Earworm Wednesday!

Okay, after last week’s rendition of “Footloose,” I happened to find a video of “Dancing in the Movies” set to the same tune. Fun to watch, but I can’t possibly repeat a song just for the visuals.

But…

My kids put me on to this movie “Pitch Perfect” when it hit cable last year. No great shakes as a film, but many fun a cappella performances.

Plus, Anna Kendrick.

I don’t suppose it’s giving much away to spoil that it comes down to Guys vs. Girls in the final scene.

Here’s both performances.

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Here's A Grain Of Sand For You

The written word is a very powerful thing.  It has brought down presidents.  And people who can’t spell.  Or type.  People have done great good through their writing.  I have done great evil through my writing, even though some barely consider it typing.  I don’t take it lightly.  I’m nearly 300 lbs, I don’t take anything lightly.  Writing is an art.  What I do is more like self-abuse.  Some artists are better than others.  The picture that accompanies this blog was taken the day I retired from the National Institutes of Health in 2011, and I am holding some of the awards that were used as extra ballast in the canvas bag they put me in when they tossed be in the Potomac River. Thank goodness for the good old Swiss Army knife I carried back then, and the ambulance, and the paramedic who lost the coin flip and gave me mouth-to-mouth.

I respect my chosen career enough to know that I am no longer capable of being stupid in front of people who will pay for the privilege of watching.  I have given people who hate me far too many opportunities to mock me (like now!) and downplay my fast-declining abilities.  In other words, I can not only not hit the high fastball anymore… I can’t even see it.  At least, not until just before it pelts me in the face.  Again.

Was a time (see? Typing, not writing), as long as we’re going to use the baseball metaphor, when I could see the pitcher’s fingers on the laces of the ball when he let go, and I could anticipate the pitch based on that alone.  How that relates to writing press releases I have no idea, but it’s an interesting image in a non sequitur kind of way.  Now, I can barely see the pitcher.  Metaphorically.  Metaphysically. Metastatically.

I’m missing things that a typist who has accomplished things I’ve accomplished in my body of work should never miss.  I used to be able to type 40 words a minute with one hand and juggle tennis balls with the other while spinning plates with my feet and telling dirty jokes all at the same time!  Can you believe they forced a talent like mine to retire??  But it took a rocket scientist like WJJ Hoge of all people, to make me realize that I had all the information I needed about my credit card minimum payments right there on the statement I received every month.  I had $1200 in book marketing expenses to pay off, and it never occurred to me to check it!  A year ago, I would never have missed such an obvious clue.  It took an electrical engineer to show this idiot who has lost the ability to see the high hot one (boy, that brings back Navy memories!), to open my eyes to how far I’ve slipped in the past year.

It’s okay, though.  Tomorrow I’ll have forgotten all about it.  I’ll pull on my tights and my cape and become SOOPER JERNOMALIST all over again.

The one thing I value about myself is my honesty.  I’m not always right. Okay, I’m not EVER right.  But I can state that I have never written a story with the intent to deceive.  And I can say that because I value my honesty.  I don’t exercise it, but I value it.  It’s like a golden ring, a…Precious, if you like, kept hidden in a safe. I think, like a Precious, honesty is too valuable to be used, and too dangerous.  If I used the honesty that I value so much, people would begin expecting me to be honest all the time.  And that can’t happen.  Because then I would have to admit all the times I have been proven wrong.  And, if we’re speaking honestly, which we may or may not be doing, I have been proven wrong A LOT.  If I have been wrong, whenever that was pointed out and proven to an arbitrary and capricious standard known only to me, I have always issued a correction.  Which is the same as saying I have never issued an honest correction.  Sure, I have issued corrections, but they are those half-assed, you-think-I’m-wrong-but-I’m here-to-CORRECT-you corrections.

I had to retire in 2011 because I could no longer manage the commute.  I kept forgetting where I was, and several three letter agencies that I didn’t work for were getting very upset when I showed up at the gate several times a week insisting I worked there and they were in the wrong place. Eventually everybody decided that it would be easier to take away the car keys.  They tried to take away the computer too, but I put by foot down.  It made my balls hurt when I did that.  But we also knew that my ability to process facts and keep them organized would eventually suffer from this condition. (The Parkinson’s, not the being a human dick, though that has disadvantages too.)  And I have certainly reached that point.  Whether we’re talking about not being able to process and organize facts, or my balls hurting every time I take a step, I have definitely reached that point.

I am not shutting down the blog.  I expect to keep writing about the Kimberlin lawsuits (I should have no trouble there, he packs his briefs with disorganized facts just like I pack mine with STOP! DO NOT LET THE HONESTY OUT!!) and about my own serial legal beatdowns (again with the unprocessed disorganized facts, but I KNOW I don’t have to worry about wearing out my PRESSSSHHHHHIOUS honesty in that endeavor) delivered to my leaky, sand-filled vagina by the taunting evil of WJJ Hoge and his small but mighty band of followers.  I am only one man with a handful of sockpuppets, but THIS. IS. SPARTA!!!!!!!  They may not fight in the shade of the arrows I can fire, but I’ll bet they don’t have near enough sunscreen.  So there’s that.

They are free to say whatever they want about me, especially about my flapping skirts heading for the hills when Patrick Grady comes to Maryland to fight the second groundless Fear-Peace Order I have filed against him in less than six months.  Say, I wonder if that, along with that brave lawsuit I filed then withdrew in a three day window last May, might have any bearing on an attempt to have me declared a vexatious litigant?  I doubt it.  I have a hard time processing facts and keeping them organized, remember?

I know what I’ve done in my life, and as I look back I do so with very few regrets.  The Japanese tranny isn’t one of the regrets, and neither is the way I treated my children and my first two wives.  That’s no reason for them not to talk to me, though.  There are plenty of other reasons for that, reasons that I can’t process, organize or even recall.

The headline indicates my gift to each of you.  As I have clearly been affected by the common late stage LegalButthurt “execute me dysfunctionally” disorder, I issue you each a grain of sand from my delicate labia to take whenever you read something I’ve written.  I’m not going to do any more investigating until the next time, at least I don’t believe I will.  And you can trust me on that because I value my precious honesty too much to ever use it.  If I do break that pledge, it will be because I forgot I made it and I can’t process or organize those facts (to say nothing of any facts I might find or make up when I’m trying to dox somebody like shaka49) , I will have a friend double and triple check my poor processing and disorganization before I publish.  Hopefully my friend Mark in MD or State’s Attorney Wayne will be able to do that for me without laughing hysterically, because that makes me mad, and when I get mad I jump up and down and that makes my balls hurt more, and I fall down and then something else gets hurt too.

I can no longer trust my own judgment on some (any – SHUT UP!  HONESTY, GET BACK IN THE VAULT!) of these matters. And my detractors love pointing out when I type like a mamboing monkey with muscular dystrophy, let alone when I get a whole post full of facts incorrect because someone led me like a tethered goat down the primrose path.  They are going to say whatever they are going to say, and frankly, I don’t give a good God damn.  At least not enough to spend the NEXT eleven months griping about defamation, slander, libel, perjury, intentional infliction and false negative reviews, like I have the PAST eleven.

That’s just not going to happen.

I need to step away from the plate, hang up the cleats and watch the game as a spectator, not as a player.  The continuous and repeated impact of the high hard one just doesn’t feel the same these days as it did back when I was in the Navy.

I have too little respect for journalism to actually practice it.  I will continue to run my little internet radio stations and write for entertainment purposes.  (My entertainment, not yours.  What I think is entertaining turns the stomach of the overwhelming majority of normal people.)  But I can no longer expect, or ask, anyone to take what I write as fact.  What I really mean by that is – I know no one ever believed anything I wrote in the past; but now the time has come to admit that even I can’t delude myself any longer.

And Team Hoggy, and especially you, Krendler:  Fuck each and every one of you.

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What Have We Here?

I got some interesting photographs in the mail this AM. Official-looking postal documents and such.

Let’s have a look, shall we?

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This looks like a Certified Mail Green Card! Let’s tick off our well worn checklist:

  1. Properly addressed, no zeroes that look like nines or any such foolishness? — CHECK!
  2. Tracking Label 7014 0510 0002 2025 3662 — CHECK!
  3. Service Type — Certified Mail, Return Receipt for Merchandise — CHECK!
  4. Restricted Delivery (Extra Fee) — CHECK!

That looks like a correctly filled out form.

Let’s see what the US. Postal Service website has to tell us…

 Post Office Website 11-17-14 05-18-40 (click to embiggenate)

Package accepted at 8:32 AM today.  Gee, I wonder what it is?  With the holidays coming and all, maybe it’s a Christmapresent!!!!

I love Christmas!

But probably not…it’s over a month away, and there’s no need for Certified Mail or Restricted Delivery with Christmas presents.

It’s probably something else… oh, the SUSPENSE!

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A FINAL, FINAL VOMITOUS RANT THOUGHT, AT LEAST UNTIL THE NEXT TIME I LEAVE FOREVER

ADDENDUM: ADDENDA are usually “added” at “the end,” but I put it “up” at the top because I’m edgy and creative like that. Plus I get to think about getting something “added” “up” “the end,” which is something I have “sorely” missed since I left the Navy.

Anyway…

For over two years now, the weak, grey-skinned booger eaters I call friends have stood by and laughed at me (literally! My “excellent chauffeur” was independently witnessed snickering up his sleeve while I was stomping my little grapes in a Peace Order modification hearing last year.) while I have tried to fight back against the friends and allies of the phantoms I have been chasing these last many years. I have been begging for them to “come get me,” because I’m tired of being nothing save the “butt” of everyone’s jokes, yet here I sit, un-got. Does no one understand when I beg people to come and kill me that I am absolutely serious? That I can no longer stand the thought of facing another day of surfing the internet in search of the daily ignominies visited upon me? That I lack the willpower, as always, to take responsibility for myself and do what must be done? CAN’T YOU PEOPLE READ BETWEEN THE GODDAMN LINES AND FIGURE OUT I NEED SOMEONE TO KILL ME TO FINALLY MAKE ME THE VICTIM I’VE TRIED SO HARD AND FAILED TO MAKE MYSELF?!?!!?

would someone please just put me out of this misery? please?

Want to impress me? Come to my house and open my neck with a utility knife. Please. Show the kind of balls that I don’t have. My wife has owned the coin purse for over a year in more ways than one. I’m so weak, so useless, I can’t do anything but pretend I’m funny, and nobody even believes that anymore. And now I have to go and pull it all down off the web or else it will taint (*snerk*) my legacy FOREVER. Can you imagine if your last conscious thought was complete and total understanding of what a failure your life had been, but even worse, knowing that the evidence of it had been immortalized in cyberspace FOR ALL TIME?

Please, God, won’t you send some Judas to seal my fate?

And now it’s time for lunch. Footlongs and mayo, with crusty booger flakes (if I close my eyes I can almost imagine they’re like those crunchy things you get at Long John Silver’s) on the side and extra funky, I mean chunky, chocolate chip cookies that my wife has been making almost constantly over the last month. I like them fine, but I never see her eating them. Strange.

______________

Got an e-mail this morning from a friend of mine. I wanted to congratulate me on my strategy. “Good idea,” I wrote. “Pull the same trick Hoge pulled. Say I’m not going, then show up and lower the boom.”

I replied. “I am not WJJ Hoge. I wear diapers. I have no integrity, courage or sense of smell. No one sits within 10 feet of me if they can avoid it. If I say I am going to do something, I do it unless it becomes clear that I’m going to look like a fool. If I say I will talk with Patrick Grady under oath on Friday, I will be hiding under my bed weeping instead. If I say ‘come and get me’ and it becomes apparent that I can’t extort or intimidate someone into backing down, then I dress up in a big muu-muu and say, ‘You wouldn’t hit a girl, would you?’ If I file a Peace Order petition, I ALWAYS FOLLOW THROUGH, unless it’s against Patrick Grady, who scares me so bad it takes a crime scene cleanup crew to deal with the mess I make when I come to my senses. And I will not haul myself up from the comfort of the shit pit to truck with WJJ Hoge.”

The shit pit is actually a couple levels up from where people like me belong. Luckily, the bureaucracy here in Maryland is incredible and they are still working on widening the passages to those lower levels to accommodate wide-assed, skirt-flapping, cowardly, smoke-blowing gravelpanties like myself. Exactly like myself. Okay, Goddammit, it’s just for me, all right? Shut up!!

Everyone is pretending that Grady showed up, even after that OBVIOUSLY FAKE photo of his Illinois Driver’s License sitting on the order of dismissal, signed by Judge Mary Reese, that reads “After the appearance of the RESPONDENT…”

(Say, you can’t put that on a LEGAL COURT ORDER if it’s not true, can you? -PK)

I have it on incompetent authority that he did not. My incompetent authority is named Mark in MD, or as I call him in private, Little Voice In My Head #8.

Got a nice note from none of the Howard County States’ Attorney lawyers today.

I’m getting ready to head home but I was worried that my mental health may have precluded my appearance.

If it’s any consolation, I understand that in addition to the usual contingent of state-employee baliffs and courthouse security, there were uniformed Howard County Police Officers in the courtroom. So somebody WAS concerned that I would show up “heavy.”

Try to get some rest this weekend. Opt for TV vs. the internet to give myself a break. Just let me take care of the sockpuppetry.

Take care,

Wayne aka Little Voice In My Head #2

Thanks, Wayne. And thanks to my other Little Voices In My Head who supported my decision. I will be closing this website, killing off the Twitter account, etc. and etc. But I will be online. If I find me, and I am my friend, pop in, say Howdy.

And don’t even think about reproducing any of the vile stuff I have created, that I know is screencapped for posterity for just this eventuality, after I take down every disgusting and or true word that’s ever been written about me.

But the Schamalaschamaflapt brand is dead,

Long live the Voices In My Head.

I fought. I fought hard. Too hard. And Wayne, Mark, Lester, Old Uncle Scoutmaster and the others are poised to take over.

“Beware that, when fighting disembodied voices, you yourself do not become a disembodied voice… for when you gaze longingly at the footlong with mayo, the footlong with mayo slides also into you.”

– Matthew Lillefeldt

It’s way too late to save William Scham? – Schamafeldt? It was always just me and the voices against a couple dozen make believe monsters that I had invited to live rent free in my head. And eventually even my voices realized they were on the wrong side and turned against me. So, have your Bill Scham-schamalfeldt, deranged Oedipal buttsex-obsessed cyberstalker. The fool who lied in every breath and believed that someone believed him. The toy you’ve almost, but not quite broken beyond repair and will soon discard to the dustbin of memory. Uniformed cops in the courtroom. They saw Grady, but the Little Voices In My Head shout them down. They were there in case I changed my mind about changing my mind about being brave and standing my ground, borrowing my scrote from my beloved’s coin purse, and getting Grady under oath to point out the many, many lies I have told about him.

Funny little pictures of dolls and power tools that make me flood my gravelpanties with the brown stinky. Such brave comedians.

WHY WON’T THEY KILL ME LIKE THEY PROMISE??? WHY MUST THEY PROLONG MY MISERY???

Wait, what???

Little Voice In My Head #5 has something to whisper in my ear…

What? They WANT me to suffer? They want me to feel the pain and injury that I have tried and failed to visit upon them so many times? Why? What have I ever done to them?

Oh shut up, you liar.

SHUT UP, Little Voice In My Dented Head!!

(Why does that never work?)

It’s too late to save the thing I’ve turned me into. So, I will turn me into something else. And I will shave my hole.

May I someday realize the evil I have done to so many good men and families. And if I do ever realize it, may it gnaw at my stomach for the rest of my life.

(Shoves Microphone Up Pooter Hole. Waddles Off Stage. Until Next Time. Because There’s Always A Next Time.)

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This "Wayne" Fellow

…has an awfully familiar writing style:

I’m getting ready to head home but I was worried that your health may have precluded your appearance.

If it’s any consolation, I understand that in addition to the usual contingent of state-employee baliffs and courthouse security, there were uniformed Howard County Police Officers in the courtroom. So somebody WAS concerned.

Try to get some rest this weekend. Opt for TV vs. the internet to give yourself a break.

Take care,

Wayne

Sounds like a certain plus-sized trailer dweller of acquaintance.

Just an opinion.

Hey, you know who else it sounds like? It sounds like Mark in MD.

Just another opinion.

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Guest Summary

I received the following summary from Patrick Grady earlier this evening. With some minor edits by myself here and John at Hogewash! we have agreed to jointly publish it. (Note: for those who saw this post come and go, that’s on me. I jumped the gun. Sorry.)

I also found this cool picture he posted on Twitter:

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I flew into BWI late Thursday night. John was waiting at baggage claim for me. This had been arranged by an offer from a truly gracious host, and not by request. After a full day of work and half a night of travel, I was very, very grateful.

John drove me to the motel where I now sit typing this. If Bill knew how close I am…well, suffice it to say that I am glad this motel sits on top of a good sized hill next to the highway. I checked in, hung my suit, cursed myself for the one medical incidental item I forgot (guess all you want – I’m not saying), improvised a solution, and crashed hard.

Woke up this mornin’, got myself a gun… (sorry. Soprano’s reference). Went downstairs and availed myself of the free breakfast – the saving of the Hockey Parent, I’ll tell you. Went back up and prepped for battle.

I had a bit of free time, so I did a lttle work printing off more information that might come in handy later in the day. John arrived just before I finished. I packed up and we headed for Ellicott City. We sat down in the Einstein Bagels previously mentioned by John with – you guessed it – bagels and coffee. We did not spot any lurking photographers.

We discussed strategy and options. To tell the truth, I came here intent on pursuing all available legal options, both civil and criminal.

Next stop, the courthouse. We went to the clerk’s office and waited a few minutes in line. Howard County folks seem to have more patience than the functionaries in Cook County, IL. I suspect that may relate to workload volume.

I gave my name. In return, the lady said something like, “Come again?” I repeated it, and I told her I would like to file a Peace Order. I also had some paperwork from Cook County that I would like to have served. She asked against whom, and I told her. The look I got in return was a combination of sympathy and gratitude. She told me that Mr. Schmalfeldt had called and intended to come in later to drop the order. She needed to fetch a sheriff, pull the file and get her supervisor.

The supervisor arrived first. Her attitude and demeanor was similar to the previous clerk.

If I were a less observant fellow, a man who misses facial expressions, a man who doesn’t catch snippets of conversation from the other side of the glass and the occasional sidewise glance and roll of the eye, I might believe that the Howard County law enforcement apparatus had not developed a widely held opinion regarding the overall character of my opponent.

But I am. So I did.

After a brief discussion of the current status – there was the Temporary Peace Order pending a hearing in an hour or so in this building, and I have a Stalking No Contact order hearing pending in Cook County, IL, the supervisor told me she could not accept a Peace Order filing in Howard County when there was another similar order based on the same acts pending in another state. If both orders were granted, and violated in both jurisdictions, both or neither might decide to pursue prosecution. With just one order – “on YOUR home field, Mr, Grady” was never spoken, but I inferred it – prosecution would be more likely. Plus, she did say, anything that was filed here in Howard County would obligate me, if I wished to follow through fully, to return for hearings and for any trials where I would be a witness. $$$ Again, I inferred from this that the easier way for me was to continue to work through Cook County.

That made my decision for me. Even though I was in Howard County (and I have already read of the efficacy of the Maryland courts at work, which also was a factor), I was being strongly recommended, if not told outright, to go home and press my case on familiar ground – and good luck go with you.

Next, a sheriff’s deputy came to talk with me. He was very straightforward in serving me with the Peace Order paperwork. I told him I already had it, even though I had not been served by Cook County. He asked where I got it, and I told him I had it from Bill’s blog post on the subject.

A brief look of amazement passed across his face. Then he served me papers I already had.

John and I retired to the waiting area outside the courtrooms, setting up on the “high ground” with a view of the parking lot, the better to observe enemy movements, and avail ourselves of “good cover and clear fields of fire,” said John. We waited. Else what’s a waiting area for?

Courtroom 3 opened at 1:00 PM for the 1:15 hearing. We took seats at about five past. The bailiff began calling parties for check-in, and it was immediately clear by his butchering of the last name, that Schmalfeldt v. Grady was at the top of the docket call list. The bailiff called all petitioners, top to bottom (heh – he said “bottom”), followed by all respondents in the same way.

John suggested that the judge could move the case down the docket and call it again, giving Bill more time to appear with his sooper dooper Friday Surprise. We both doubted he would. John did not see any of the usual Team K suspects in evidence to indicate that outcome.

Judge Mary Reese entered the room at about 1:45, immediately apologizing for tardiness, as she was dealing with some issues with detectives in her chambers. Court came into session. She too went through a checklist of parties to ask how many witnesses each party intended to call. “Scham? Schammelfeldt?” The snide grin that popped onto my face was automatic. Whoops.

Going through the checklist, she moved two other cases to be heard and dismissed immediately by mutual consent of the parties. Easy-peasy.

She called “Scham-schammelfeldt vs. Grandy” and I went up, correcting my name. Without being given a chance to say another word, she dismissed the order for Petitioner Failure To Appear (IMO, the last two words being needless). It was over so quickly that the idea of a) mentioning this is the second PO the Mr. Schammelfeldt has filed against me this year, with the same result, and b) asking if I could recover fees and costs from petitioner by court order was dead before I could open my mouth.

John said he thought she may have recognized Petitoner’s name and been eager to be done with this waste of the court’s time.

Works for me.

On to Timbuktu, where I received an education in Maryland crab cakes (YUM!) and a Sam Adams Winter Lager.

It was very tasty, but in concert with the pharmacopeia in my body, we all had an enjoyable afternoon nap.

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