Yeah…Right

Capture

Gotta Hand It to Hoge – He Knows How to Drive Traffic 

Oleh: Bill Schmalfeldt
March 26, 2014

(A PIECE OF CREATIVE FICTION IN LOVING TRIBUTE TO A CERTAIN FELLOW IN WESTMINSTER, MD AS I IMAGINE HIS HOMELIFE.)

I can picture old, crazy, borderline senile WJJ Hoge sitting at his rickety desk, the house filled with the unpleasant musk of “old man.” He stares at a blank WordPress page and considers his next topic.

“Are you pondering what I’m pondering,” he asks aloud. From somewhere in the basement, his leviathan son giggles. The plate collection on the walls, stolen from Stuckey’s Restaurants around the country, rattle as the mammoth man child chuckles.

Hoge puts his face in his hands.

“No, those never get more than one or two comments, and they are of the most ass-kissing variety.”

Not that Hoge minds the feel of soft lips on his puckered bung. He rather enjoys it. But it is CONTROVERSY he seeks.

“Write something about Kimberlin,” his wife hollers from the bedroom where she’s been holed up since getting home from work with a stack of supermarket tabloids and a pint of gin.

“Blast you, Woman!” he bellows. “I’ll do the writing. You do the drinking. Understood?”

She responds with a healthy belch/fart combination. Again the plates rattle and for a moment Hoge fears some may fall from the crude plate holders his son made as part of his occupational training at that special school he went to for all those many, many years.

He looks at his combined output for the past week. Contributions have dwindled to nothing. So has his fan base. Oh, they’re prolific, but they are few.
Rain
SPQR
The idiot Frankie
Gus Bailey
tomblvd
The execrable Howard Earl
The hopeless, hapless LibraryGryffon
The felonious Kyle Kiernan
The pretend general, ersatz cancer victim Paul Lemmen
The annoying EPWJ
The crazed Bettina Haper
Some numbskull called “The Onlooker”
Someone mocking The Cabin Boy’s dead brother “The Bobber”
The phony cousin Leroy Oddswatch
The mental case Palatine Pundit
And good old Aaron Worthing Walker. The St. Peter to his Christ fixation. The only one of the bunch worth a good god damn.

Sixteen Apostles. More than Jesus had. So there’s that. And they attend his every word, like true disciples. They would kill if he ordered them to. And it might come to that. He would turn to Kiernan, the felon or Palatine Pundit, the self-professed nut case if it ever came to that.

Hoge knows he has an epistle in him. He knows he has wisdom to impart. The problem is, the apostles are incapable of absorbing wisdom. It’s like trying to communicate with starlings. He has their love. Their devotion. But he knows he has something even more valuable.

He owns their hate. All he need do is start a thread about the Evil One, and his Team Lickspittle will fall into line and do the work he has neither the patience nor the belly to do for himself.

Not that he didn’t try. Jesus. 366 charges and the only thing that stuck was an unenforceable peace order. Well, there’s more than one way to skin a fat problem.

“Are you talking about me, Daddy?” And Hoge realizes he spoke those last words out loud.

“Go back to your room and masturbate, son. Daddy’s thinking.”

“Yay! Pretend girl time,” his son blurts and the house shakes again as he lumbers down the stairs. Again, Hoge worries about the plates on the wall.

The Hoge legacy. The proud Hoge lineage will end with IV. III has long since understood that. His bride won’t touch him. Murdering her is out of the question since she makes the real money.

“Never mind, never mind,” he grumbles to himself. “Must think, Must think.”

Then it dawns on him, like a 350 watt lightbulb with no shade, glaring in the dark cavern of his brain.

“Kimberlin is beyond my reach. But Schmalfeldt. HAH! He could die any day. Have you seen how much weaker he looked in January than he looked a year ago,” he asks no one.

“Bluuuuuh…” his wife belches. She is still pretty, but the bitterness has ruined her mind. Sad.

Schmalfeldt. He will pay for Kimberlin’s crimes. I know Schmalfeldt, the CABIN BOY, knows more about the nefarious evil of Kimberlin than he lets on. If I squeeze that zit, it will pop.” He realizes, too late, that he has just squeezed a zit on his own forehead. The pus and blood mix like catsup and mayonnaise from the edge of a burger.

“Yes, a burger,” he says to himself. First a burger, then the blog.”

He realizes all he needs to do is offer a simple, not-particularly-inflammatory blog post about Schmalfeldt. It doesn’t need to be inflammatory. The lickspittles will make it so with their comments. And it’s THEIR comments that are defamatory. Not his, he gloats. THEY are the defamers, not me, he says as he reaches the kitchen, opens the mayo jar and recoils from the smell. There is no fresh jar in the cupboard.

“DAMN IT STRAIGHT TO BLEEDING HELL,” he shrieks. “Not tonight,” his wife slurs from under a blanket of tabloid newspapers.
glares with baleful, contempt in his eyes at the first and only woman he has ever touched.

He pads back to the computer and poots forth a few words about some LIE he will invent as told by the horrible, criminal, inept Cabin Boy.

He hits the “send button,” and feels a feeling of comfortable warmth.

“DAMN IT STRAIGHT TO JESUS!” he shrieks as he realizes he has wet himself yet again.

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Author: Paul Krendler

The Thinking Man’s Zombie

8 thoughts on “Yeah…Right”

  1. I always enjoy when he lays down the line in the sand of "No one has proven that I.." and "No one has disproven [sic] that I.." and it takes very little time for someone to walk right up, jump way the FUCK over that line and say "No, see DUMBFUCK, you're fucking wrong again because here's what you've said..."

    He just.. can't.. help.. himself. Take the cure, shakey. You're done.

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  2. The SLUG attacks Hoge and his wife, not because he hates them, but because he KNOWS that they are better humans that he is. And that irks him to no end, thus he has to lash out and try to demean them. But in the process, he is showing the whole world that HE is a lowlife douche-nozzle and demeans himself.

    He definitely projected his life in that posting.

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    1. Here's one example of that perfect freakshow marriage.

      There was a long-ish twitter rant a few years ago wherein self-described happy my wife died theMerryWidower described a typical day. From the grotesque ghoul's telling at that time, they barely had any contact. She'd feed it, then have as little to do with the malignant monster as she could manage in the tiny tincasa that she bought.

      Remember, the fat freak is so intelligent, that after 60 years, its entire estate can fit in the back of a small pick up. What little they had came from her, or her management of the drooling DUMBF5CK's income.

      It was already buying its vile self toys she didn't allow even before she passed, including a smartphone, and as we all know, planning on the Keurig it wanted, using the excuse she wouldn't be drinking coffee anymore.

      The grotesque ghoul clearly relished graphically describing ever mortifying detail of her final suffering, but I believe the obvious giddiness was partly due to planning how it would spend the insurance blood money on its repulsive self.

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      1. And then there's the "I CAN GET DRUNK! COZ SCHMALFELDT AM LAW! HICrawr!" blog: http://archive.is/nq55V

        And the "WAI U NO BUY MY BRILLIANT BOOK RAWR!" blog: http://archive.is/bGaAn

        Bill Schmalfeldt = useless as a cock on Schmalfeldt.

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  3. Schamlfeldt is going to die alone, knowing that he destroyed his own name. If future generations, including his grandchildren, bother looking him up at all, which I doubt, they'll know exactly what he is - a bitter, angry, chronic loser who constantly blamed others for his own failures. He's a drunk, a loser and a toddler-stalker. Fun for a laugh by polite society, but not much more than that.

    That he had nothing to do with his own children might have been the greatest gift that he ever gave to them.

    If he's happy with his life, fantastic. It'll be his last delusion, because he'll be going there with no one giving a shit that he's gone.

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    1. The loathsome loser's hell will almost certainly include being forced to review its wasted existence, but with total self-awareness, and unable to change anything.

      I keep hoping that one of dementia addled drunkenstein's falls will result in a knock on the head strong enough to re-order things enough for it to have self-awareness now. Can you imagine how FUN it would be for the grotesque ghoul to recognize this site, and the words of the horde, as reflections of its vile self?

      Can you imagine how FUN it would be to witness self-described happy my wife died theMerryWidower seeing itself as the world does? Those wives who cuckolded it, the children who want nothing to do with it, the national charity who demanded it refrain from collecting donations for them because it damaged their brand to have its disgraced name associated with them, the other family members who avoid it, the KOS kids who repeatedly banned it, the other left websites who won't allow it to foul their sites with its repulsive presence, all those bosses who fired it time after time after time... all of those sites where it wrote for free or paid-by-the-click who canned it as the talentless hack it is, damaging their brand with its loathsome presence...

      You'd think after six decades of trying, it would realize it will NEVER make it in radio, it will NEVER be hired as a broadcaster again; it blew every chance it go because it is a talentless hack. It will NEVER have an audience because virtually all who've had the misfortune to become aware of its wasted existence are REPULSED. But it has dementia, so hope springs eternal. No idea how the puny pedo manages to keep hope alive that it will someday be a rock star...

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  4. I MISSED THE CUT!

    What? No Apostle-ship for me?

    Yes, yes- I comment infrequently. BUT. _I_ was the one one who documented Bill's room:

    - the pictures of Che, Dukakis and Kerrey on his bedside table.
    - the Bernie posters on the floor.
    - the islamic prayer rug he uses when communicating with the hologram of Brett Kimberlin The Speedway Bomber ('Caution, objects in this hologram are smaller than they appear'; heh- that was pretty damn good if I do say so myself).
    - the personally photoshopped picture of Hillary dressed in a Princess Leia slave-girl bikini.

    AND- The motif of Bill communicating with the Brett hologram, "What is thy bidding my master?" Bill copied ME in setting a scene replete with venue and conversation. I did it all here FIRST and even got a TMZ Seal of Approval (keep it in the garage despite it's being remarkably well behaved).

    Copyright! Trademark! Butthurt! Eleventy!!! Damn it! Anybody here know a good lawyer? In addition to WJJH and that Aarron guy? I understand they're presently engaged.

    I SENT THIS FROM WORK! On company time!!! From a company mainframe computer! That's right. I SAID it. Dox me oh fat-ish one. Dox me dox me dox me. Sue me for the hard-hitting satire.

    And then buy 3 things:

    1. A kindle.
    2. A amazon prime membership so you can read kindle books for free.
    3. A netflix subscription.

    Those things will bring you joy AND enable you to disengage from the internet. And then- After some indeterminate amount of time: All these people will go away. And the google hit counter, which shows 11,500 hits for 'bill schmalfeldt' as of just now, will quit incrementing.

    Krendler has told you what to do to get all this to stop. I myself just documented how. You need to listen to Krendler instead of your most excellent friend Brett; the guy who's advice is going to wind up costing you money you can't afford to lose.

    Disengage.

    The monkeys will stop dancing. You can build a life with some amount of joy in it. Gotta' beat the frustration you must experience daily now... And the constant high-wire worry that you could possibly lose in court and/or your mounting antics might be finally noticed by the nuns.

    Say- Did your apartment complex receive a box of Res Judicata coffee cups? Asking for a friend.

    ps- I'd also beg Hoge for forgiveness in hopes he'll drop his suit. But you may be too far gone now. Oopsies- But what if you gave up what you know about Kimby? Might offer. I would if I were you.
    pps- sue google to get the IP address connected with the 'bill schmalfeldt' search
    ppps- sue amazon for a list of all kindle owners
    pppps- sue netflix for a list of all subscribers
    ppppps- crosscheck all of the above; you understand what I'm saying. Right? This is what you do. Right?

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