Monkey Dance Monday

I had the inaugural “Moving On Monday” post all set to go, but the real time Parkinson’s Disease advocacy coming out of Elkridge today has far surpassed anything I could have imagined. Maybe next week.

Remember waaaaay back – gosh, when was it? Seems so long ago…oh, yeah – Saturday, when he said
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You know, I hate to say “he can talk the talk, but he can’t walk the walk,” because that seems just a cruel thing to say to a man, person cartoon supervillain with his challenges.

But when have I ever let propriety stop me?

He can talk the talk:
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Since then, one hundred twenty new tweets (and counting) without one mention of Parkinson’s Disease.

(I know some of you young zombies out there are at least partially responsible for a couple of them – I will generously share credit)

He can’t walk the walk (or roll the roll, as the case may be). He’ll always be back for more punishment.

I hope everyone had a good time watching his masterful Feldtdown today. I didn’t say anything because I was afraid if I did, he might stop.

You’re welcome.

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A: I Call It "Sauce For the Goose"

Q:
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So that happened.

You know he shut down that Twitter account at 11:00 AM ET, right?

Riiiiiight.

I think maybe I was successful in emulating a different writing style.

By applying Elkridge logic, there are only two possibilities:

A. I am a plagiarist, or
B. I am Bill Schmalfeldt.

So, to avoid being sued –

…wait… I can do this… Hold it together… c’mon…

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!

Damn. I really thought I could do it.

Anyway, I’d hate to run afoul of the DMCA, so I took it down (are you fucking kidding me? Not on his life!) I made a few changes.

You can go back and look, or not.

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AND LEAVE ME ALONE!!

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He doesn’t really want that, you know. Of course we all know that.

He had it. He had the “LEAVE ME ALONE!!” It was the most important “get” that he took away from the settlement. All he had to do to stay left alone was to do the same.

But he couldn’t. The poor, bitter, hateful, lonely old mandouchebag. He had to go hunting again. He had to come hunting for me.

So, for the THIRD GODDAMN TIME (because YES, HE IS THAT DENSE), I trotted out something Grady had given me. And finally, finally! the tiny four-watt bulb that hangs outside on the terrazzo of the ever-so-spacious mansion where I live rent-free popped on, the “trapsie-wapsie” snapped shut, and we have liftoff on what looks to be a three day monkey-dancing Feldtdown of epic, nay GARGANTUAN proportions.

He wants to be left alone, but only on his terms. He wants to be left alone from the consequences of his actions. He wants to be left alone to tell his lies without anyone standing up to call him out. He wants to be left alone to hunt down Grady and try to scalp his job again.

Because that worked out so well the last time.

He’s not afraid of Grady. Just ask him.

“No, I’m not afraid of that mentally unbalanced, self-professed sociopath. (You notice he can never let that menacing phrase go? Just like he can never remember the evil thing Grady did that required the doxing in the first place?) Never mind that I falsified evidence in order to swear out a peace order at the mere whiff of a suggestion that he might be looking in the general direction of the state where I live. Which I then completely pussied out on at the prospect of him showing up to face me in court. He doesn’t scare me. I’m not even a little bit scared.”

(Grady wrote that bit. Good, right?)

It’s worth remembering. Yesterday, today, tomorrow, forever. He lies. Especially when he says he wants to be left alone.

Or when he says –

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What he’s really saying is: “someone PLEASE tell me who Krendler is! PLEASE, PLEASE, mock me! hate me! loathe me! Give my pathetic existence the gravity of your hatred as a substitute for the lost love and companionship of the family that I’ve driven away and the failures I have endured!”

And what I have learned is that the best (and most FUN!) way to deal with him is to DENY him what he really wants by GIVING HIM what he says he wants.

He doesn’t “fucking CARE” who I am. Hence the frivolities of the weekend thus far, to show how much he DOESN’T care.

He says “LEAVE ME ALONE!!” after nearly a week of being left alone, during which he tried to bait me, followed by four days of hammering at Hoge and every Lickspittle in reach.

So I’m with Grace. And Dalton.

I’ll leave him alone.

Until it’s time to NOT leave him alone.

Which surely won’t be long.

Tomorrow – the Major Bleg.

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"Oh, I'll Take 'PLAGIARISTS' For All the Money in the World, Alex!"

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Thank God I have no friends online. Friends who know how to return a favor. Friends who trust me to help them PUNK a brother, and who will help do it again a couple months later.

Strike two. Loser. Only 6.85 Billion less 2 to go.

Your number…I HAZ IT!

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This Is How It Works Around Here

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:

HOOOOOOOOOGE!
Cousin Roy
Ali
Stacy
Aaron
Me

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?

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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.

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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.

Oh, wait…

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You gotta do a lot better than that, Bill. Palatine Pundit owns you.

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AND IF YOU BELIEVE THAT, I'VE GOT A BRIDGE IN BROOKLYN FOR SALE!

I’ve been keeping my peace about this, but let’s look at the facts.

  1. 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.”
  2. 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.
  3. 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.
  4. Continue reading “AND IF YOU BELIEVE THAT, I'VE GOT A BRIDGE IN BROOKLYN FOR SALE!”

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