PLEASE, I'M BEGGING – For the Love of God, Stop Me Before I FailDox Again!

Victorious, the soldier returns from the battlefield. I am no longer engaged in Internet warfare. I have scrubbed this blog of all reference to the vanquished foe who lies vanquished in Westminster having been vanquished by me, the Great Vanquisher. But my victorious victory has not come without a price. In every battle I have ventured forth across the cyber-minefield of blogs and Tweets carefully planted specifically and for no other purpose but to intentionally aggravate my Parkinson’s disease. Continue reading “PLEASE, I'M BEGGING – For the Love of God, Stop Me Before I FailDox Again!”


Oblivious People Tend to Be Oblivious

The person that I thought might be the slime ball I want to frame for threatening to gut my dogs is not the person I want to frame for threatening to gut my dogs.

I know, I know. You’re shocked. I’ll give you all a moment to regain consciousness, splash some water on your face, maybe get the smelling salts.

As it turns out, she is a very nice, very sweet lady who has no idea why a poor, indigent, disabled, creepy old man from the other side of the country would call her up and threaten to publish all her personal information on the internet for no good reason other than pettiness and spite.

She returned my phone call about an hour ago and we had a very pleasant conversation. She was far more polite to me than I had been to her. Because, let’s face it – I couldn’t be more of a dick if my feet were testicles. Regardless, after she spent 50 minutes trying to convince me that I was wro**, that I was incor****, that I had made a mist***, that she wasn’t the motherf*cking bastard LICKSPITTLE!! who threatened my mayonnaise-loving puppies that I’m going to track down and expose if it’s the last goddamn thing I do.

What was I talking about?

Oh, yeah…so, anyway…

I apologized for calling her out of the blue and scaring her like that, but I needed to be sure – or let an arbitrary deadline pass – before I went public with the info I had, which everyone knows is always right (even today, no matter what this poor bitch says, it’s probably her husband, just you wait). See, unlike Chris Heather (or Jeremy Kinsey) and Robin Wesley Causey (or Howard Earl) and Patrick Grady (or KimberlinUnmasked or OwainPenilyn? Frankie? Johnny Tyler?) and Nancy Gilly (or Tom Puzio), I did not have independent verification that the person I thought to be the slimebag was the slimebag.

I wanted to post something online, in case the slimebag was keeping an eye on me, the way I stalk all the blogs and Twitter feeds of Hoge and all his little HOGEIST LICKSPITTLE MINIONS!!1!1ELEVENTY!1!!

But I didn’t reveal all her info. Now, I don’t have to. I have to keep digging because I was wro**, because I was incor****, because I made a mist***, because she MIGHT not be the motherf*cking bastard LICKSPITTLE!! who threatened my mayonnaise-loving puppies.

This is what happens when a person who has never heard of me and has no idea what a leaking sphincter I really am or what evil I’m capable of, ignorantly treats me with infinitely more deference and respect than I deserve simply because I say I’m a “journalist,” which is a little like saying Barack Obama is a “good President.” They don’t hang up, because they’re completely oblivious. They don’t pretend to be something they’re not, because the “world’s greatest investigative journalist” – yes, me, you MORON! – concluded that Google Hit #1 Must Be The Perpetrator. You ask questions, you get straight answers from gullible senior citizens who have no clue who you are.

How much simpler would my life be if Ali Akbar had done that. Or Lee Stranahan or any of the scum sucking bottom feeders who refused to be coerced and bullied into answering sick, twisted questions from a sick, twisted Puhrtend EHRMAGERD! Germy Lust.

She wanted to know how I got her cellphone number. I told her that one does not question the magical talents of the purtend jurnurlirst. No, seriously!

I’d love to be able to say I had to dig seriously to find the number, that it really was a serious journalistic achievement, but I came by her number the same way I always do: it was a total accident. The stupid broad left it on her answering machine message. I told her the best advice I could give her is to get offline and don’t ever come back, because I’m very likely to forget the whole conversation ever happened and dox her anyway. I’m sure she’s a very nice lady, but, well…I’m a leaking sphincter with a hole at the top of my head and testicles where my feet should be. What do you expect?

This is what I have been saying all along. Ignorant people answer stupid questions when they are asked. If the answer is, “none of your business,” that’s fine. But don’t duck, dodge, hide, try to twist or slime the person who asked you ignorant questions that are “none of their business.” All you do is get my curiosity aroused.

And if there’s one thing NOBODY needs to see, it’s me when I’m aroused. I don’t think they sell eye bleach in 55 gallon drums.

And you really don’t want to see how that turns out. Every time I’m humiliated, I just hide for five days in shame and bitter embarrassment, then re-double my efforts. Do I give up? Do I give up pursuing the people I am pursuing?

Golly, no. There’s only one thing that will stop me and that will be the day the men in white come to the tornado-magnet, put me in the extra-long sleeve jacket and take me for a ride to Spring Grove.

Until then, scumbags beware, because The Great Walking – well, Rolling, actually – Skinflute of Elkridge is coming burst your bubble. So do a better job of covering your tracks.

OK, PXXXXXX Mason of Portland?

Is that Maine, Oregon, Texas, Tennessee, North Dakota, Indiana, Connecticut, Michigan, Arkansas, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Missouri or Kentucky?




Let’s start the day on a passive-aggressively positive note with a short list of things that I really, really like a whole lot.

1. I like it when a person who’s had multiple books removed from publication due to blatant copyright violations lectures on copyright law. And Parkinson’s Disease.

2. I like it when a yibble bibble bibble dribbling moron, whose sum total of reward for all his accomplishments is a pauper’s retirement in a single-wide tornado magnet, assumes that he knows every detail of everyone’s life based solely on what he can FIND online, regardless of what may EXIST online. I also like it when such a fool thinks he knows more about anything than the collective Wisdom of Crowds. Or Parkinsons Disease, which I suffer from.

3. I love it when morbidly obese, cowardly ex-government functionaries who have slid by on the path of least resistance their whole miserable lives mock people who make an effort to be a positive force in their communities, instead of just being another helpless calf (who suffers from Parkinson’s Disease – the gait kind) sucking the government tit.

4. I am thrilled when people with lifelong records of consistent achievement mock my provable record of repeated (and repeated, and repeated, and repeated, and repeated – Jesus, where will it end??) online “journalism” failures. And my Parkinson’s Disease, which I know is really just mocking me, but if I say it’s about Parkinson’s it just sounds so much more “VICTIM-Y” doesn’t it?

5. Nothing makes me happier than seeing someone mention any kind of disability or disorder, because it gives me another target to gleefully mock, even though I suffer from Parkinson’s Disease myself – the gait kind, not the tremor kind… Although, when I say “nothing makes me happier,” I guess that really doesn’t include a nice footlong with mayonnaise…

6. The vibrant, thoughtful, creative and stimulating commentary that follows each of my brilliant blog posts. Oh, wait… I forgot – I’m not the Defendant, I’m the Planitiff! And I have Parkinson’s! Have I mentioned that?

7. Oh, and I smile when people who (as far as my meager Google-Fu has been able to determine…HINT, HINT!) have never written anything more successful than a grocery list tell me how to compile a “book” from stolen blog posts or point out to me the many times and the seemingly endless variety of ways I have violated, and continue to violate, both federal copyright law and the most basic rules of journalism. Which I can do because of my debilitating Parkinson’s, which has also made me indigent, which makes my wife sad and lonesome.

8. I love it when I get up in the morning and type a fresh rant about someone who, in my opinion, is responsible for the stress which causes accelerated deterioration of my Parkinson’s – which I suffer from, by the way – always repicking the same idiotic arguments on a line-by-line basis, spouting the same self-serving, subjective mis-interpretation of state and federal law, then complaining that the judge who granted the bogus peace order doesn’t understand what “the Twitter” is, and the Appeals Court is going to overturn it anyway because PARKINSON’S!! (I think I know someone who has that…) and HOGEIST LICKSPITTLE MORONS!!

Where was I? Oh, yeah…

9. I love it when I check my website to raise money to “Help Me Get My Good Name Back From The Wingnuts” and see that balance steadily holding at precisely three-tenths of one percent of the goal. What a great feeling it is to express my right to free speech using sock puppet accounts on Facebook and Twitter, safe in the knowledge that I have such good friends and allies backing me up in times of need, like when my Parkinson’s Disease is especially bad. I did mention that, didn’t i? Of course I did, you dim girl!

And you know what I like best of all, right after sharing a footlong with mayonnaise? And this isn’t ACME LAW or my opinion or anything that came to me in a dream – like when the Bobber visits and we wrassle like when we were boys.


Life is good. But my dick hurts. And why am I wearing hobnail boots?


11. Alpo Helper Wednesday

12. The daily invitations to be a guest on Jerry Springer.

13. Having a dog who likes mayonnaise, too.

14. Memories of going horseback riding with Mom. She’d send the Bobber and me for an hour on the trail riding Buttercup and Sugarbear, while she stayed behind in the stable to ride Big Mandingo. He was a big damn horse. And Mom always had a funny walk going back to the car.

15. The first warm day of Spring, when we can really air out the house after being cooped up all winter. At some point, the Lysol just can’t cut it anymore!


Last Man Staggering

They killed “My Slow, Journalistic Death.” (Period inside the quotation mark.) Because I violated a copyright.

They killed “Intentional Infliction”. (Period outside the quotation mark. Do I need to remind you that I’m such a serious, trained, experienced “journalist” evolved beyond the need for editing and proof reading! Foolish mortals! MWAHAHAHAHA!!1ELEVENTY 1!!11). Because I violated a copyright.

They killed “WJJ Hoggy Tells You How to Smack Around a Handicapped Liberal (and get away with it).” Because I violated a copyright.

And now, “Cyber Ins@nity” has been tossed off of the lists at They won’t tell me why, and I have no past experience to give me a single indication. I’m so confused.

As a “journalist,” I stole, summarized and rearranged a dozen posts from as many bloggers into this so-called “book” in a desperate, wasted, fruitless attempt to convince someone, anyone, anywhere to ignore my years of cyberbullying others and treat me as the victim of those I’ve spent years torturing. If I had to get permission to lie about everyone I lie about, I would have to give up writing altogether.

All of this, because of the Real Content Providers, the Free Speech Lovers defending their ownership of the stuff I swipe with not the tiniest mote of shame.

The Hogeists. The Hoggy, Hoggy Hogeists. The LICKSPITTLES. The Minions. The Dim Unfocused Morons Who Need To Brighten Up And FOCUS!!! (I have to keep thinking of new terminology because they keep pwning me.) THEY get to decide what I can steal to publish and sell. Not the publisher. Not you, the reader. The Hogeists will decide what you can read. Because I simply cannot figure out how to finish a book without – what’s the phrase? Oh, yes – fucking with someone else’s stuff.

And look at what it has cost me.

Get “Cyber Ins@nity” while you still can. It might be worth something after I’m dead. It certainly isn’t worth anything right now.


Trying To Silence Me, Pretty Much Because I'm Guilty

We Bullies HATE It When You Fight Back!

I had yet another Facebook account taken down because I am writing lies about Robin Causey and WJJ Hoge III. I re-established it last night and posted NOTHING! This morning, it was gone again, because these wise and gentle men who regularly scare streams of fear-pee from my loins, do not want me to continue spreading lies about them.

They have filed several legitimate DMCA complaints against me. This morning, I was lying about that to friends one of my many Twitter accounts, one of the very few that has not been suspended or abandoned. Now, that has been taken from me as well.

I guess this is going to turn into one of those games where my efforts to tell lies about them will be like “whack-a-mole.” If I put up a new Twitter account and start talking shit, Causey/Hoge will just get it taken down. If I put up a new Facebook account, Causey/Hoge will just have it taken down. Because I’m a big fat liar. With Parkinson’s. And I’m indigent. Probably because I got hold of some bad mayonnaise.

I hope I don’t make bigs again before she gets home.








Uh-oh…frozen again!

(Come on, Shiloh…bark for daddy)

Ack! Thank goodness!

The point I was going to make is, I have filed false DMCA counterclaims with CreateSpace and Amazon. Hoge/Causey are required to do nothing to prove they have taken steps to file a court order. They are not required to file a response to my obviously false counterclaim filing suit against me for violating “their copyrights” within 14 days if they wish to contest my lies. After checking with intellectual property attorneys, since the State of Arizona has no jurisdiction over me.


I don’t live there, and I have official letters of thanks from Arizona and 48 other states to prove it. My book was not directed at the state of Arizona, which has nothing to do with anything because copyright law is in the federal jurisdiction. Therefore, according to the precedent set down by the US 1oth (or 10th – whatever, I’m a fully trained German Liszt!) Circuit Court in Dudnikov v. Chalk & Vermilion Fine Arts, Causey will not have to file in the US District Court for the District of Maryland by May 29, or the “book” goes back online. Because I, the Great and Powerful Schmalfeldt, speak it, and by speaking it, make it so!

Bender of reality and un-reinforced furniture, that’s me!

And if our Free Speech Loving Hoge and Causey don’t want me to have the platform of Twitter or Facebook to bully them into submission, I yield to their opinion. I have other options.

Hmm…maybe I’ll try a radio station and see how that works out!

See ya in court (Ah, but when? That’s the really interesting question.)!


Online Negotiation 101

Here are some pro tips for getting something you want from someone that you only know in cyberspace.

1. Open the negotiation by greeting the other person: “Dear Stupid,”
2. Always show good faith by referring to the other person by enclosing their name in quotes (i.e., Hello, “Constant Reader.” May I call you “Constant?”)
3. Make claims as fact that can easily be refuted by your own words or actions.
4. Refer to your objective as a need rather than a want. Coming to the table and letting the other person know they have all the power is key to winning the negotiation.
5. Never let the other party know how the deal is a win-win; only make clear the negative consequences of not making a deal. Nothing is more attractive in a deal than telling the person who has a big piece of cake that you’re going to throw rocks at his dog until he shares the cake.
6. Always set deadlines! Letting the other person know that the axis of the world runs through the top of your head is a clear message that this is a negotiation between equals, an exchange of value for value.
7. When attempting to renegotiate a deal where you have previously failed to achieve your goal, always stake out the same position, giving away nothing, and offer no concessions. This is the artistry of compromise that always leads to a winning deal for both parties!
8. Finally, tweet stuff like this to show your pure heart and obvious good faith:



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

Editor’s Note:  the following appeared, word for word, at Bill Schmalfeldt’s Patriot-Ombudsman blog on March 26, 2014 and was taken down a few days later.

If it was still on the blog, I would absolutely link to it.  But criminals are a cowardly lot so of course, it isn’t.  And since it’s been un-published, so to speak, there couldn’t possibly be a copyright violation.  Nor even a credible accusation of plagiarism, as that also would involve the true author claiming ownership.

To the best of my knowledge, this is the only existing proof that he wrote this post.  Other bloggers may have screen capped or saved it, I don’t know.  I suspect, though, that if Bill Schmalfeldt should complain that he never wrote this, I will find out in one big hurry.

Oleh: Bill Schmalfeldt
March 26, 2014


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.
The idiot Frankie
Gus Bailey
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.

Editor’s Note, Part 2:  This is the post that has been so ably parodied elsewhere and reprinted here.

This post is NOT harassment. But making fun of it, is. This post is NOT hateful. But making fun of it, is.

Poor disabled Bill Schmalfeldt, who until about 2 weeks ago was still creating 60+ minute podcasts, now uses text-to-speech software on his book promotion videos to highlight how helpless he really is. Because he can’t speak more than a sentence without lapsing into coughing fits. According to him. Poor Bill Schmalfeldt, so worried and anxious about others attacking his family and causing his wife distress. Poor, poor, pitiful Bill.

Sorry, Bill. It’s just that you have spent too many years thinking you’re the big dog on the block. And now, little dog, the truly big dogs are here, and we’ve had enough of your yapping.

To quote a great man, “Karma is a bitch, boys and girls. And you are not long from finding out how much of a fucking bitch she is.”

You’re gonna need one of these: