For A Moment I Almost Believed

…that the monkey could learn. But no.

DUMBFUCK had gone quiet. He focused, inasmuch (one word) as he could, on such useless pursuits as throwing Electoral College tantrums and making puddles of musical vomit that no one will ever hear.

And then:

Of course Hoge not LAW! LAW am LAW.

Acually KRENDLER am LAW. But DUMBFUCK surely doesn’t remember being told here that in Maryland, YOU ONLY GET ONE dispositive motion to dismiss, and you have to lay out all your defenses at once. The judge remembered, though, and ruled as anyone not DUMB AS FUCK knew he must.

LAW am LAW, and RULES am RULES. And now DUMBFUCK has violated a judge’s order, because of course he did. He wouldn’t be our DUMBFUCK otherwise.

By the way, do you know what an opposing party must do with properly submitted discovery?

Answer it.

Do you know what an opposing party must do with improperly submitted discovery?

Not a goddamn thing. Except possibly explain why they don’t have to do a goddamn thing.


DUMBFUCK was on to something last spring…he really does need a lawyer. Sadly, the only ones who could actually help him win would have to WANT TO BE DISBARRED.

Also, paid.

Which is a deal breaker for our DUMBFUCK, car-driving, no-longer-too-disabled-to-travel, poopsniffing pauper.


Sometimes You Just KNOW…Because You KNOW

So I see that no one at Cabin Boy Unread is giving an active shit about Bill Schmalfeldt’s obsession with “me,” Patrick Grady.

He KNOWS I am Patrick Grady. Because he KNOWS so much that isn’t so.

He admitted that I’m right about everything. Like I said, a better journalist on my worst day than him on his best.

You KNOW that’s true.

He went and published an article about a little road trip he made to Palatine, Illinois, where I don’t live.

But he KNOWS I do. Because he KNOWS so much that isn’t so.

He took a selfie outside the Palatine Police Department, in the town where I don’t live.

But he KNOWS I really do. Because he KNOWS so much that isn’t so.

Whether he actually went inside and spoke to the police is an open question, because he’s a liar.

You KNOW that’s true.

Whether he actually rented a car is another open question, because he’s a liar. But I think he probably did. That low animal cunning probably told him a known rust-bucket parked outside his victim’s house would be noticed; outside his victim’s church, too.

You KNOW that’s true.

Did he stalk the house and the church? This is Mr. Self Control we’re talking about. No one to stop him caving to an irresistible urge (It’s red. Vroom, VROOM!!) like that?

Oh, you KNOW that’s true.

And all his promises about the Palatine Police coming to hunt “me” down in the town where I don’t live…is it a 100% chance that it will turn out just exactly the same as every other time Bill Schmalfeldt, noted liar and adjudicated stalker and harasser, has predicted CHARGES for CRAHMS (Federal, state and local) for everyone who has looked askance upon him and laughed at his grossly inflated self-image?  Or his self-inflated unimaginable grossness, for that matter?

Everybody KNOWS that’s true.

But that isn’t even the reason I’m here.

Now that Cabin Boy Unread has reverted to being a vehicle of personal character assassination rather than of legitimate (if crackpot-level uninformed) political commentary, readership has predictably broken through the bottom of the barrel and begun leaking through the wrecked foundation.  The article about Bill’s jolly road trip has garnered just four comments.

First, a commenter called Crime Doesn’t Pay weighed in.  This is a common tactic of loser journalists desperate for the feel of soft tongue on their bruised and filthy egos. Log a fresh comment under a fake name tied to the topic of the post to start a conversation.  He’ll never appear again under that name.

You KNOW that’s true.

Second, yank the string-on-a-ring in the back of your ankle-biting pal. And right on cue, there’s Fifi!

You can almost see the saliva and hear the bell, can’t you?

Then there’s Mark in MD, a curiosity across the Web for his uncanny ability to appear and comment only wherever Bill Schmalfeldt happens to be posting that day. And nowhere else, ever.

You KNOW what that means.  Rule #39.

And finally, there’s DUMBFUCK himself, creatively copying wholesale a post from right here, and wondering what “I” will say to the police who have already forgotten that he visited them yesterday.

How do we KNOW that’s true?

The same way he can KNOW that Patrick Grady (and only Patrick Grady) must have come to St. Francis to take a picture of a car, while at the same time he can DENY KNOWLEDGE OR INFORMATION SUFFICIENT TO FORM A BELIEF that Brett Kimberlin is a drug-dealing, perjuring domestic terrorist with a thing for little girls who blew off Carl DeLong’s leg with a bomb in a gym bag.

We just close our eyes, wish really, REALLY HARD, clap our hands, and it all becomes magically true! Plus, Tinkerbell will fly again!  



Good Morning, DUMBFUCK!

Far be it from me to call a vile, racist DUMBFUCK “stupid,” (because I would never insult stupid people by making such a comparison) but I do have a question:

How did that forum non conveniens argument work out for you?

No comment?



Turn on the oven to 375°

Take some flour, some salt and some baking soda.  Mix them in a bowl and put them aside for a bit.

In a big mixing bowl, put a couple sticks of butter, some white sugar, some brown sugar, and some vanilla extract.  Whip that up until it’s creamy.

Drop in a couple eggs and mix that up.  Now it’s a little runny.

Start folding in the the dry stuff in the bowl that you had set aside.  It starts to thicken up and get – well, what other word can you use? – doughy.

Now stir in a bag of chocolate chips.  Maybe a bag and a half.  Some nuts, if you like that sort of thing.

Get your cookie sheet out, and drop spoonfuls of that dough on there and bake them up for 9-10 minutes.

Try not to gorge the raw dough, them raw eggs will do you in.

What comes out of the oven?  I’ll tell you what doesn’t come out of the oven:

  • Flour does not come out of the oven
  • Salt does not come out of the oven
  • Baking soda does not come out of the oven
  • Butter does not come out of the oven
  • White sugar does not come out of the oven
  • Brown does not come out of the oven
  • Vanilla extract does not come out of the oven
  • Eggs do not come out of the oven
  • Chocolate chips do not come out of the oven
  • Nuts do not come out of the oven

(Those last two may be a bit of a metaphorical stretch)

What you have are Tollhouse cookies.

You don’t taste flour, salt, baking soda, butter, sugar, brown sugar, vanilla extract or eggs. You do taste chocolate and nuts, but they’re integral to the cookie, right?

You don’t taste that stuff, but guess what?

It’s in there.





Please don’t BEE predictable…

Forged Contact

And buy a new computer, pauper. The spyware ain’t gonna uninstall until the computer stays powered off for 60 days. I had to buy a new terabyte external drive to save all the captured webcam footage!



50% of What Profit?

Since I’m a generous zombie by nature, I’m going to assume that DUMBFUCK purchased a Suzuki Q-Chord from Amazon at the low, low price of $219.99 and was able to avoid shipping charges with Amazon Prime.  The sales tax rate in Milwaukee County is 5.60%, so that would make a total cost of $232.31 door to door.

I’m also going to assume that because it is self-publishing his hot new album, Debut Taint, that DUMBFUCK  probably isn’t tracking its actual labor costs for writing lyrics or “studio time” or production or marketing or graphic design or any of the other actual costs that go into making an album.

In fact, I’m just going to eliminate all costs other than the cost of the Q-Chord, and say that the cost of making this album was that same $232.31.

DUMBFUCK has noted that the price of the album is $9.99 and that a whopping 50% of the profits go to Parkinson’s Reasearch.  This probably means it will pay for a continuing subscription to <a href=””></a>, but whatever.

If my math is right, it won’t see any profits until it recoups the cost of the instrument, which won’t be until the 24th album is sold.  And half of that $7.45 in profit, if that unlikely 24th sale takes place, won’t pay for replacement batteries for a Deep Brain Stimulator, let alone buy a tool for other deep places a DUMBFUCK might like to stimulate.