I have reasons to suspect that William M. Schmalfeldt abuses minor children.
I have no proof. Just suspicions.
I know his soulmate would rather be dead than live with him in his Elkridge, MD tincasa, or his fabulous St. Francis, WI swinging bachelor pad amon the NINJANUNS, or his rundown rental in Clinton IA, or any of the many flea-bitten stops he has made en route to the highway underpass in Myrtle Beach, SC.
I believe the rumors that he is now trying to pass himself off as a jolly old St. Nick, but I have not been able to confirm that he was actually hired by any local malls or retail establishments for that purpose.
God only knows what went on during those Cub Scout camping trips with The Giant he called a father. Whatever did happen, and again, I have no actual proof that anything did, it likely happened to his dead monoplacental twin brother as well, and was probably a contributing factor to his untimely demise at such a young age.
Bill went on to join the Navy, where he spent two three-year hitches almost entirely in the company of other men, separated by a brief period of dealing with icky females. Is that a clue? I have no idea.
But we don’t need to have evidence, do we? William M. Schmalfeldt has been referring to people as having committed the most loathsome of crimes. Is he projecting?
Probably. But we probably will never know for sure.
Bill Schmalfeldt – excuse me, I meant to say “Clankston Whose” – writes a lot about child abusers, the things they know, the way they act. Is he speaking from bitter experience?
His wife is dead. At least, the one of three who had such low self-esteem she couldn’t envision a better life without him. His children, some of whom are even biologically his as far as we know, live far away from him and never visit. It’s truly a shame because he cannot travel to visit them. That’s what he says, anyway. It’s always possible that the kiddies haven’t given him an address where he can find them. Needlessly exposing one’s children to the permanent psychic scars inflicted by such a Grandpa could lead to charges of child endangerment, and no one wants that. Do they?
And so Bill sits alone in his little rental shack far from the beach, seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle while the sounds of Final Fat Assy IV blare from across the room. She’s playing video games and can’t stay quiet. He’s so far gone that he can’t even remember things he wrote on his namesake blog as recently as sixteen months ago (hint, hint).
Convicted bomber and adjudicated pedophile Brett Kimberlin enables this drunken, narcissistic loser by giving Bill Schmalfeldt the Editor-in-Chief job at his blog, even though he lacks the courage to put his own name of the drivel he posts, instead resorting to cowardly pen names like “Clankston Whose.” This is after Bill Schmalfeldt was kicked off such respected blogs as Digital Journal, The Examiner (twice) and noted right wing hate site The Daily Kos (also TWICE, by Markos Moulitsas himself!).
William M. Schmalfeldt is a man without conscience who I suspect looks back fondly (as opposed to fondle-y) at the memory of the lovely, now irretrievably broken children he may be guilty of abusing. The only way he can deal with his guilt over the crimes he has committed against nature (in my opinion), against society (also my opinion), against the fabric of his family (still just my opinion) is to project his actual crimes onto someone he’s never met, he doesn’t know, and then lash out at that person as a way of confession without punishment.
If Brett Kimberlin was a responsible blog owner, he would stop enabling William M. Schmalfeldt’s prolonged mental breakdown. But Brett Kimberlin is just a midget punk using Schmalfeldt for what he is: a blunted, useless tool. It serves his purpose to prop up Bill Schmalfeldt as a front man attacking without result his self created enemies. It serves Kimberlin’s purpose to use this useless puppet try to knock down his betters, no matter how false the narrative, no matter how twisted, sick, perverted and intoxicated the lonely old pus-puddle he’s bought to tell the lies.