In The News

Sources are telling TMZNN (Thinking Man’s Zombie News Network) of an incident that occurred in a Home Station hardware store on West Holt Avenue in Milwaukee this morning.

An employee called the police after an elderly man on a red mobility scooter spent fifteen minutes chasing employees up and down the aisles.

“He was kinda crazy,” said cashier Sally Mendez.  “He said he was looking for caulk.  Jack Winston took him right to aisle 17.  But he just got mad and started yelling.

Winston, a floor manager with eight years experience at Home Station, concurred.  “He was very upset. He said it was the wrong caulk.  He kept screaming ‘I NEED BLACK CAULK!! NOW I CAN FINALLY GET THE BLACK CAULK I’VE ALWAYS WANTED, WHY CAN’T ANYBODY GIVE ME SOME BLACK CAULK?’ I told him we only had white caulk and some leftover hot pink caulk on the shelf, but he said that wouldn’t do.  I told him we could special order any color of caulk he wanted.  He said he needed all the black caulk he could get his hands on, and he needed it right now.”

When told the police were on their way, the man sped out the door and escaped.  Another employee, Jason Milling, was injured when he tried to hold the man for police.  The assailant pointed his cart at Milling and ran over the employee’s foot when Milling was unable to get out of the way of the speeding scooter.

“Man, that dude was weird.  He came my way and I could hear him saying ‘Go Scootypuff, go!’ He nearly fell off the thing when it hit my foot. He was laughing as he drove off, and screaming about black caulk, where’s the black caulk.  He didn’t care if I was okay.”  Milling was treated at the scene.

Police are looking for an extremely white man in his early sixties with long, unkempt hair, wearing blue capri pants, a red Hawaiian muu-muu, black horn-rimmed glasses and a porkpie hat.  He was last seen heading west toward St. Francis.

If you see this man, do not approach him.  He may be a danger to himself or others.  Especially if you like to wave around your black caulk.

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This Might Explain Many Things

As you might have guessed, the Bobber and me shared a bedroom when we were kids.  Being monoplacental twins and all, it made sense.  We had a pair of twin beds that Dad made by hand from barn lumber and a couple old doors he stole from a farm outside town the bank had repossessed.  They were rickety, but cool.

One night when we were…oh, I guess we were about seven or eight years old, I don’t know what time it was, I woke up when something plunked into my head.  It was pitch black because there was no moon that night, so I had no idea what hit me.  I started feeling around the pillow to see if I could find it.  Then something else hit me.

I could hear Bob sniggering in the other bed.  He was trying to fake being asleep, but I wasn’t buying it.

“Bob,” I said.

He stopped with the noise but didn’t say anything.

“Bob!  Quit it!”

I rolled over and shut my eyes again.

Plunk! It felt like a marble. I could hear Bob giggling now.

“Bob! What the fuck?”

Mom wasn’t real careful with her language when the kids were around.

“What was that, Bob?” It smelled odd.

He was barely holding it together now.

“Turds,” he said. “I been saving them up.”

“What?  You’re throwing crap at me?”

I realized that he could make out where my head was because I had the window side of the room, and even in the dark my outline was visible.  I started digging in the sheets, looking for crap balls so I could throw them back at him. Eventually I found all three of them and pegged all of them in his direction at once.

“Ow!” Bob said.

I laughed out loud. “HA!” And while my mouth was wide open, he hit me again.   It had to be a lucky shot.  He couldn’t see my face in the dark.  I started coughing and hacking, trying to get the turd ball out.  I could hear his bed rocking on its uneven feet and I knew he was shaking with silent laughter.  He probably had his hands over his mouth, both to keep the hysterics in and to keep me from shoving down his face the stuff he’d just tossed into mine.

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How I Met Your Mother

Author Note:  Thanks everyone, for the warm welcome back.  I know you all must have a lot of questions to ask, and I suppose we’ll get to that another time.  But first, I wanted to share a bit of my new book.  So, enjoy.

In Which Our Hero Meets His Soulmate

Wilt Smallfarm sat in the parking lot, wondering where it all went wrong this time.  The second hitch in the Navy had seemed like a good idea at the time, but it sure hadn’t worked out that way.

Now he was out, and back home in Wisconsin.  Driving a truck.  Six months after he’d lost his most recent radio gig in East Troy, his wife had moved in with the janitor there, who happened to look just like his daughter, right down to the kinky black hair.  He’d waited a respectful four days before answering an ad in the dating magazine.

The Floater, aka Wilt’s brother Floyd, had been sitting at the far end of the bar, waiting for a signal that would tell him to swoop in for an extract or bail out and leave him.  Wilt was waiting at a table near the jukebox, dressed in black slacks and a button down shirt with a pattern that defied easy description.

There had been no photo with the ad, but Wilt had no illusions that the woman, who said her name was Karen, would be any sort of beautiful.  Wilt just needed a companion, someone nice he could talk to who would be nice to him back, who he could lure with his peculiar charm back to his place.  Someone who didn’t smell like salt water and oily dungarees.

A woman came into the bar.  She stood just inside the door, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness.  Wilt was already at home in the dimness, and what he saw was a vision of beauty.  She had a symmetric oval face, perfectly framed in feathered honey blond hair.  She wore a white cowled sweater that clung to her in all the right places, a brown skirt and brown suede cowboy boots.  He hoped this was Karen. He hoped it was not.  Wilt knew a night with her would be a night in heaven, but he knew just as well that women like this had no time for a man of his peculiar interests.

Another woman came in a moment later.  Dumpy and thick, with heavy Coke-bottle glasses and a gray cardigan.  She was not Karen, she couldn’t be.  She passed by The Vision, touched her shoulder and went to the bar.  The Vision looked around the bar.  Wilt waited.

The blonde tentatively moved through the tables, looking for the jukebox.  This was a place Wilt knew but Karen did not.  He was more comfortable.  Maybe that was an error.  She found the jukebox and headed in his direction.  He smiled and raised his hand to wave and catch her eye.

She noticed him, kept coming. He stood up.  As she neared the table, she pulled down a pair of glasses she had propped in her hair.  The sexy librarian.  She straightened them and looked him up and down with a critical eye.

“Karen?  Hi, I’m Wilt Smallfarm. It’s a real pl-“

She cut him off, and her verdict was a blade to Wilt’s heart.  “Nope. I can do better than you.”

And she spun and walked out of the place.


Now he got out of the car.  He’d been sitting in the parking lot of a local Dixie Trucker’s Home.  He’d never been inside this one because it was local, and the food was cheaper at Burger King. He couldn’t go home – Floyd had picked up the dumpy broad and taken her back home.  He had no standards whatsoever, but at least he got his ticket punched once in a while. Their mother would be passed out by now so the noise wouldn’t wake her.  Tom Collins and Valium was such a winning combination.  He’d done three quick shooters of well scotch before getting in his car and driving aimlessly for a half hour.  He’d been exceedingly fortunate not to encounter any cops, especially that fucker Mike Charles.  He was just another pussy that Wilt and his brothers had taught a lesson in high school, but now he had a badge and a hard-on for the Smallfarm boys.

Wilt staggered once before straightening and at least approximating a sober stride into the truck stop.  He walked into the restaurant side where he could smell coffee and pork tenderloin.  It was late on a Wednesday night.  The waitresses huddled near the coffeemaker, making small talk.  The sign was turned to say “Seat Yourself” so Wilt grabbed a menu and headed for a booth.

Five minutes later a waitress brought him water and said “You need another minute, hon?” without slowing down, looping back to the group drinking coffee.

Another five minutes and the waitress came back, rattled off the specials in one long breath, and waited.

Wilt ordered coffee and an open-faced hot turkey sandwich. The waitress scribbled and turned to go.  She said, “Hey Millie.”

A smoky voice said “Becky.”

The other woman stopped at Wilt’s table.  She said, “Hey, sailor,” and winked.

“How did you know I was in the Navy?” Wilt said.

“It’s just an expression, honey.  You look lonely.  Want some company?” Millie said.

“Sure.”

Millie popped her gum.  “Scooch over.”

Wilt scooched.  Millie wore a tight tank top and a sparkling miniskirt.  Her brown hair was pulled back under a wide clip. She wore bright, candy-red lipstick that looked fresh, and blush to match.  Lots of eye makeup and long fake lashes.  She slid into the booth, her hip touching his.  She smelled like lilacs.

“What’s your name, honey?”

He said “Wilt,” and swallowed, hard.  “Wilt Smallfarm.”

“You a truck driver?  I never seen you come in before.”

“Yeah, I drive.  But I live around here.  Why stop here when home’s so close?” he said.

“I get it. So what brings you in here tonight?” Millie asked.

“My blind date stood me up.  I went for a drive, wound up here,” he said.

“Oh, that’s awful! She don’t know what she’s missing.”

Wilt gasped.  Millie had his pants open and his weapon out and in her hand so quickly and expertly that he’d felt nothing.  She was slowly stroking him.  He groaned.

“Quiet down, sweetie.  You ain’t never done this before, have you?”

Wilt shook his head.  Millie laughed, but not in a mean way.  “You’re cute,” she said.  “You got any money?”

Wilt nodded.  He could barely hear her over the blood rushing in his ears.

“Well, get it out.”

Wilt shifted to reach his wallet.  Millie never missed a beat.  She giggled.  Wilt opened his wallet. How much?  Should he ask?  He pulled out a twenty and folded it on the table.

Clearly her left hand was as practiced as her right, because the bill vanished in a twinkling.

She said, “Oh, goody!  They just hate it when I make a mess.”  She slid under the table and went to work.


It was over before the coffee arrived.  Millie now sat across from Wilt, re-applying lipstick using a compact mirror. She snapped it shut and smiled at him.  “Good as new,” she said.

She started to slide out of the booth.

“Where are you going?” said Wilt.

“Back to work, of course.”

“Are you a hooker?”

Millie tapped a saucy finger against her cheek.  Her nails were painted a frosty silver.  She said, “Hooker?  Nah.  Let’s say I’m a…a temporary girlfriend.”

Wilt smiled.  “That’s pretty good,” he said. “Can I see you again?”

“I’m here every night but Sunday.”

Wilt said, “Church?”

Millie laughed. “Oh, you’re such a cutie!” And she pinched his cheek and bounced away.


Three weeks later, after they’d finished up in the back seat of his car, he was pulling his pants back on and said, “What’s your real name?”

“Millie.”

“That’s baloney.  It’s a close enough name, but all your friends are named Destiny, Madison, Mercedes and Angel.  Nobody who does what you do uses their real name.  I didn’t even use my real name when I worked in radio.”

“Who’d listen to Wilton Smallfarm In The Morning?” Millie said.

“Exactly.  So what’s your name?” Wilt said.

“Next time,” she said.


“Gail,” she told him.  They were just having coffee.  It still cost ten bucks.

He said, “Gail what?”

“Hodensack,” she said.

He snorted into his hand, trying not to laugh. “You need to marry me, like, today.”

“Why?” She lit a cigarette.

“Hodensack is German, did you know that?  My mother is German.”

“Yeah.  So?  What does it mean?” she said.

“I don’t want to tell you,” he said.

She blew smoke at him.  “Too late now.  Give.”

“Hoden means testicle.  Your name is Gail Ballsack.”

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100 Word Challenge

She lunged forward through her exhaustion. Her captors’ voices faded. Bess followed the path only she recognized–downed tree, along a creek, through boulders–forest scents filled her nose.  Light was fading. Bess knew the choices darkness offered: succeed or surrender. She raced on.

A high cliff beckoned. Nowhere to turn. Confused, she turned back. The hunters close behind. Desperate, she looked over the edge.

She saw him. Filthy, bleeding, leg horribly twisted.  Alive? Bess moaned, stretching forward, reaching, but it was futile. The hunters had her now.

“Help me,” the found boy said.

Bess leaped free and barked.

Victory.

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100 Words

Behind the empty Johnnie Walker bottle his S&W revolver whispered at him in her voice.  The voice that would haunt him forever.  Her stalker was harmless, he had said.  Crippled, immobile.  A keyboard commando.  Until the day he fired the shotgun through her door.

He tipped the bottle to his lips, chasing that elusive last drop.  The worn, crosscut grip invited him to pick up the weapon.  His Glock was gone, taken by OPR with his badge, ID, and before that his self-respect.

The metallic tang of the barrel on his tongue was sweet relief.  He thumbed back the hammer.

(Note – I stole this 100 word concept from Smitty at The Other McCain. The words are original.)

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Good Morning, DUMBFUCK!

  


    

DUMBFUCK must have thought these were smart; he must have thought there was some kind of wisdom in posting them. 
I don’t see it.

Can anybody explain DUMBFUCK’S reasoning here?  Other than the obvious “INSANE DUMBFUCK IS FUCKING INSANELY FUCKING DUMB,” what is the point he’s trying to make here, regardless of whether he can prove it or not?

Help me out here…

Oh, almost forgot…

  
Vinnie says hey.  He still wants to know how you un-send an email, but now he wants to know how you un-send an email with a truly gruesome picture attached. I blew it up poster-sized, put it in a very tasteful frame, and hung it on my Zombie Wall of Fame, right next to my autographed photo of George Romero.

It’s okay that I sent Vinnie a copy, right? I didn’t post it, so I figured nobody would mind.

You know who else might like copies?

  • David Edgren
  • Agiledog
  • Roy Schmalfeldt
  • Grace
  • Ashterah
  • Howard Earl – I think he might like it the most!

Maybe you folks should shoot me an email if you want one.  Or maybe I should just email it out to every email address of every commenter here.

Sounds like FUN.

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Good Morning DUMBFUCK!

Note:  The following is a PARODY of a blog post that purported to be a news-like article (but was probably just SATIRE!  CAN’T YOU PEOPLE TELL A JOKE WHEN YOU READ ONE???  FOCUS!  Which reminds me – anybody need a used car?  I’m lawyering up.).  The original, actionable, defamatory blog post will soon be deleted in a steaming yellow cloud of fear pee by the cowardly author, but no matter; it has been archived forever here.

THIS is a constitutionally protected PARODY.  A funny, funny PARODY.  And if you don’t like it, go eat a bag of dicks.

So if you want to laugh at a DUMBFUCK, click that link.  Then come back here and laugh even harder.

CAN BILL SCHMALFELDT PROVE HE IS NOT A RAPIST?

This is a disturbing story about a disturbed man that is disturbing on so many disturbing levels. Sick, political liberal author, satirist, blog icon, multimedia mogul, noted private citizen, adjudicated cyberstalking harasser extraordinaire and Sadistic Boy Scout Butt-Rape aficionado Bill Schmalfeldt has taken what some see as a strange interest in a convicted forger, perjurer, drug dealer, bombsetter and likely murderer and pedophile.  Schmalfeldt, who has a podcast on just about every possible internet outlet all at once now that his wife (God rest her soul) no longer controls the family purse strings or impacts the food budget, seemingly invents death threats, convoluted forgery schemes and extortion plots against himself because he is nothing but an average guy who apparently stopped killing cats after he joined the Navy, according to childhood neighbors who remember being told “not to play with that weirdo.”  Current citizens cursed to live near him – they visibly bristle at being called “neighbors” – indicate he “never said or wrote nothin’ mean about nobody never and just you try and prove it by looking at the scores of blogs and Twitter accounts that he neither deletes nor deletes from.

As it turns out, this everyday boy-next-door anal enthusiast has something in common with another public icon:  like former Subway spokesnerd Jared Fogle, Bill Schmalfeldt is being actively investigated for potential sex-related criminal activities.  Authorities in multiple jurisdictions declined comment about possible rape accusations made against Schmalfeldt, but sources speaking on condition of anonymity have said that recent advances in forensic science and DNA identification have led to many cold cases being re-opened and solved. Some even suspect that Schmalfeldt and Fogle have exchanged passwords for dark net accounts, but no such evidence has yet surfaced.

What else do Creepy Stalker Schmalfeldt and his young pal Fogle have in common, other than race, a love of creamy vanilla Jell-O pudding, watching I-Spy reruns and…

wait for it…

footlongs with mayo?   

What have they been exchanging in the secluded, dank corners of the dark web?  We may never know for sure. But Matt Osborne at BunnyBoy Unread (<— not really a link) has the details.  Remember, we’re not making any accusations.  Talk to that guy.

When your relatives say you’ve been up to something stinky with a minor child–that may have gotten your whole family run out of town to some godforsaken hole in North Dakota or something–and call you out on it, can the heinous and vile Browneye Lover Bill Schmalfeldt be far from a lifetime stay at the Grey Bar Hotel, learning to love midnight snacks from Bubba’s Darkmeat Whistle Stop Cafe?

Remember – the preceding is a PARODY.  If it makes you uncomfortable, please…stop reading.  I can’t help it if you feel guilty.  

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Good Morning, DUMBFUCK!

 
Let’s get a few things straight. That picture up there?

  
By using it on Twitter, DUMBFUCK has granted any Twitter user access to it and license to re-use it.  The same is true of EVERY OTHER PICTURE IT HAS EVER POSTED TO TWITTER.

Like, for instance, this one:

  
This is really one of my very favorites.  I could give you a dozen other examples, but the point stands.

Put it on Twitter, give up control.

Also, those laws DUMBFUCK likes to toss about like a fart in a hurricane?  One would think that by this point in its illustrious legal career it would have learned that the law doesn’t mean what it says it means just because it says it does.  There are a couple of reasons I generally refer to DUMBFUCK as a DUMBFUCK: first, it simply fits; second it’s just a lot easier than typing adjudicated cyberstalker, adjudicated cyberharasser, subject of multiple peace orders in multiple states, proven liar, whining, humorless dickbag.

See, some crazy old fart-sniffer taught me a valuable lesson.  I have a First Amendment right to write ABOUT anybody I please.  And if an average, everyday DUMBFUCK doesn’t like its own cereal…  

…it can always dial WHINE-1-1 for a 

  
And just in case it forgot, I packed its new smartphone in its

  
Now,

  

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Good Morning Again, DUMBFUCK!

 I guess we know now why you were always the one left standing in a bar fight. Did your palsie-walsies jump right in and take care of your business while you and your urine-soaked panties hid behind the jukebox?

Last man standing…until after closing time when you had to repay those favors out in the parking lot? 

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