My advice to the Zombie: Stay under your rock and never reveal who you really are. You could wind up with 5 restraining orders in 4 states like me. Don’t come hide under my coward rock, because it’s really crowded under here with the urn and my laptop still *Thunk!* ZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Preen for your readers, Zombie. I’m incapable of preventing myself saying and doing things for your pointage, laughery and mockification. Kiss your massive biceps. Mwah! Mwah! I just peed on my shoes again. Just make sure you stay hidden. You do not want to reveal yourself. Women will drop their panties and throw themselves at you with reckless abandon. [Not to worry…I have years of experience dealing with this problem. – PK] We both know, Zombie, that you scare me so badly that all the hair fell off my scrotum, and if I ever work up the courage to sue you, you’d come to court and I would have to find some hills here in glacier-flattened Wisconsin to hide out in. But I won’t ever sue you. I’ve tried and failed so many times that my options are closed. Instead, send me an email sometime, Zombie. Not one of your obscene anonymous ones [that simply must be from me because its wishes are its reality – PK], but with your name, address, and the name of your lawyer, which you can totally do without revealing yourself because I’m a fucking idiot internet investigative journomalist of THIRTY YEARS EXPERIENCE who can’t figure out who you are without an email whose headers I can scrape for an IP address before I pretend to be tuffguy genius Johnny Nutsuck and dox you. Because you bark like a big dog, but in reality you’re a little hairless yapping Chihuahua who hunts and eats sewer-dwelling shit-rats like me for fun. You know it. I know it.
Man up [by begging a court to dismiss my own lawsuit with prejudice? By filing for Peace Orders and then failing to show up? – PK] or piss off [just leave your shoes in the hallway and I’ll have a staffer take care of it – PK]. Little scared puppies like me yap from behind the double secured doors of the assisted living facility, and mommy’s skirts. I’ve been told that big dogs show up in court, ready to duel with no excuses (HOGE LIED!), but how would I know? Until you man up like me, file peace order petitions and flee like me, file and dismiss multiple federal lawsuits and FLEE ACROSS THE FUCKING COUNTRY like me, you’re just the big dog in the neighborhood and I’m the cowardly runt under the porch. I should probably just shut up, but Mark in MD keeps telling me not to. It’s so weird how he talks to me without the telephone even ringing. Matt Lillefelt and Bill Matthews do that too. So does Mother. And I hear mumbling from the urn. I’m afraid to open it. Do you know how they do that? I know I’m all alone here in the Mangina Cave…whatever. Never mind. Time for Wheel of Fortune.
Author Note: Do you think it ever really believes it could have had me, if it had ever just had the courage to show up in court one fucking time? It still seems to believe it knows who I am, but it’s had so many chances to face THAT GUY! and chickened right the fuck out. What a coward. A mewling, monkeydancing leaky mangina, locked up in his little cave.
Just one more admission of my superiority. I have pals! Too bad palsie-walsies wouldn’t fit in 140 characters…such a wordsmith.