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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Timeless Truth

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.

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If You Don't Have Anything Nice to Say…

…come sit next to me!

This is an open thread.

As I hope I have proven by now, I run a very liberal comment section. Even Bill Schmalfeldt is welcome here, once he answers a single outstanding question.

Let’s open the floor. Spew your venom, spit your bile, blow your ugly boogies out right here!

Realizing that Howard has already displayed a highly advanced talent, let’s have your very best cutdowns, insults and overall nastiness.

Try not to libel or defame anybody.

ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK! THIS IS NOT, REPEAT NOT A POST FOR THE WEAK HEARTED. THE EASILY OFFENDED, OR THOSE WITH DELICATE LADYPARTS (no offense). 😜😈

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I'M READY

Now seems like a good time for a reminder.  A sort of pre-emptive strike, if you will.

When the counterclaim was filed, there was a motion requesting leave to take expedited discovery to identify “Paul Krendler.”

Because he didn’t know who I was.

He spent a lot of energy (and contrary to what he may think, it was not polite in the slightest degree) and effort on this blog and on Twitter trying to get me to identify myself.  He was very, very upset by the notion that someone might treat him with the same contempt and disrespect with which he consistently treats others.

He made threatening statements.  He promised that I would be implicated in perpetrating fraud against a MAJOR PUBLISHING HOUSE!!  He begged like the whupped bully he is.  He made threatening statements to others of criminal charges – oooOOOOOOoooohhhh! – if they didn’t tell who I was.  These may or may not rise to the level of criminal extortion.  I suppose we’ll find out sooner or later.

I have warned him repeatedly in those, his moments of high dudgeon and desperately false high confidence, that when he learns who I am, he will not be happy.  Not one little bit.

Can’t say I didn’t give him fair warning. 

He has made it a non-negotiable condition of his outlandish, public, online settlement demands that he be provided my real name, address, phone number and email address, or be provided a copy of  the copyright transfer/assignment that I executed. 

He has previously stated that if X happens, he doesn’t need me, and if not X happens, he also doesn’t need me.  So I still wonder why he needs me (actually I don’t – on that point I’m pretty certain I have the truth of it nailed down).

But he has filed a motion asking for subpoena power to compel Twitter and WordPress to identify the owner of this blog, and the owner of the Twitter account @brainsrfood.

I remain unconcerned.  I sleep well every night.  I am prepared for the possibility that he may find out who I am.  When that day comes, well, my attitude may become less carefree, but my confidence will not be shaken.  The battle will be truly joined.  I am ready.

In recent days, I didn’t pay close attention but I think it was about a week ago, he said in a Tweet that he “had a pretty good idea” who I am.  A week ago.  So that tweet has been deleted. 

I sincerely doubt the strength of his “pretty good idea.”  

What was true then, remains true today:  HE DOES NOT KNOW WHO I AM.

But he is desperate to find out. 

But right now, with requests for subpoenas filed, HE DOES NOT KNOW WHO I AM.

So, on that day, if the subpoenas do go out, and WordPress and Twitter report back the identity of Paul Krendler, remember then the truth of today:  HE DOES NOT KNOW WHO  I AM.

And when he finds out?  And begins to crow, ” I KNEW IT ALL ALONG!!”

Remember that he was warned that he would not enjoy the end of the road when he reached it.

Remember that he’s never deleted anything from Twitter

Remember.

I am ready to stand up and defend myself.  When the time comes and not a moment before.  My powder keg  is filled and the contents are dry. 

Will he be as prepared to press forward, once the “unknown unknown” is at last revealed?

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Intentional Self-Infliction Of Emotional Butthurt Is Not a Tort

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“Everything that happens to you now is entirely your own doing.”

-Bill Schmalfeldt

That will be a good one to remember.

Everything coming down the road could have been avoided.  It could have been avoided with equal measures of self-respect, self-esteem and self-control by the author of this:

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Sadly, he possesses none.

But what was the likelihood of that ever happening, from a guy who dribbles out the top of his head?

 

20140607-205106-75066229.jpg“Except for the Peace Order,

I’ve won every battle.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Truer words were never spoken:  All that is required to discredit Bill Schmalfeldt, is to quote Bill Schmalfeldt.

 

 

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A Weekend In Which No One Threatens To Kill Me, No One Even Mentions Me, And This CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO STAND!

Saturday

It was just one of those things. I was working on leaving something big in my briefs in response to the summons that I’m expecting, and I wanted to find out the date when a certain pinhead wrote a certain pinheaded blog entry. I couldn’t remember because of the dementia. So I was searching my Ombudsman Patriot website to find when I wrote it, and my brain pinged. The mind control module had activated. I set aside what I was doing and went on my roundabout tour of all the blogs that the mind control module forces me to read a hundred times a day, and I found that Patrick Grady had been fired.

He’s the guy that sent me a picture of an old toy named Bill that caused an avalanche of bigs that even my wife still talks about today. I mean, we had neighbors from three lots away standing in our yard waving lit matches like it was an REO Speedwagon concert. And this was in the depths of winter, which really should tell you something about the stench, right? Even the dogs wouldn’t come in the house until the next day.

And he wrote a comment once supposing what a “hypothetical” bi-polar person in his position might think of doing to a “hypothetical” person in my position who “hypothetically” contacted his “hypothetical” employer and “hypothetically” tried to get him fired.

Well, since Grady was using his work computer to harass me by attempting to view my blog (eek!), I felt it was only right to contact him and ask for the records that every pornographer is supposed to keep on file as proof that his models are of age and have consented, and which he is supposed to produce ON DEMAND!! (not to broke-down, fat, old fake internet investigative journalists like me, but to sworn law officers, but why should that matter to the great Parkinson Williams?) And I also know he has a disabled son, so I called the DCFS on him to make sure the boy wasn’t getting butt-raped if I wasn’t being included, because you know how I loves the BUTT STUFF.

Oh, wait…I think I’m getting my harassment victims mixed up…I don’t know. Whatever.

Anyway, that was in March. Today, I hear he’s been fired. And he’s not taking it well. Not at all. He’s so upset he wrote a tweet. A TWEET!! ZOMG!!!!!!ELEVENTY!!

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He’s in Illinois. The federal government is just down the road here in Washington, D.C. The NSA is in Fort Meade. Lots of IT jobs to be had if you don’t mind getting paid 120% of your value for working at 30% of your capacity. How do you think I wound up in this swell trailer? And I’m living proof that it is practically impossible to get fired from a government job. So why would he be wondering about jobs in… in… in…

YIPE!!

The axis of the world running through the top of my head just wiggled a little! Or maybe it was the mind control device telling me to get on with it and move on to the next website that makes fun of me and is killing me by shaving years – YEARS!! – off my life! I don’t know. Whatever.

Why did a pterodactyl just fly past my window? This room doesn’t even HAVE a window.

Now, I really do not want to see the head of any vintage toy for disabled boys who like the underage pornographic butt stuff to get man-raped unless I get to watch. So?

Patrick Grady is NOT Allowed to Kill Me! (He was before. I even invited him to come and do it several times, but he dragged his feet and that window has closed. Which is odd, because this room doesn’t even HAVE a window.)

I threatened my wife with a full day of diaper changes, so she drove me to the County Detention Center. Because it was Saturday, that is where the Court Commissioner can be found. She recognized me right away and said to my wife, “Are you sure you’re in the right place? I can call Sugar Grove, and lock him up until those big boys get here with the jacket and mask. But if he hasn’t done anything, I can’t just leave him back there.”

Gina snickered, but I kept my temper. Barely. I growled at the female lady type commissioner (obviously an idiot), “Shut up. I’m here to swear out a peace order. Some guy 900 miles away that I doxed in February tweeted about the job market here. I’m in DANGER and FEAR FOR MY LIFE!”

After she stopped laughing (and boy was she lucky there was a desk between us, and I was in a walker, or I’d have taught her a lesson in manners, boy), she got the forms. I filled them out, raised my right hand, after being reminded which one it was, and received the interim peace order.

Right now it’s an interim order not to kill me. On Monday, Judge willing, it becomes a temporary order not to kill me. Then, probably on June 9, I’ll ask the judge to turn it into a six-month order not to kill me. I doubt that I’ll win that, because almost everyone in the Howard County Legal community knows there’s no one in the county more deserving of a good killing than me. I think I even saw a bag on somebody’s desk with the makings for S’Mores inside, and a Post-It note that said “Park W.” on it, like they were all waiting to have a big celebratory bonfire or something.

I don’t know. Whatever.

On the way inside, I started to take those little, tiny, tippytoe, rapid steps that I take whenever I’m about to post an epic online faildox like the one of @embryriddlealum a couple of posts up. I was so excited about screwing with Grady again that I got carried away. I hit a downward slope that they put there just to trip me up, the bastards. I tried to stop, but 280 balloons in a rolly chair don’t stop on a dime, let me tell you. A brick pillar jumped out at me and knocked me down on my side. When it was moving back into place to hold up the roof, I swear to cheeses kreist I heard it whisper “John Hoge says hello…”

Hoge. All his fault. As usual. HE told Grady to write that tweet. HE told Grady to come to Maryland looking for work.

HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGE!

Where was I?

My wife and two perfect strangers rushed to my aid. Well, “rushed” is sort of a relative term…anything faster than my top waddling speed is rushing to me , so… Even though I am lighter than I have been since I weighed 1980 in 1980, I was not able to see my feet. Gina and another female lady type person tried to lift me by my arms, but I sweat so much they couldn’t get a grip. If I hadn’t been in pain it would have been funny. Or if it had happened to somebody else, that would have been REALLY funny.

Then the lady’s husband got into the act. It took him a bit to get the right grip, but when he did, he gave me a wedgie that was better than anything my twin brother Stevenson ever managed – and trust me, that’s saying something. It’s a good thing I had taken care of business before we left the trailer, because that guy would have squeezed a load right down the legs of my pants, and I’d have been surrounded by flames again like Mick Jagger singing “Sympathy For the Devil” during an encore.

Most people would be trying to work that underwear outta there, but you know what? It feels pretty good!

And now, the very same people who BRAGGED about getting me fired from the Examiner (and they’re out there, you know…I screen cap everything bad anyone’s ever written about me. Just don’t ask me to show you anything. Only I need proof that Krendler sold anything to Hoge, I don’t have to prove anything because my WORD IS MY BOND, LICKSPITTLES!!), are rending their garments in HORROR that Patrick G. Grady lost his job… and I don’t even know if I had anything to do with it (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more). Cheeses Kreist. I reported him more than two months ago! I was expecting this to happen weeks ago!

Oh, well. Gotta manufacture death threats or I just can’t sleep at night.

Evening came, and then the morning…Sunday

Speaking of which, I had trouble sleeping last night. Even though making up the idea that Patrick G. Grady is coming to kill me, and running off to tell lies to the County Court Commissioner to get an interim peace order was supposed to make my black heart feel better, it didn’t.

It just dawns on me that if a bi-polar, self-confessed sociopath was going to come kill me, what was a stupid piece of paper going to do to stop him? I already know he has a firearms training permit (or was that a lie, too? I don’t know. Whatever.), so he surely owns multiple firearms.

I don’t want anybody to think he lost his job because of me (even though I know he did, because I’m an internet badass with mad skillz). I reported him to his employer on March 15. They fired him on May 30. That’s more than two months, if my wife’s math is correct.

It’s gonna be hard enough – which reminds me, we got a fresh jar of peanut butter and I, um, “forgot” to feed the dogs this morning…good times coming! – for this poor psychotic bastard to get a job, without having a Peace Order on his record. And he has a teenage son…I wonder if he likes peanut butter…

Oh, Patrick Grady is an asshole and a Grade A one at that. But he also seems to be much smarter than me, and I did dox him in February for some reason… wish I could remember what it was…

But his kid doesn’t deserve to suffer because his dad is a jerk. The way my kids have.

Besides, I just made a big stinky and I need to go change my Depends.

Evening came, and then the morning…

So now, I’ve been banned from commenting on two blogs created specifically to discuss the fact that I am a horrid person. I attempted to participate in the open comment sections of these blogs to explain myself and why I wear blue contact lenses to hide the fact that I’m completely full of shit. There’s a third blog out there that I apparently sent a mental directive to, of the kind Hoge uses on me to force me to visit his blog, telling the owner to delete all my comments and ban me or my wife and doctor would take my computer away. I guess my mind control Kung Fu is weak, because he only edited my comments (after screen capping all of them) and set up his filters to kick me into his moderation queue. At least that’s what he said. I haven’t tried to comment since, because I’m and internet badass with mad skillz, remember?

They don’t want me on their blog, because I fill their comments with shit even faster than I do a pair of Depends, but of a much lower quality. The want to sit and natter about what a naughty boy I am, that is their right. Just like I do with John Hoge. But they are not allowed to libel me. Only I am allowed to do that.

This is libel.

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As the subject of the entry to which Mr. Hoge was commenting was yours truly, he has stated for the world that I am stealing intellectual property. You can tell by the fact that I’m not mentioned by name in the entry that it’s all about me – oh! The axis of the world that runs through the top of my head just shifted back into place! That’s better! – and because Hoge’s comment has peppered my name, “someone,” throughout the entire comment! And as we all know, anything that is not explicitly NOT about ME must therefore IMPLICITLY BE ABOUT ME!!!!!

And because I have proven, using science and pure geometric logic, that it must have been the officers who stole the strawberries and commented about me, it must be a lie. It is defamatory. It is libelous.

And now, the defamation stops. It stops. Now. The defamation.

I am willing to use material without the writer’s permission because when it comes to US Copyright Law, I am the world’s foremost expert among the functionally illiterate. Although I must say that the “functional” half of that description may be fading lately. But I am dead certain about the “illiterate” part.

I know Fair Use. Fair Use was a good friend of mine. And you sir, are no Fair Use.

What the hell was I talking about? I can’t remember… oh, well. It was probably Hoge and LICKSPITTLES.

Whatever. My feet itch. And something is dripping into my ears…

Hoge has initiated a lawsuit against me ALLEGING that I have stolen his “intellectual” property. I put intellectual in “quotes” for two reasons: first, I have no idea what that word means, and second, Gina threatened to take away the peanut butter and lock up the dogs if I didn’t.

Copyright law is so simple my dogs can understand it better than Hoge.
1. If someone photoshops a picture of me, that’s infringement and defamation.
2. If I photoshop a picture of someone else, like Ali Akbar or MaryFrances Causey, that’s Fair Use.
3. If someone uses a picture of me without my permission, that’s infringement and defamation.
4. If I use a picture of someone else without their permission, like Nancy Gilly or Patrick Grady, that’s Fair Use.
5. If someone photoshops a picture of someone related to me, that’s infringement and defamation.
6. If I photoshop a picture of someone else, who might or might not be related to you, that’s Fair Use.
7. If someone uses a picture of someone related to me without my permission, that’s infringement and defamation.
8. If I use a picture of someone related to you without permission that’s Fair Use.

How much more simple could it be? Fair Use isn’t stealing, and anything I do is Fair Use, so it can’t be stealing! Ergo (whatever that means), Hoge is guilty of libel. QED (whatever that means).

So shut up, hater.

So Patrick Grady is not coming to kill me, I made up the threats I used to get the interim Peace Order against him, which I then felt guilty about because I realized there’s an outside chance he could come to Maryland and defend himself in court, which would make me look like the fool I am and earn me a trip to the Safe Ward for an evaluation. Then Hoge didn’t mention me in a comment on a blog post that also didn’t mention me, which means he must be stalking me. But right now I have dogs, peanut butter, and drawers full of bigs and fear urine, and all is right with the world.

How was your weekend?

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It's AMAZING!

I had thought before now that only John Hoge possessed the power to manipulate men’s minds. Then I thought that perhaps I had a small degree of talent at dragging certain people to my blog to be offended. This may be true; surely more scientific study is required. Does anyone know how to contact Drs. Stantz, Venkman & Krendler?

Anyway, that’s what I thought until earlier today when I received what was an unmistakable psychic message:

Dear Paul,

Gail and Dr. Grill have both threatened to take my computer away if I continue blogging and tweeting. Would you please replace all my fucked-up comments with this message, and ban me because I have dementia, a full pair of Depends, and no impulse control whatsoever?

Thanks

A clear request for a voluntary ban. I was powerless to resist!

All comments have been replaced by the above message, as requested. However, I am loathe to outright ban anyone, so instead, I have done my best to force this person’s comments into moderation, where I will try to divine and reproduce their TRUE intention before releasing them. Failing that, I will delete them before risking a complete misinterpretation.

Should any comment somehow pass through the filter, I’ll deal with them as they come.

It saddens me to do this, to risk losing a reader and prolific commenter this way, but as I said, I’m powerless against the mind control.

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A DECLARATION OF WEIRD

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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.”

Enough.

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

LICKSPITTLES!!

PARKINSON’S!!

DEFAMATION!!

…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.

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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.

WRONG

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.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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So, where did Stacy Thomas live in 1995?

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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….

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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.

So…

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?

Therefore:

[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:

WRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGBILLSCHMALFELDTISWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONG

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.

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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!”

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