The Major Bleg

I promised a Major Bleg.

And I promised it would have nothing to do with money (but if you want to hit the tip jar, if I’ve ever made you laugh out loud, hey, it’s just over there).

What I need is information.

Special secret stuff. Anyone who reads this blog with regularity will have no trouble figuring out what I mean.

And I don’t want it here. The comments for this post are disabled.

Go here. Make sure you are logged in with a WordPress account (if you need one, get one) and if you are not already invited, request access.

Be prepared to have your bona fides thoroughly vetted and challenged. That blog is private for a reason. Safety first. Nothing personal.

I will process requests as quickly as I can, and once admitted you will be free to comment as per instructions in the corresponding top post.

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AND LEAVE ME ALONE!!

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He doesn’t really want that, you know. Of course we all know that.

He had it. He had the “LEAVE ME ALONE!!” It was the most important “get” that he took away from the settlement. All he had to do to stay left alone was to do the same.

But he couldn’t. The poor, bitter, hateful, lonely old mandouchebag. He had to go hunting again. He had to come hunting for me.

So, for the THIRD GODDAMN TIME (because YES, HE IS THAT DENSE), I trotted out something Grady had given me. And finally, finally! the tiny four-watt bulb that hangs outside on the terrazzo of the ever-so-spacious mansion where I live rent-free popped on, the “trapsie-wapsie” snapped shut, and we have liftoff on what looks to be a three day monkey-dancing Feldtdown of epic, nay GARGANTUAN proportions.

He wants to be left alone, but only on his terms. He wants to be left alone from the consequences of his actions. He wants to be left alone to tell his lies without anyone standing up to call him out. He wants to be left alone to hunt down Grady and try to scalp his job again.

Because that worked out so well the last time.

He’s not afraid of Grady. Just ask him.

“No, I’m not afraid of that mentally unbalanced, self-professed sociopath. (You notice he can never let that menacing phrase go? Just like he can never remember the evil thing Grady did that required the doxing in the first place?) Never mind that I falsified evidence in order to swear out a peace order at the mere whiff of a suggestion that he might be looking in the general direction of the state where I live. Which I then completely pussied out on at the prospect of him showing up to face me in court. He doesn’t scare me. I’m not even a little bit scared.”

(Grady wrote that bit. Good, right?)

It’s worth remembering. Yesterday, today, tomorrow, forever. He lies. Especially when he says he wants to be left alone.

Or when he says –

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What he’s really saying is: “someone PLEASE tell me who Krendler is! PLEASE, PLEASE, mock me! hate me! loathe me! Give my pathetic existence the gravity of your hatred as a substitute for the lost love and companionship of the family that I’ve driven away and the failures I have endured!”

And what I have learned is that the best (and most FUN!) way to deal with him is to DENY him what he really wants by GIVING HIM what he says he wants.

He doesn’t “fucking CARE” who I am. Hence the frivolities of the weekend thus far, to show how much he DOESN’T care.

He says “LEAVE ME ALONE!!” after nearly a week of being left alone, during which he tried to bait me, followed by four days of hammering at Hoge and every Lickspittle in reach.

So I’m with Grace. And Dalton.

I’ll leave him alone.

Until it’s time to NOT leave him alone.

Which surely won’t be long.

Tomorrow – the Major Bleg.

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Upon Further Review

For quite some time, my Purgatorial Pet has held in his stubby, slimy, Schmalfeldt-covered hands the key that would free him to post once more at the Thinking Man’s Zombie.  All he had to do was answer a simple question: “what number of faildoxes must be pointed out to you in order for you to acknowledge that you are in fact, a failure at doxing?”

For several months he languished there, steadfastly refusing to answer the question, yet still commenting.  He regularly maintained that the comments were meant for me alone, but just as often they were replies to other commenters.  

Shut up!  It makes as much sense as anything else he does.

As most, if not all regular readers of this blog now know, Palatine Pundit and I have worked for several months now to spring a – what’s that “I write like an eight year old girl” phrase he used? Oh. Got it – a “trapsie-wapsie” on the idiot.  Several of you were even part of the early conversations. PP got in a quick one in the meantime when he changed jobs that I was happy to help with, but this one is obviously more complex and took more planning. But it turned out Bill is not as smart as he thinks he is. Which is a lot smarter than he looks. We finally had to drop one of PP’s old posts here verbatim to get him to notice, but look at the results!

Thoroughly snowed. Epic pwnag3, as the kids say.

Unfortunately, now that he has made it so abundantly clear, in his ever-present good humor, that the dox will continue to be his only weapon and that he will always miss his target, it’s time to take his key away.

Banned.

All future comments go straight to the Spam folder. All future comments that bear even a whiff of his stench will also be sent there. When I bother to check them, they will be collected and sent to law enforcement in the appropriate jurisdictions.

Don’t bother trying to contact me again. I gave it a shot. I left you alone. I went silent. But you couldn’t walk away. You had to take another shot. Palatine Pundit would not say word one regarding how he plans to deal with you. But me? I know you’ll see this before it’s been up for five minutes.

WILLIAM M. SCHMALFELDT OF ELKRIDGE MD, I DEMAND YOU CEASE AND DESIST ALL CONTACT WITH ME BY ANY AND ALL MEANS, ELECTRONIC OR OTHERWISE. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO COMMENT ON THIS BLOG. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO @ REPLY OR @ MENTION THE HANDLE @brainsrfood ON TWITTER. ANY SUCH ATTEMPTS WILL BE VIEWED AS A VIOLATION OF THIS DEMAND AND WILL BE REPORTED TO ALL APPROPRIATE LAW ENFORCEMENT AUTHORITIES.

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"Oh, I'll Take 'PLAGIARISTS' For All the Money in the World, Alex!"

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Thank God I have no friends online. Friends who know how to return a favor. Friends who trust me to help them PUNK a brother, and who will help do it again a couple months later.

Strike two. Loser. Only 6.85 Billion less 2 to go.

Your number…I HAZ IT!

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This Is How It Works Around Here

For the residents of Moderation Purgatory…

You just write about whatever your little heart desires. Everyone already knows it will be about someone who’s living rent free in your cavernous brain pan:

HOOOOOOOOOGE!
Cousin Roy
Ali
Stacy
Aaron
Me

Because you’re a CREATOR. You CREATE! You create the same thing, over and over again, just like a cat in a litter box, and twice as stinky. Thank God for your CREATIVE tool kit, the Ctrl-C and the Ctrl-V. Where would you be without them?

You remember your tool kit, don’tcha?

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You just go on CREATIN’ WIF YO BAD SELF!

Do the best you can do. I’ll make it better. Because it’s FUN. And it pisses you off. Even more FUN.

Do the worst you can do. (A Gatorade bottle full of urine? This is the most debasing thing you could come up with? SAD). I’ll make it So. Much. Worse. And dump it right back on you. Because it’s FUN. And it pisses you off. Even more FUN. And how you DANCE! WHAT A FUNNY LITTLE MONKEY YOU ARE! Waaaaay more FUN.

I can hit you any time I want. You are easy to find, and you have big red button that says “DANCE” right on the top of your big, round, leaky head.

Tell me – doesn’t all that riverdancing hurt your little testiclefeet? Seems like it would hurt really bad!

How does it feel to be a penis with a vagina? Shouldn’t you be in the Guinness Book of Records for that? Now that would be an accomplishment!!

But I’m getting off point. Sorry.

You don’t know who I am. I’m a fictional zombie. Try to make “Krendler” an epithet as bad as “Schmalfeldt?” Go for it! Krendler’s just a name, a phantom. Doesn’t bother me a bit. And taking it viral with 7 followers?

Good luck with that.

You don’t know who I am. And you won’t know who I am.

Until I decide the time is right.

At the moment I decide that it’s more fun for you to suffer the knowledge of who I am than to suffer not knowing who I am, there will be a knock at your door. And then you’ll know.

It will be FUN.

Because all I have is FUN.

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Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s “copyrighted,” right? All registered and everything? Are you ready for your Fair Use defense to come flying back at you like a boomerang, mate?

You want it gone?

Pull up your big girl panties and SUE ME.

Oh, wait…

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You gotta do a lot better than that, Bill. Palatine Pundit owns you.

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Why God Made Editors

I like WordPress as a blogging platform, but it does have a drawback. I have found it to be a little bit kludgy when it comes to long-form writing. For me that’s more than a thousand words or so. I fall back on Microsoft Word for that.

And I take sufficient pride in my writing that I rarely hit the Publish button without three or four revisions, even in a short piece like this. I proofread, I correct. I proofread again, I correct. Add a bit here, cut a bit out there, move something around.

Then I do it all again.

But sometimes – and it ticks me off when it happens – I just miss something. In yesterday’s post, there was this paragraph:

Still, in good faith, Hoge did ask his readers to lay off Bill, and let him make the promised changes to his internet presence which the two litigants (I’d call them ‘men’ if Bill hadn’t disqualified himself many years ago) had shaken hands on. And for the most part, the readers did. But sure enough, Bill is soon at work on a new cut-and-paste masturb-piece, a true story to put all the “facts” in the record. Less than a week after the settlement is signed, Bill attempts to all along, the plan was that he would show up anyway, and without me there to defend myself, he would win his peace order.

That last sentence – WTF, right? I put it there, and even I can’t figure out what it’s supposed to say.

This is why writers DON’T hit the publish button right away. This is why editors DON’T occupy the same headspace as writers. The back-and-forth between them hones not just the techical aspects of the writing (grammar, punctuation, usage, sentence flow and such), but also addresses thematic mistakes, holes in arguments, missing information, and countless other potential problems. The second pair of eyes, the objective reader, is vital.

Most solo bloggers have to wear both hats, and they don’t always fit together. Sometimes my eyes just gloss over a paragraph because my head already knows what it’s supposed to say, but my fingers never got the message.

The example above is just horrid and embarrassing.

WHY DIDN’T ANY OF YOU PEOPLE TELL ME? I WOULD HAVE COME TO COURT TO DEFEND MYSELF!

…this is all your fault…

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AND IF YOU BELIEVE THAT, I'VE GOT A BRIDGE IN BROOKLYN FOR SALE!

I’ve been keeping my peace about this, but let’s look at the facts.

  1. William M. Schmalfeldt filed a horribly botched Answer and Counterclaim and First (and Second) Amended Counterclaim in his ill-fated, woe-begotten, doomed-from-day-one attempt to identify and maliciously prosecute me for some very vague and legally specious charges of libel and some such bullshit. Read all about it in “Cheesinus Fromundies – Intent to Sniff.”
  2. He spent all of his mayonnaise budget for the summer on postage, and was willing to dig into the penicillin and cranberry juice money to pay for subpoenas and processing fees from WordPress and Twitter to smoke me out and persecute me for authoring a genius parody that gave him Jerry Falwell levels of epic butthurt.
  3. Before he even figured out how to affect service on me, he folded like a pup tent in a hurricane. He got nothing, because he’s a cowardly, no-account, shuffling lump of weenie-meat with no guts for a fight he claimed to be spoiling for. He claims victory, yet refuses to look in my direction, when his prayer for relief of $1.500.000 (no that’s no typo – he really did try to sue for twelve bits) results two fingers raised high and proud back at him. He paid his costs, I sat back, pointing, laughing and mocking for most of a summer at no cost to myself.
  4. Continue reading “AND IF YOU BELIEVE THAT, I'VE GOT A BRIDGE IN BROOKLYN FOR SALE!”

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Trying Out the Poll Widget

Almost every comment sitting in Moderation Purgatory arrives with this picture attached. Three new ones just this morning. Such a Grumpy Gus!

Whenever I see it, the same question pops into my head:

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