Is this how it’s done in the trailer park?
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.
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.
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:
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?
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.
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.
You gotta do a lot better than that, Bill. Palatine Pundit owns you.
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…
I’ve been keeping my peace about this, but let’s look at the facts.
- 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.”
- 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.
- 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.
1925: Napoleon Hill explains in his motivational masterpiece, Think and Grow Rich, that the secret to gaining wealth is to set up in your mind a “definite major purpose,” to intensify that purpose into a desire, and to “concentrate upon a given desire until that desire becomes a burning obsession.”
1946: Man’s Search For Meaning, Dr. Viktor Frankl’s memoir of concentration camp survival and the meaning he gleaned from it, offers these lessons:
- Quoting Nietzsche, he reminds us, “He who has a why to live can bear with almost any how.”
- “When we are no longer able to change a situation – just think of an incurable disease such as inoperable cancer – we are challenged to change ourselves.”
2001: Jim Collins’ bestseller, Good To Great, details a conversation with Admiral James Stockdale, who spent several years in Vietnam as a P.O.W in the Hanoi Hilton. His ultimate lesson for survival, which has come to be known as the Stockdale Paradox:
“You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end—which you can never afford to lose—with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.”
2003: Aron Ralston went hiking Blue John Canyon in Utah, when a boulder shifted and pinned his arm to the canyon wall. After almost a week alone, dehydrated and anticipating death, he used a dull multi-tool and a lot of determination to amputate his own arm and hike toward rescue. The movie 127 Hours details his story and how that episode has changed his life.
These true stories intersect across a century at the point where desperation, self-control, desire and success come together. There is no limit to what you can accomplish if your mind is properly prepared. So don’t waste any time; get out there! Get ready!
Your moment is coming.
So I’ve been thinking – do I really want a copy of Animus Nocendi?
I mean, if it’s only his handlers and the missus buying up copies, what do I care?
If someone sent me a free copy, I have many more valuable ways of using my time than walking to the recycle bin and dropping it in, to say nothing of actually reading it.
The toilet paper idea has merit, though, I must admit. Especially if it’s free.
But if some folks out there wanted to drop a buck or two in the tip jar over on the right, and if there came enough coin to make that purchase, then I would have an opportunity to investigate what sort of Fair Use he might be making of my content.
I still don’t know if I would want to file a claim. After all, I am merely a fictional zombie, comfy-cozy behind what has been up to now an invulnerable shield of anonymity. I like it here. Calling Krendler names means nothing to me. Maybe it would bug Thomas Harris, if he cared about such things. Maybe someone should contact his publisher to find out.
Anyway, if there’s an infringement complaint to be made, I will be measuring the relative damage caused by his “Fair Use” against my certainty of his motive for what he may or may not have done.
And his motive, as usual, is all too transparent. He intends to violate my copyright (and exercise any other weakshit tactic he can think of) until I decide that anonymity is less desirable than kicking his ass around a courtroom.
That day may never come. For now, I’m content to punch back twice, no, ten times harder. But if the day comes, I will have to consider whether I will want to pursue that case anonymously as well. To do that will require an attorney, and that’s no penny-ante game, particularly with no promise of payable damages on the other side from an indigested dyspeptic conspiree.
So, I don’t demand that you hit the freaking tip jar. Those 5 words are very important, it’s true, but there are others moreso for a zombie in my position.
But if you are inclined, I would be most grateful.
P.S. – Please note for future reference that I am planning a Major Bleg soon. But don’t worry, it has nothing to do with money. At least not on the front end.
P.P.S – This is the 101st post on this blog. So that’s pretty cool. Thanks to all who keep me going by encouraging my frivolity.
Einstein’s Definition of Insanity, Personified.