I have been perpetrating shit like this for almost two years. Ever since I decided to harass Lee Stranahan and his family, my life has been a misery. Ever since Stranahan exposed my efforts publicly and Robert Stacy McCain executed some TRUE JOURNALISM and found so many of my less nuanced, less thoughtful, less than intelligent opinion pieces, and exposed my excellent friendship with an unrepentant, convicted perjurer and bomber, noble gentlemen like WJJ Hoge III and his legion of fans have recognized and called me out for the walking clot of filth that I am. People like McCain, Hoge and their readers have made the constant exposure and mockery of my preferred and very deviant methods of investigative journalism their personal business.

Today is the day I say, “Enough.”

Enough of the mockery.

Enough of the criticism.

Enough of the blog comments.

Enough of reminding me of my lifetime of inadequacies.

Enough of trying to make me face the consequences of my evil acts.

Enough of discrediting my work by quoting my work.

Enough of killing my books because I understand neither the complex idea of “fair use” nor the simple ideas of “theft, “asking permission,” and “erring on the side of caution.”


And today is the day I put my lack of money where my mouth is.

Today I have filed a lawsuit in the US District Court for the District of Maryland, Northern Division.

The defendants are:
WJJ Hoge III, who is far wiser than me
Robert Stacy McCain, who is a far better journalist than me
Nancy Gilly, aka “LibraryGryffon,” who is far skinnier than me
Paul H. Lemmen, who is far more honorable than me
Bettina Haper, aka “Black Betty,” who is far more loyal than me
Chris Heather, aka “Embryriddlealum” and any number of other sock puppets, who is far better at Photoshop than me
Kyle Kiernan, who is far more felonious than me
Stephen R. Sheiko, the soft touch I need to roll over and throw everyone else under the bus
Kimberly Dykes, a FEMALE WOMAN who has far greater impulse control than me
The anonymous blogger calling itself “Paul Krendler,” who came out of nowhere and showed everyone how easy it is to be a far better writer than me

I have filed under the following Claims for Relief.

1. Delicious Persecution and Misuse of Pork Chops
2. Inflammation and Babble
3. Smartassment and Inventional Affliction of Emotional Butthurt

There were a few people who almost made the list but did not.

Robin Wesley Causey and his wife, MaryFrances. I completely jacked them around, doxed them by mistake, and they have an ironclad counter suit if they want, so I’m staying as far from them as possible.

Yesterday, I proved, for the 3,785th time, exactly who “Embryriddlealum” is. Chris Heather. He can scream about it as much as he likes. I won’t be listening or responding. He can tell the judge. And then won’t I look like a complete ass? It’ll be just like being awake.

I was really motivated to file suit against Patrick G. Grady. But I decided against it, not out of any respect for him, nor even out of some obviously fake and contrived noble gesture for his “brave” son. It’s because not only did I dox him and his family, including that “brave” disabled son of his whose only real interest to me is as an excuse, but I also tried not once but twice to get him fired from his job, which would naturally seriously weaken the financial support he can provide to his son. I may be a subnormal who barely graduated high school with a two digit IQ, but even I know better than to sue a guy who I’ve tried three times in as many months to fuck over for reasons I can’t even remember. Add to that the fact that he’s got multiple mental conditions and violent tendencies, and you better damn well believe I’m too much of a coward to want to be in the same state as him. He literally scares the shit out of me; I just made bigs writing this paragraph.

The case is in the hands of the court. It may be awhile before it is docketed. First, the judge will have to decide whether or not I really am as indigent as I say. If so, then I will not have to pay the filing fee. That could take weeks. Not the decision, but the time it will take to save up and pay the fee. When the case is docketed, summonses will be issued if I can pay for the postage and we go from there.

I have learned from watching my excellent friend Brett Kimberlin’s campaign against a larger group. I have learned what to do – delay, deny, claim ignorance (like breathing for me), commit perjury, add defendants after the deadline, make excuses, file lots of useless motions – and what not to do – check the box, write addresses both legibly and correctly, behave like an adult.

I intentionally kept the filing simple since I really have no idea what I’m talking about. We liberals talk a good game, but the moment someone starts using facts and logic and actual legal precedents, we liberals tend to develop a bad case of flopsweat as we roll gibbering from the courtroom drenched in fear pee. I suspect it will be the same in my case.

I will launch a fundraising web page in case anyone wishes to help financially. I don’t expect it to be successful.

But, if I live long enough, I do expect to prevail in this case.

Unlike Hoge, who never lets a thought go unblogged, the only time you will hear from me about this case will be when there is something to report, such as when the




…when the LICKSPITTLES fail to take me seriously or when I am continuously compelled by the mind control manipulations of the Great Hog of Westminster to write a blog post every time he does, because I have no impulse control and my feet are round and hairy.

I will not post the filing. We’ll let people like Hoge make sure the cross bar on the capital “T” is of the proper length and whether or not the dot above the “i” is properly separated from the body of the letter.

I am Homey the Clown, and I am not playing that game. I am fighting for my life. I am fighting for my survival, but I do not expect to live long enough to survive.

Because I’m too dumb to know any better than to think the local police have nothing better to do than field my horseshit complaints about people coming up with better insults than I do, for the last 18 months I’ve had to bend over, grab my ankles and take it every time Hoge or McCain or one of their mindless herd came by to remind people what a deranged cyberstalker I am, how I will keep track of every slight, every insult, every retaliation against my epic failures of pretend journalism.

For the first time in my life, I’m the Planitiff. I’ve never sued anyone before, let alone 10 people at once. That’s probably because the internet has a strange way of amplifying my stupidity to absurd levels, and the ridicule I receive in return is far more than would ever be allowed in the civil service cube farms where the only way to get fired is to appear intolerant. Hell, before Hoge, I never even had to go to traffic court.

I was called a villain for saying “people will pay.” Well, we’ll leave that to a judge, first to determine whether I am “people,” then to decide how much I should have to pay.

Thank you for reading this. We are on a war footing and censorship measures are now in effect on this blog. I will close my Twitter account later tonight. All further transmissions will be coded. To receive the one-time pad cipher key each day, send an email containing your name, mailing address, city, state, zip code, home, work and mobile phone numbers, Social Security Number, all bank and credit card information, photos of yourself and you children and pets, cars, church, mortgage balance, credit scores, list of all medications and your most recent grocery list. Please include “DOX ME” in the subject line for high priority processing.

This is war, and I mean to die. Or win. But probably die. The important thing is, I’ll go out as the helpless hapless victim I have always been.


I Owe Everyone In The World Robin Causey an Apology

I was wrong.

Let me repeat that – I. WAS. WRONG.

It’s been a recurring theme throughout my life. Usually, I’m right 100% of the time, but wrong the other 9 times out of 10.

Like now, when I’m WRONG.

Here all this time, I believed Lost Causey was the creature known as “Embryriddlealum.”

I was mistaken. Another word for that would be WRONG.

Every time I tried to broach the subject, he just took a smart ass tone like he was playing with me.

Because I was wrong.

This time for sure, I know who “Embryriddlealum” is, and he gave HIMSELF away!

The first six hundred twelve times, I fucked up. Because I was wrong.

I made a mistake. Actually I made mistakes. Lots of mistakes. Oh, so many mistakes.

But first… I am not allowed to contact Lost.

Because, you know, if you haven’t noticed, I was So. Fucking. Wrong. And because I WAS WRONG, I cannot contact him.

But if I could, I would apologize.

Thank God I was wrong, because now I can’t contact him. I’m NEVER EVER WRONG (except when I’m breathing), but if there’s one thing worse than being wrong, it’s having to apologize.

But now I don’t have to, ha-ha-ha, because I was WRONG.

This does not excuse his swearing out an Injunction Against Harassment against me, a poor, indigent, disabled retiree who can’t walk or barely speak, a sweet old teddy bear who wouldn’t harm a flea, but would, in a fucking second, carve Embryriddlealum’s heart right out of his chest and show it to him before taking a big bloody chomp out of it as he curls up and dies like the cur he is. And his little dog Toto, too!

But I would never do that. Because that would be wrong.

Like me. I’m wrong.

Wrong about labeling Lost Causey as the vile and disgusting “Embryriddlealum.” (It’s probably his wife, Itza.)

But I’m not wrong now. Or maybe I am. I don’t know. Whatever.

But this I can tell you, with the exact same 100 percent certainty that I knew it was Lost Causey, that “Embryriddlealum” is none other than the same person who tweets as “Guntotingteabag” and “LiberalGrouch” and “ParkyBillTweets” “2014Radio” and “RadioFreeOfBrainCells” and “RadioWiseGuy” and “RadioLobotomy” and “INeedALobotomy” and “IWhizzedOnTheElectricFence” and “BrainSandwichLobotomy” and “ShakyBrainRadio” and “FamousLobotomyParky” and “ParkyCyberStalker” and “DerangedAnalBigot” and “KimberlinsBitchToy” and “BallGaggedByBrett” and “OwnedLikeToby” and “TeabaggedByBobber” and “IndigentDisabledVictim” and “FootlongWithMayo” and “KnottyBitch” and God Knows How Many Other Sock Puppets. He is – oh, please oh please oh please oh please ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease God let me be right this time – Christopher Heather of Racine, Wisconsin.

I was wrong before. And the time before that. And the time before that. Aaaaand the time before that, and that and that.


But I’m not wrong this time. Because except for every time I’ve been wrong, which is only about 99 times out of 100, I’m right 100% of the time.


Chris Heather, who has been ERA at least four other times previously, with soon to be dead girlfriend Kendra, who never calls or writes her dad who isn’t really even her dad, although we really have no idea why.

Follow me. You’ll enjoy this. Because you know I’m going to end up being wrong and deleting this post and the hundred or so tweets about it.

I started to suspect I was wrong – get that? I was WRONG! AGAIN!! – about Causey being ERA about 6 years before Al Gore even invented the internet. Even though I am a liberal scumbag and was completely gobsmacked and sent slinking back to my slime pit during the Operation Burn Notice nonsense, I contacted one of the senior folks of the former Knot My Wisconsin group, with Alzheimer’s, and with whom I’ve developed a friendly relationship because he has no idea who I am. Like that nice old lady in Oregon had no idea who I am either. I was right about her being PEMason54 too, remember. I had to 404 those posts for some reason. I don’t remember why. Whatever. He said he was aware of “Aaron Burr” who killed an “Alexander Hamilton” a long time ago and now tweets as “SuperAaronBurr” and is, in fact, 210 years later, Lost Causey of Khaki Valley, AZ. My new friend could not say for sure (I think one or both of us fell asleep), but he was fairly certain that Heather Locklear was ERA.

That was just what I wanted to hear. Because it means I was WRONG.

So, because I think and write like an 8 year old girl with Down’s Syndrome, I laid a little trapsy wapsy for ERA today. I did a simple search on the Wisconsin Judiciary Case Search and found a domestic violence case involving Chris Heather and a girl named Stacy Thomas. I’ve been taunting ERA with that all afternoon because I NEVER START AAAAANYTHING! He gave himself away when I said I had called her and she said the fight was because she made fun of my junk.

No wait, that’s wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

Sometimes I’m wrong. Not often, though. Only 999 times out of 1000.

I didn’t say she made fun of my junk. I said she made fun of MY junk.

ERA, as idiots like me will do, gave himself away.


Hah. So, he knows Stacy Thomas had shuffled off the mortal coil. Keep in mind, I did not mention Heather Locklear at all in my very characteristic I-NEVER-START-AAAAAAAAAANYTHING! taunting of ERA today. In fact, because I’m so smart (think “Fredo Corleone” smart) I covered his name on the Wisconsin report. Regard my epic SOOOPER GEEEENYUSSSSNEZZZS!


Like a big old catfish (say, I heard this joke the other day: what’s the difference between Bill Schmalfeldt and a catfish? One is a scum-sucking, bottom-dwelling garbage eater, and the other is a fish! I don’t get it. Whatever.) Heather, or ERA – embryriddlealum is hard to type more than 5 times in a thousand word post, you know – if you will, took the bait. The rest was just legwork, no pun intended (because I’m a cripple, you know, a poor, indigent, disabled failure of a dying crippled cripple-y crip-crip-cripple, get it?). No problem for a genius super ethical puhrtend internet investigative journamalist.

1. ERA knows a Stacy Thomas and knows she is dead.

2. Stacy Thomas was the respondent in a domestic abuse case, which must mean she beat the wimpy bastard Chris Heather up – there can’t be any other possible explanation. Just like there couldn’t possibly be any other explanation but that the person I continue to seek to frame for threatening the dogs who love to lick mayonnaise off my privates was a senior citizen in Oregon. Remember how I was EXACTLY RIGHT about that for like, 45 minutes before I 404’d it when I turned out to be WRONG AGAIN AS USUAL!

Anyway, here’s the original file.


Now this all happened in 1995. 20 years ago. Why should we care? WE shouldn’t. But I do. Because I am a psychotic fucking nutcase with a blog and Twitter audience of about 6 and I believe that I can shame and intimidate people off the internet by telling secrets in the public record that even my targets don’t give a shit about – because even when I’m right about the embarrassing facts, I’m wrong about the target 9,999 times of 10,000.

And that’s just fucking WRONG. Which is your basic, all-encompassing perfect description of…ME!!

So, we know that Heather Locklear lives in Racine.


So, where did Stacy Thomas live in 1995?



Is it possible that there could have been another Stacy Thomas living in the area at the time? Is it worthwhile to try and find out? Of course not! Because if I found one, then someone could say I was WRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONG.

And I’m always right. Except for every other time I’ve doxed ERA. But not this time. This time I’m sure it’s Itza Lost Causey!

And you will notice she died in 2010. In Virginia. Much closer to my neck of the woods, you see. And I was a bit more mobile then than am now. I’m not suggesting that I had anything to do with Stacy’s death, you understand.

Because that would be wrong.

And I’m only wrong 99,999 times out of 100,000. The rest of the time I’m perfect, the World’s Greatest and Most Awesomest Investigative Journalist. Ever. Ezra Klein should hire me.

According to the Social Security Death Index….


Hey look! A social security number! Anybody need to apply for a mortgage? I’ll bet her credit is excellent with no missed payments for 4 years.


A. Heather Locklear got beat up by Stacy Thomas (mmm…girl fight)

B. I disguised Heather’s name on the court report and accused ERA of getting beaten up by a girl. But I wasn’t starting anything!

C. ERA denied it all. And no matter how much she denies, even on a stack of Bibles in a court of law, she must by a lying dog because I AM NEVER WRONG except for 999,999 times out of 1,000,000.

D. I told him I talked to her and she made fun of the fact that my feet are hairier than Bilbo Baggins’s and I pee out the top of my head.

E. ERA says, “Oh, you can talk to corpses?” Meaning he knows she’s dead. And he probably knows I killed her, too.

F. A simple search – which is about all I’m capable of anymore, unless it involves REALLY POOR quality photoshops of Ali Akbar- finds Stacy L. Thomas, who once lived 5 miles away from Chris Heather, died in Virginia in 2010. She’s the right age, or… was, I should say. And therefore, in the same manner that I was right about Palatine Pundit being KimberlinUnmasked and having a weapons training permit despite being dead (404’d, of course), I must be right about the Stacy Thomas who died in Virginia being the same one who must have carved Heather Locklear’s face off in college.

G. I never once mentioned the name “Heather” in my taunt.

But there was this little girl named Heather when I was in grade school…I remember I used to chase her around the playground, but I could never catch her because I was already big and slow at age 8, physically as well as intellectually. Once I caught her when she wasn’t looking and tried to give her a kiss. She slapped me and kicked me in the junk.

Stupid girls, I hate them!

I got her, though. She fell in the river and drowned just a couple days before we moved away. I remember it well, especially anytime I’m close to a rushing river and smell the water. I can almost feel her stringy hair in between my fingers as I –

Uh, never mind. Where was I?


[A*(B+C)/D-(E^F) + 3.1415927*G] over the square root of the hypotenuse = ERA is HEATHER LOCKLEAR RAINES, who “accidentally drowned” in 1963!

This time. See, I wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t. No, I wasn’t. SHUT UP, MOTHER! YOU’RE DEAD! WHY WON’T YOU JUST STAY DEAD???

So, give it up, ERA. You, slimeball, are BUSTED!!!

At least until I need to bend reality again. Which I can do. Because I’m Dook Man. My bigs have super powers. Speaking of which…

Oh, but before I post this, there’s just one more thing to say:


IF YOU TAKE ONE THING AWAY FROM THIS POST, THIS WOULD BE IT: except for the rest of the time when I am always 100% completely mistake free, I only foul up really bad 9,999,999 times out of 10,000,000.

And that’s a lot better than I used to be.


Damn, I Wish I'd Thought of That!

You probably heard about this by now, how a teabagging dipshit conservative blogger named Clayton Thomas Kelly snuck into a nursing home so he could take a quick snapshot of Sen. Thad Cochran’s bedridden wife, suffering from dementia?

I think I may have to relinquish my crown as the World’s Greatest Investigative Reporter. I should have thought of doing this years ago. I’m so disappointed in myself. Continue reading “Damn, I Wish I'd Thought of That!”


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 Lulu.com. 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.