

Welcome to the Dirty Schitzhole. I’m der Schitzholemeister, Wester Kwemper and remember, we have a two schitzhole minimum. We’re changing the focus of this show ever so slightly and I think you will find it to be a more enjoyable listening experience altogether. Because of the changed focus I have been stumbling into walls a lot more, so it seems like I should go back to playing Pink Floyd alongside the truly weird music from the teens and 20s that I can get my hands on without paying royalties, as well as some latter day oddities that don’t see the light of day very often because they suck donkeynuts and I’m the only one who doesn’t think so. They have found a home here in the Dirty Schitzhole. Our website is w w w dot dirty schitzhole dot com, and you can listen to this program live on ALMOSTLIVE 365 most weekdays from 4 until 6pm eastern time unless I’m passed out drunk. Our twitter address is @dirtyschitzhole.

On November 17, 1989, I married the most wonderful woman I could catch. My wife, Jill, was one of those people who knew other people were taking advantage of her kindness, but didn’t care because she believed she was setting up her reward in heaven. Which frankly was great for a needy Momma’s Boy like me. We had one neighbor in particular who seemed to believe that Jill was her personal taxi service. I hated that because it meant she couldn’t always be making me sandwiches and rubbing my sweaty feet. But Jill would be there for her, instead of me, pick her up on time while my footlongs sat in the fridge uncooked, in fact she’d arrange her day to make sure she could take this person wherever she needed to go. Then that neighbor suddenly died of toxoplasmosis and Jill was all mine.

Jill was a Rubenesque woman through the late 90s and until about 2010.  She looked like Reuben Kincaid of The Partridge Family and she smelled like hot corned beef and sauerkraut with a hint of yeasty rye bread. She suffered from an autoimmune disease known as acute manipulated behavioral syndrome, better known as Kwemper’s Swave Disorder. In 2012, a nagging sore throat and ear ache kept her off the Olympic pole vault team. The Polish Olympic squad sent a massive flower arrangement. I had no idea she did track and field. She went to see an ear, nose and throat specialist. The diagnosis was squashy smelly Krakatoa, better known as volcanic throat yogurt – of the left tonsil area. They caught it in time, in a bucket, and I kept it in a jar until one
day we ran out of mayonnaise and I accidentally ate it.  That was an event that scarred me for the rest of my life.

Other than the occasional request for pain medication, and Greek yogurt, not a complaint from Jill. She did everything the docs told her to do, and other things she volunteered to do when I wasn’t around (at least that was the rumor), and was declared Patient of the Year in 2013.

She began to lose weight. She said it was because she was sore from all the swallowing. She went from a high of nearly 300 lbs to the low 150s by early this year. It was obvious there was something wrong.  She had never had that kind of muscle tone before.  She shed a lot from her backside and she learned to pole dance. Once the fat was gone, she started finding social activities like book clubs and knitting clubs. I kept waiting for her to bring me a sweater or a pair of mittens, but all she ever brought home were new and exotic scanties that, because she had shed half her body weight, had no chance whatsoever of fitting me.

By early May, it was clear she was dying. We weren’t sure of the cause but we were pretty sure it was scleroderma. I had been blogging about her dying of scleroderma for three months or so when I wasn’t ignoring her illness to pursue a federal defamation lawsuit that I practically had won, and now I looked like an idiot. ACME Medical wanted to take my medical degree, but I had to eat forty boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in a month to earn that, and I wasn’t going to give it up without a fight. I tweeted endlessly (about the lawsuit and HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGE!!! and ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMBIES!!!) but she kept dying. It was very inconvenient. I hardly had time to record my podcasts. Finally I had a great idea! I would kill two birds with one stone (ooh! Was that insensitive?) and podcast about my wife dying (with her permission of course)! Brilliant, right? I sat and recorded a chat with her about a month before she died. She is slurry and hard to understand in this recording, but I think you’ll get the gist of it. If not, do a couple shots of brown liquor and try again. Trust me on this. We were both under the impression that her rheumatologist had dropped the ball by not seeing the signs of this potentially fatal illness until after it was too late. Don’t let anyone tell you it was our fault because it wasn’t. It never is. This is the foundation on which our relationship was built, for God’s sake!

By the end of May, Jill started sleeping on the couch. She said it was more comfortable, but my stepson later told me she couldn’t take the smell coming from my mattress any more. I had to physically lift her off the couch, and help her walk into the bedroom where my studio was set up. Later it occurred to me to move the computer out to her, but that would have meant getting my fingers close to electrical sockets, and, well – let’s just say that’s never a very good idea. So I dragged her into the bedroom and recorded this on the night of May 29.

On May 30, as I had been for a week or so, I walked out to the living room with a pillow in my hands, thinking this time I wouldn’t chicken out (with her permission of course). To this point she had refused hospitalization, and don’t you dare suggest that she was afraid of doctors and maybe that was why the rheumatologist dropped the ball, because he told me my ACME Medical degree was fake and never let me talk. Well, I showed him! I never let her go back to the quack again! The family doctor (say, did I mention I have a degree from ACME Medical?) said he didn’t see any urgent need for it. This particular morning, Jill seemed perky and alert. She was also soaked to her underarms in urine. The dogs had peed on her.

I blogged that (with her permission of course), then I helped her out of her clothes, carried her to the bathroom, sat her on the shower seat, and gave her a warm, soapy shower (which I later blogged about, with her permission of course). I figured I was sending her off to the hospital to die, so it was the least I could do after the thousands of diapers of mine she had changed while I giggled like the naughty baby I am. Then I dried her off, got her into a comfortable nightgown and called 911. (Yes, I know most people would call 911 first, but – ACME Medical says YOU SHUT UP!) They sent a crew to our showplace tincasa and decided she belonged in the hospital. The Benjamins I slipped the paramedics probably had something to do with it. She was finally admitted late in the day on May 30th. I went to visit her after I finished producing that day’s live podcast.  The Show Must Go On!

Given Jill’s history with the cecret cervix in the early 1980s (she HATED Ronald Reagan!), the doctors were certain that the fluid in her abdomen was caused by conservative brainwaves from Westminster. And chemtrails. And the listening devices that the sneaky bastard at Fort Meade had hidden in the light fixtures. I reminded them that I was an internet medical professional and agreed with them.  I blogged it and tweeted it during those twenty-three hours and fifty-one minutes a day I wasn’t totally devoted to the care and keepsake photography (with her permission of course) of my love, my soulmate, my heart, my life. They drained 1.5 liters of whiskey from her abdomen, ran it through pathology, no cancer cells. That didn’t make any sense to me, because nobody touches my Johnnie. NOBODY. And Jill was a bourbon girl. Always with the bourbon.

They were at a loss to explain what was killing Jill. The blood tests for her liver and kidneys showed both were failing. Finally, someone suggested dialysis, but Dr. Klemper and ACME Medical kiboshed that with forceful abandon (with her permission of course). I would be damned if I would see her life insurance payout wasted on pie-in-the-sky experimental procedures that had only been in use for forty years!

Meanwhile, Jill continued to get weaker. Her abdomen quickly refilled and she was drained of another 1.5 liters. This wasn’t whiskey though.  Some kind of protein rich stuff. The doctors wouldn’t say what it was, or even look me in the eye.

By the 3rd of June, the medical team realized there was nothing they could do for her. Dialysis was out of the question because that’s just a stopgap measure for a person waiting for a kidney transplant…or people who just want to live with a bum kidney. Jill’s liver was failing as well (she was never a very good cook…is it okay to say that now that she’s dead?), like my defamation lawsuit.

They asked us what we wanted to do, enter a health care facility as a hospice, or have home hospice care. Jill and I discussed the options that evening while she slept, and we chose the latter because the insurance covered almost all the cost and kept that sweet life insurance payout protected for me to hire a lawyer to go after KREEEEEEEEENLDEEERRRRRRRRRRRR!!!

After the good folks at Gilchrist Hospice set up the equipment I would need to care for her and ran screaming back to their van in terror, they brought Jill home on June 7. She was so happy, she was almost giddy.

Morphine, ya know.  And nobody would bring her any bourbon in the hospital.

That next morning, she spent a good portion of the day out of bed, pushing herself around in a wheelchair using her foot for propulsion, doing little chores like wiping down the stove top. She said she was tired of sitting around.  I guess I missed the box top that said “Sitting around doing nothing is what you are supposed to do in hospice, DUMBFUCK.”

We tried that again on Tuesday the 9th, with horrible results. She had no control whatsoever over her “Big-maker.” The hospice nurse prescribed immodium and that worked. I sneaked a little myself when nobody was looking. It made my tushie pucker.

On Wednesday, I tried to get Jill out of bed to give her a shower, but she wasn’t strong enough to keep her arms wrapped around my neck or to use her legs to help lift herself. So I made a travois out of branches I found in the yard, and an old blanket. I took her outside and sprayed her down with the garden hose (with her permission of course), and laid her in the sun to dry. She didn’t even care about being naked. My job was to make sure the feral cats in the neighborhood didn’t drag her off, and I was successful.

Over the next days, she became less and less responsive. She picked at her bedclothes and told me she was Eddie Van Halen.

By the weekend, she was asleep more than she was awake. I got some great podcasts out and had a couple of 200 tweet days. It was awesome if you could ignore the constant pointing and laughing. I had to write some legal pleadings for my lawsuit because nobody was rolling over and turning rat the way I had planned. On Tuesday the 16th, she was briefly lucid in the morning when she woke me up to help her get straightened out in bed. I reminded her that I hadn’t been straightened out in bed for over 10 years. She laughed. But by afternoon she was losing her grip on reality. She moaned as if she was in pain, but I know she wasn’t because that would mean I had done something wrong. The nurse showed me how to grind up painkillers and tranquilizers and feed her like a baby bird, a drop or two at a time, under her tongue. They had given us a thirty day prescription, but my ACME Medical training told me she only had a day or two left, so I was popping those things like Tic Tacs (with her permission of course). When the nurse and I would rouse Jill to give her meds, at first she would look at us in fear, like Janet Leigh when Tony Perkins yanked back the shower curtain in Psycho. And at about 8pm. She spoke her last words to me. As I was administering her meds, I told her I loved her with all my heart. Her mumbled reply was probably a reflex – “I love you, too, Bobber.”

By 6am on the 17th of June, Jill’s breathing had become something that, once you’ve heard, you never forget. I heard it from my older brother. I heard it from my mom. Now I was hearing it from the love of my life. It’s called “the death rattle.” I snuck into the bedroom to write a blog post and check my email.

Then, about 8:20 or so, as I was reading anonymous email, the rattling stopped. So did her breathing. My sweet girl was gone DEAD.

So I posted that on Twitter and wrote an angry post about the anonymous email that kept me from my beloved’s side when she passed.  You bastards.  I will never forgive you for making me go check my email.  I hate you forever.

Death comes with a certain amount of machinery that must be attended to. (Remember, only GS-13s and above are allowed to use a preposition to end a sentence with.) First, I called the hospice nurse who showed up an hour later to officially pronounce her gone DEAD. Then, I waited until after noon for the crew from Anatomy Gifts Registry to arrive. By about 11 am, her eyes were sinking into her sockets, the flesh around them turning purple. I stopped taking pictures (I didn’t need her permission any more) and pulled the sheet over her face.

When the crew showed up, I could not watch them lift her into the body bag, and then onto the gurney. I could sit and watch her die, and I would have if I hadn’t been glued to the computer. But I could not bear watching her dead body being tipped over the porch railing and falling facedown into the yard by the idiots who were sent to take her away from me forever.

Once they had her broken husk back on the gurney, I was able to watch as they placed her in the back of the hearse and drove away. A quote from the great Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. came to mind, but it would be indelicate of me to repeat it. Still, when has that ever stopped me? “Free at last…free at last…Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last!”

I walked back into the tincasa. Sat on the recliner. Stared blankly at the wall.

Now what?

I needed to rebrand.  A new podcast…yes. “The Great White Whale Widower!”

Too much? How about “The Great White Widower?” Not sympathetic enough. Maybe just “The White Widower.”

Yeah.

Or “KING OF THE HONYOCKS!”

Plus there was the Gweat Kwemper Death Watch and Dog Wanch Bwog that needed to be updated. A tasteful memorial website to build, because isn’t that what ALL GRIEVING HUSBANDS DO? The one I made for my dear sainted mother was so well received.

Plus I had to keep up the pressure on my invincible multi-million-dollar federal defamation lawsuit that was going to line my pockets with much deserved punishment moolah and set me up for life in a beachside condo on the Florida Gulf.

After all, I had just gone through the most painful experience of my life.

But it would get worse.

I invite you to check out a website. It’s called “The Thinking Man’s Zombie” and it’s located at http://thinkingmanszombie.com. The people who populate this blog are the funniest people in the world. They make me cry because they are so much funnier than me. They thought the fact that I had just  missed witnessing my wife’s death bcause I was reading my email was the funniest thing in the world. They posted photoshopped pictures of my wife as a corpse that even today are more attractive than the death mask shots I took of her before the people came to take her away. I had to write a little pornographic story about Jill’s “first time, up the butt” and post it online to make them look as evil as me. They created Twitter handles referring to my wife’s death, with avatars portraying her as rapidly decomposing. It took me three days of constantly scouring the internet to find them so I could get all butthurt over it.

These people don’t know Jill. They don’t know me. They know I stood up in support of someone they hate more than Satan, a convicted bomber who was released from prison after doing his time, but who still remains on parole for the next fourteen years, unlike the False Friar the Pretend Padre, the Busted Bishop Paul Lemmen, whose sentence is now completed and who is now entirely free of his debt to society, and evil, evil man who never blew anybody’s leg off and who taught me a prayer but so what? He’s still the Devil in Disguise. This group sees itself as a self-appointed vigilante squad to put the man back in jail, at any cost, but never mind all the crap we pulled with Father Paul’s probation officer…SHUT UP, MOTHER!!.

You can learn more about this group by reading my friend and fellow military failure Harry Osborne’s website, Bunny Boy Unread. Harry has a good time looking at the Bomber’s houseguest’s child pornography. He thinks the Houseguest Craig went to jail for looking at children who only appear to be children, which is much more acceptable than adult erotic art shot by certain Texas entrepreneurs who may reappear later in this narrative…

This has been going on since long before Jill died, but I have worked hard to create a story that makes it about her death and not about my online misbehavior. And what have they accomplished? Well, they’ve mocked everything about me. They’ve taken the grief of a Texas photographer and his wife over the loss of a child and turned it into a toy for their amusement.

Oh, wait.  No, that was me.

They have stalked dozens of people across the internet, people who only want to be left alone, and they have continued to harass and abuse these people to such a degree that they have now earned six separate orders of restraint from four states.

Wait.  Nope.  That was me again.

It doesn’t matter.  Those people are all liars.  And the judges are idiots who don’t understand ACME LAW.  I know ACME LAW because I have a certificate in a cheap frame that I EARNED, GODDAMMIT! by eating 64 boxes of Super Colon Blow (and let me tell you THAT was an interesting two weeks – I practically lived on the toilet – it was THE BEST!) and that makes me an ACME LEGAL EXPERT smarter than any judge.

They don’t seem to understand how their actions appear to sane people. I don’t understand how their actions appear to sane people. I would ask, but I have no friends.

For my part the question of “what next” would be answered soon enough.

One day in July, I was standing on the porch with one dog on the leash I was holding, the other dog grazing in the yard, and it dawned on me. “If I stay here, this will be my life. I never had to take care of these dogs before. This is horrible. I can’t live like this. I’ll never find a new soulmate at this stage of my life to take care of these dogs, to clean up after me when I make Bigs in my Depends, to walk the 8 mile round trip to the post office and back to mail my federal lawsuits and summonses, to open the packages of Slovenian biowarfare agents horse poo and cook my footlongs and buy the mayonnaise and fro yo.”

That night, after I was half in the bag with my pal Johnnie, I talked the situation over with Jill’s son, and he agreed to kick my ass out so I could escape the state of Maryland and the countersuits that were already being filed against me in Federal Court.  He would take over the trailer and the dog wrangling. I was going to sell the car and the trailer and use the life insurance to hire a lawyer to make those Zombies pay, but JT convinced me to sign it all over to him by threatening to tell the cops about all the satirical Cub Scout Rape comedy I’d recorded but never had the fortitude to publish. He also knew about me trying to leverage Jill’s decline and death as a weapon in an online flame war, and he thought Jill’s family might like to hear about that. After I sold the car, I was also going to give it to my sister, making me free to start life again in a different location.

I don’t understand how these actions appear to sane people.

I chose Milwaukee. I found a nice seniors-only community with a security entrance so Krendler can’t git me and moved in on August 27. Another convenient feature is the slight downhill slope from the living room to the front door, and the wide gap between the floor and the door which lets the fear pee just run right into the hallway. These next two segments were recorded on the train between Milwaukee and Chicago on the evening of August 24 as I made my escape.

Now that I was gone, the mental terrorist could move on to other topics, right? No. I continued to visit their blogs, looking for more reasons to be butthurt.  They continued to make fun of me because I lack the self-control to stay off the Internet for more than the time it takes to walk to the can and back.  Though that’s no longer a problem now that the Wi-Fi is up and running – I just take the laptop with me. They posted a court document containing a picture of my wife that I took with her permission and emailed to a couple dozen people as part of my ongoing harassment campaigns.  Even though I never told anybody this, it was never meant for publication, and they violated my federally-protected copyright that I applied for after I let the disgusting photo out into the world and lost control of it. They made outlandish allegations about me being a pornographer, about me being a pimp, turning my own wife out into the street for $650 an hour, and about faking her death because I never showed anybody a death certificate.

What kind of a sick fuck would do a thing like that?

What?

Oh.

And all they’ve succeeded in doing was making the grief of a 60-year old man with EXTRAPOWERFULLATESTAGE!!!1!ELEVENTYSEVENTYFIVE1!!11 Parkinson’s disease harder to deal with.

When Jill was alive and healthy, she always insisted that I do the things I can do for myself. Things like “get the fuck over it,” “stay off the internet,” “leave poor John Hoge alone,” “mail your own damn lawsuits,” “don’t drag me into your stupid little internet flame wars, you idiot,” and “get off the computer and pay some attention to me, you bastard.” But I didn’t listen to her. I think that is why I am as strong as I am now. My younger sister helps (it sure would be easier if she had a car…OOPS!), but I clean and furnish my own cell, do my own laundry, make my own bed. The cafeteria makes a mean footlong, but not like Jill did.  And they serve generic mayonnaise. I think Jill would be pleased with my progress, but I’m always on the prowl for a new honey.

And I finally get it. These people get only as much power as I give them.

THIS IS ALL ON ME. FINALLY, I UNDERSTAND. I REALLY AM A DUMBFUCK, AND I CAN MAKE THIS GO AWAY JUST BY LETTING GO AND LEAVING EVERYONE ALONE.

It’s so simple and obvious now. Why did it take me so long to pretend to figure this out?

The power to end this is mine. All I need to do is control myself, and not give that power away.

That’ll happen.  SHUT UP, MOTHER!!

From now on, I give them no power. Let them wither and die. I don’t care. At least until this afternoon when I debut my new podcast, “I WAS A PARKY DUMBFUCK.”

God closed a big door on June 17. But, as he will, he opened so many other, small ones. I can’t fit through any of them, so I guess I’m stuck here. First, I have to finish getting this apartment together, turn it into something that Jill would be proud to call her home. And it is her home. We met in a dive bar in Milwaukee because the extent of my Game was answering desperate ads in dating magazines. I took my monoplacental twin to bail me out in case she turned out to be intelligent and scary, but it all worked out. We boned.

The sainted clockwork urn is atop my bedroom dresser, ticking away like Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart. We will always be together.

It makes the “zombies” laugh like crazy. But as long as I am alive, one person on Earth loves me. I am loved. Self-love is the best love.  And I don’t even have to close the bedroom door. Nothing they can do, nothing they can say, will ever change that.

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Author: Paul Krendler

The Thinking Man’s Zombie

16 thoughts on “Congratulations, Zombies! Give Yourselves A Round Of Applause!”

  1. https://twitter.com/dirtyschnitzel/status/651518208743223296

    It's an achievement for some people. It's an entry level position for others.

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    1. What's really fun is that, since he was appropriately trained for a (and let's be generous) GS-6 slot, starting as a GS-13 meant he was in over his head from day one, with no hope of ever being able to do actual grade level appropriate work.

      GS-13 employees who are actually qualified for grade don't write press releases, or record public service announcements.

      They supervise departments with hundreds of people in them. They make policy, they manage, they think, they represent their organizations to external peers in other organizations, they fucking catch javelins aimed at their subordinates!

      I've consulted for State governments, and for National Labs, and a *real* GS-13 (or state equivalent) who has earned that grade is a mover, a shaker, a person to be reckoned with!

      Bill just held a generous sinecure, until he pissed it away. Put nothing away for retirement, just let that $100k per year run through his fingers like so much warm piss.

      DUMBFUCK.

      Bill was given GS-6 grade work, as that was what he was capable of, and paid GS-13 wages because of the perversion of the hiring system.

      Being in a job you can't do will, sooner or later, crush your soul.

      Bill is no exception.

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  2. I love how he claims that he doesn't care what PK does, but only a few days ago he was announcing that once he learned for sure (in spite of the statements under oath that he already knew) who PK was, PK would lose his freedom.

    That's a real interesting version of "I don't care".

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    1. He cares. He cares SO MUCH that it runs his life. He has these epiphanies that he can "rise above it all" but then goes right back to the behavior that we TOLD HIM would keep us pointing and laughing. Yeah, he doesn't care. Riiiiiight!

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  3. What the smaller number:

    Bill Schmalfeldts Book Ratings or the combined Populations of Iowa and Wisconsin?

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      1. Try a B-12 shot, PK.

        Perk ya right up for the next round.

        Bill cannot walk away, he can't give us up, we give his life meaning, we give him something to hate and rail against...

        I'm ok with that. When we own the monkey, we call the monkey dance!

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  4. Bravo zombie lord.

    BTW, did anyone ever see Jill and Ruben Kincaid in the same room at the same time?

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