So, I guess Twitter and WordPress have similar opinions as to what constitutes Fair Use.
And now, I know exactly who wrote Confessions of an Undercover Internet Troll, and filed a fraudulent copyright application.
And so does everyone else from whom that author stole material.
Because when he filed his unsuccessful DMCA complaint, he identified himself as both author and copyright holder.
What do we call someone that stupid?
DUMBFUCK just doesn’t seem sufficient any longer.
The internet is a strange place. Netizens have this crazy idea that it’s possible to make friends or enemies with…electrons. They can’t. You actually have to personally know someone for that individual to be a friend or an enemy. That individual you have never met, the drunk driver who t-boned your neighbor’s minivan on the way to school and put your daughter in the hospital? A total stranger. You have no idea who that person is. That person is no more your friend or enemy than my toaster is your friend or enemy. The government bureaucrat at the NIH who spends most of his days posting on satellite radio fan forums and the rest spanking his weasel in the men’s room? He’s probably a great guy! You’d never know it from his behavior but it might be true. The Internet is a series of tubes. We are tubes shouting into other tubes. Some of us like our tubes dirtier than others. Some of us like putting things in tubes that are marked “EXIT ONLY.” Some of us even pick up the things that come out of those EXIT ONLY tubes and roll them into little balls and sniff them. And take video. We do things in those tubes that we would never think of doing if we thought we could actually get caught – things like smearing mayonnaise on our naughty parts for the dogs while our wives are at the store. That is why most Internet users hide their identities. If you are a regular user of the Net, you know what I mean.
This book is a very, very fictionalized version of events that probably didn’t happen, as far as you know. You can’t know what’s true and what’s not. But you can compare it to a bunch of blog posts that I stole, and that I can’t prove I wrote. It’s just a book that nobody’s going to buy, a transparent attempt to lure an anonymous total stranger (who can’t be a friend or an enemy because I don’t even know him, remember?) out into the open so I can sue him for butthurt that is really all my own fault anyway. It’s just letters on a page – or screen, as the case may be. Sometimes, because of my awesome GS13 writer/editor skills, they even make real words, and sometimes those words form coherent sentences, but that’s just a little much to ask of a GS13, don’t you think? In any case, no matter how incoherent they are, they’re mine. I own them. Although I remain Anonymous, this book and every word in it is registered as my property at the US Copyright Office in Washington, DC. If you think that copyright is enforceable, well the joke’s on you, isn’t it? If you think it’s worth the effort it would take to flip a coin to decide whether Bunny Boy or The Poodle owns the fraudulent copyright, well the joke’s on you, isn’t it? If you even care? What kind of useless life do you live? Are you stuck alone in a senior home, unable to move around without a rolly-walker, with no one to fix your hotdogs with mayonnaise for you? Do you only have total strangers on the internet to talk to? They aren’t your friends, you know. They just wind you up and watch you bounce off the walls and laugh at you. If you can identify me by the words herein, then you are able to draw breath and rub two brain cells together. Congratulations. Anyone who claims to have written these words in the same order as these words appear is a liar. But not as good a liar as me. Know how you can tell? Who owns the copyright. Me. That’s who. So come and get me, ya big zombie dope.
I believe my presence on the Internet is more responsible for the overall decline in civility than any other nutshuffling human penis in our nature’s history. Is this how I really am? Yes. You’ve never met me, never even seen me in person unless you’ve been to court to watch me get my ass repeatedly kicked. But I really do pee out of the top of my head. Now you understand why I wear that stupid hat and blacked out the photo on the cover. It’s not how I want to be perceived, so I prefer the anonymity of the internet, where no one knows I’m a penis. And an old, wrinkly, useless penis at that, not strong, vibrant, sexy, powerful. If we could see the person behind the avatar, what would we see? Matt, the chubby scribe clad in the furry bunny suit with ears so soft you just want to rip them off and make slippers out of them? Or Wee Willie, the dumpy wannabe musician who works in a fish cannery to support his possibly devoted mail-order bride until he gets home so he can pretend to be some kind of Internet tough guy for people he will never know and who will never know him.
For over a year, I pretended to be someone I sort of wasn’t. I saw a chance to make a little bit of pocket change by pitting people against me. I didn’t victimize anyone. The person I pitted a large group of conservative Net users against was myself. I created a right wing zombie character, a real asshole, used that character to vilify my true progressive, hyper-obsessed, cyberharrassing, turdrolling Oedipal, Cub Scout raping anal fetishist moonbat identity, an even BIGGER asshole if you can imagine, and got lots more cash donations in the process than I ever have for pontificating to the unenlightened at places like Daily Kos.
I thought I was trying another ill-considered, idiotic ploy to gain sympathy and paint myself as a victim and making a little bit of money in the process. What I ended up doing was proving how transparent my efforts on the internet really are, how painfully stupid I really am, and that I have no ability to control my bowels or the impulse to describe what happens when I have an accident.
If you knew someone down the street, and that person’s spouse was dying, and he camped out on your lawn with a loudspeaker and proclaimed to the entire neighborhood how his wife was dying, and reported on how her delirium was progressing, and how she was looking for ice cream that wasn’t there, and that she was having death rattles, and he was crying out “WHY AREN’T YOU ASSHOLES DONNING SACKCLOTH AND ASHES AND PITYING ME AND TUNING IN TO MY PODCAST AND GIVING ME MONEY???” and after she died he continued to give the passersby a running account of the arrival of the medical personnel who declared her dead and zipped her into a body bag and took her out to the hearse and drove her away and all manner of other morbid and embarrassing facts that you wouldn’t want to read about under any circumstances but are especially gruesome as an obvious play for pity, would you tell that person to shut the fuck up?
Of course you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t have to. Because nobody is so terminally stupid as to overshare to such an obscene degree, right? At least not while signing their own name to it. Nobody could so lack the self-awareness to understand just how wrong that is, right? Not without a reservoir of stupidity heretofore unimaginable.
People like that need a little push. Off the roof of a tall building.
I know. I started to understand that I actually WAS the monster I created. I got out and went back to being the moonbat monster that I’ve always been. And now, for the first time, I’m telling you how I did it in the hopes that you will be stupid enough to plunk down a tenner to help me pay for a mobility scooter and a grandfather clock and a poster of some Cub Scouts and a big petrified turd encased in Lucite for my Man Cave.
And remember, there’s a very real possibility that person you are having a flame war with on Twitter is a decent human being.
Unless it’s me.
I make Charlie Manson and Deb Frisch look like Mike and Carol Brady.
Doesn’t it already have a perfectly good clock?
I know it can’t stand not being ready to drop a podcast at the drop of a…hat, but for Christ’s sake, why not go on a fishing trip or sit on a beach for a week or something?
You know…something FUN.
Just you watch – in two weeks I will blow away like autumn leaves on a windy day.
It seems the pecker measuring contest that DUMBFUCK initiated yesterday doesn’t seem to be going well. Try to hide your shocked faces.
For one thing, there aren’t many of us who measure success based on the number of dollars we collect for the things we do for the sheer FUN of it.
For some of us, FUN is the only reason, the only measurement and the only compensation we need.
Speaking for myself, I detest comparing dick size with dollar signs, not because I can’t but because it’s such a poor measuring stick (pun most definitely intended). But, if that’s what we’re gonna do, then I guess that’s what we’re gonna do.
According to DUMBFUCK, “over the last few years,” it has sold 226 units of print or audiobooks and has pulled down a very strangely defined “profit” of $675.76.
I suppose it might be helpful to define some terms. As an accounting term, profit or loss refers to the positive or negative difference between when the revenue gained from the sale of product and expense of bringing that product to market. Here are a couple very simple examples.
- Walking down the street, I see a $20 bill on the sidewalk. There is no one else around so I can’t tell who dropped this bill, or even if it blew to this spot from a couple blocks away. It’s my lucky day! I bend over and pick up the bill at no cost to myself. My profit in this transaction is the $20 revenue less zero cost of effort, or $20.
- Joe is 13 and has a summer cash business mowing lawns. One particular lawn is a half-acre lot, and he uses his father’s gasoline push mower and gas/oil weed whacker to do the job. His father rents the tools out for $1 per tool per client. He also buys his own gas and oil for fuel. On this particular job Joe spends $2.50 on fuel, expends another $.50 on string for the weed whacker, and because it’s particularly hot on this particular day, he also brings a cooler with three bottles of ice water that he purchased for $2. It takes Joe two hours to complete this lawn, and he charges the client $20. So subtracting his total expenses of $7, his total profit on this particular job is a respectable $13. But not really.
- Thomas has a summer cash business mowing lawns in another part of town. He is 17 and this is his fifth summer. From his previous profits, he has reinvested in a second-hand mower and a second hand weeder. He also has purchased a couple of shovels and a manual edger. He has a client similar to Joe, with a half-acre lot. His costs are almost the same: fuel, string, and water, but he saves $2 by owning his own tools. Additionally, his several years of experience have made him faster, and have given him the ability to offer additional services. He edges sidewalks and spreads mulch on flowerbeds if the client provides the mulch. As a result, his time is more valuable than Joe’s. He can provide more services in the same amount of time, and he can charge $35 for this job. His $30 profit is much larger thanks to increased revenue and decreased costs.
Revenue is not profit, unless your costs are zero.
I only have two costs for this blog: if you could call it a cost, one would be labor. I don’t really consider it a cost, though. That would be like calling drinking iced tea in the backyard hammock labor. This isn’t what I have to do…this is what I GET to do. The other cost is real. $18 for hosting.
That’s my entire annual cost for getting this blog to market.
My product I give away for free. It’s a great business model – conversation for the taking. Pointage. Laughery. Mockification. Deploying the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
Oddly enough, it turns out that if you can find and cultivate an audience, it’s very profitable, too!
I’ve had a PayPal button up since about the beginning of the year. I have had a couple moments of need in that time, but generally I avoid the Stacy McCain “I write for money hit-the-freaking-tip-jar” model. I have no problem with his attitude; he DOES write for money, and he does it very well. I’m just fooling around trying to make folks laugh.
That said, in 2015 I have collected, after PayPal takes their cut, $1420.36. Or, just a bit more than double what DUMBFUCK claims to have earned with all his writing. Minus my $18 costs, that’s over $1400 in profit in just about 9 months.
You people are very, very generous. And I am very, very grateful.
Now, I’d like to go back to yesterday’s post for a moment. I noted that one of the simplest ways to frustrate a DUMBFUCK is by denying them the thing they want most.
If it isn’t clear by now that I have a quite profitable hobby in denying him respect, I should say it never will be. But today I hope to frustrate a DUMBFUCK using a combination of two other methods.
One is ridicule. The other is fundraising.
Below is the button for my PayPal account. Also, a poll which is really a social experiment. In the best tradition of American politics, I am hoping that you will vote with your bank accounts.
Even if you don’t (or can’t) vote with a dollar, I still value you (at less than a dollar 😀 ) as a reader and lurker/commenter. Please vote in the poll anyway.
^^^Click here to donate!^^^
For some reason, people of like mind always seem to find each other in this world. For example, you’ll find people with Napoleon complexes gravitating toward people who obsess over proving all that they have “achieved” in their lives. And then they find that everyone in their little clique has a tiny penis, which is a mercy for the underage children they fantasize about.
There are good and true descriptive words for people of this stripe. One is FAILURE. Another is INFERIOR. But my favorite, as you might guess, is DUMBFUCK.
It seems that one of these FAILURES, these INFERIOR DUMBFUCKS, would like to have a pissing contest over who sells more books, CDs or has more podcast listeners. Because FAILED, INFERIOR DUMBFUCKS need to ram their faces into brick walls and measure the blood spatter as if it’s an “achievement.” But I have learned many things about DUMBFUCKS in my life, and one of the easiest ways to frustrate a DUMBFUCK is by denying them the thing they want most.
For example, my name.
For another example, comparison on its terms. Continue reading “$675 In Book Sales – A DUMBFUCK Life Well Lived”
Because I actually DO have a heart and a soul (stored in jars tucked waaaay back on the top shelf in the linen closet), I’m not going to share DUMBFUCK’S latest death-porn, but for the brave of heart, here’s a link to the jpeg file in the Wayback Machine.
The last time it made public such a disturbing photograph, it tried to excuse what it had done by saying it “HAD HER PERMISSION!!!” and to show that she is (was) a human being.
Somehow, I don’t think either excuse for this complete, nutcrushingly stupid act of desecration is going to fly.
I wonder what TJ and the rest of Gail’s cremaining family would think of this if they saw it…after they got past the “Oh, dat’s yust crayzee Uncle DUMBFUCK. Dunno what she ever saw in a shiftless malingerer like dat’un.”