A Love Letter in Three Parts

Love. Love is a many-splendored thing. Love lifts you up where you belong. All you need is love!

And yes, that’s what I have received. Love. Even though your usual professional comedian wouldn’t recognize this as love,  *I* have the brain cells to realize exactly what this is that I have received in the mail.

It may have masqueraded as a fragrant, green pile of horse shit. But this? Marked as a “Halloween Gag Gift” and came from Slovenia? Slovakia? Saskatoon? Whatever… THIS IS LOVE!!!!

And guess who it is from? That’s right! ERIC! At first I thought it might have been from Grady, as a sign that he really didn’t mean that peace order he signed out against me and was awarded. I’m so disappointed. But this? This is a sign, I’m sure. Soon, Eric, you are going to get a present from me. Slathered in mayo. Well, at least the same color as mayo so that you can’t determine the difference between the two, but whatever…

The only thing is why haven’t you been bragging about this to the others who have been convincing him that my love isn’t true? I mean, I have a note written from you in your own handwriting! In block letters even! You went to Slaskatoon to harvest this fragrant bundle of green just for me and enclosed a note that said “HERE IS THE STUFF YOU TALK.” This, folks, is true love. TRUE LOVE! Not quite the kind of love that I recorded about the Boy Scouts in that tent. That is real, abiding anal love, the kind that stays with you forever. Unfortunately most of you don’t know about its joys but you will, you will… just buy my CD.

Anyway, back to this love letter from ERIC! OMG I am just overcome. Really and truly. I’m so convinced it was you. You are the most recent in my mind, so of course it has to be from you. You love and care for me so much. This is just the cherry on the top of sundae. Admittedly it’s horse shit, and green not red, but I know what you meant. Cherries can be green. They aren’t as good as the maraschino cherries but they are still candied and yummy delicious.

But Eric, my wife opened it, and now she is privy to our affair. I’m afraid that maybe she will kick me out of this trailer and you are so very, very far away. But I know how to make you come to me Eric. I will call… THE FEDS!

You see, I was once a FED myself. I was a SEAMAN! SEAMAN SLURPER!!11!!!! Oh wait. I’m not supposed to let on that I LOVE that name. Sorry. I served during the Lesbianese Civil War! Which was super important to America, which of course you all know. And I was a GS13!! I had to be approved by Congress you Lickspittles! Bet you didn’t know that. Well, my position had to be approved. Not necessarily me. But still. That makes ME important to the FEDS. They will listen to me! Which will stop Gail from suspecting me from having an affair.

Gail mustn’t suspect that I really liked receiving this horse shit. Because frankly it smelled a whole lot better than what she has to clean from my depends when I make biggs. She might like it if more packages started being delivered and this has to be kept secret. She can’t open any more of these packages Eric! You can’t send me anymore! But I know you will because you can’t stay away. You love me that much and can’t wait to be my Boy Scout. Oh I have to go get another jar of mayo now…

Back again! I know how to cover for all of this! My outrage will be MAGNIFICENT!!!! I’ll demand an apology with a doom clock. And threaten to call the Feds on Monday. That’s it! I’ll turn over the whole shitaree over to the Feds on Monday. I was a Fed. I will talk with the Feds. Fed to Fed. And THEY will get to the bottom of this. I’ll have proof of your everlasting love and Gail will know that I’m not unfaithful. Like I was with that tranny.

Unfortunately it will look like I’m trying to make your life hell. Oh, I’ll rant and rave on Twitter, typing to no one because no one listens to me anymore while I stalk the websites that I know you frequent. Because it’s the only way I can let you know that I care. That I see what you are trying to do. It’s how I show my love. The more I rant and rave, the more you will know that I care. Oooh! And I can get the postal inspectors involved! It’s just so perfect! Ultimate perfection! They will add to the whole thing so that you will know the length and depth of my devotion! It’s brilliant!

Oh God. Length and depth. Length and depth. Have to go get more mayo…


Eric. Oh Eric. I’ve had time to think long and hard about this. Very long…. Hard… oh my… ahem! Your continual denials without even a hint of coyness can only mean one thing. This really wasn’t from you. But now I know who it was from. HOWARD!!! Finally I have convinced him that I truly desire to know him. To bring him to my love of mayo.

But Howard? He likes it hard. He makes me work for him. So very, very hard…. So now my anguish must reach even higher heights to let him know that I’m sincere. I’ve worked on getting Howard’s affections for such a long time. He has always brushed me off time and time again. But now. Now I’m drawing him in. And I KNOW that he’s the one who paid for this. Because you know who he is? CHRIS HEATHER!!!!! OMG!!11!!! Chris has been taunting me from afar for so long. Making me ache for his sweet, sweet whispered nothings into my ear.

All those times I teased him about that poor dead girl that beat him up? Well, you know, I really knew that that wasn’t the case. I just wanted to get him to realize that a woman like that could never make him into a real man. Like I could. The only way you can find out that you need something is to have your mistakes pointed out to you over and over and over again. And ridiculed.

That evil witch LibraryGryffon is making things difficult. She and Grace have always stood between Howard and I finding each other. Frankly I think they are both the same person. That way it makes it sound like I’m so awful because it’s coming from two different people. Why would she do this? I think she really wants me as well and is trying deliberately to keep me from finding those who desire me, so she eggs them on in saying things and denying the real feelings that they have inside.

But who cares because she is just a woman. Only there to make me my footlong. Like Gail. Put more mayo on it woman! Before I give you sunglasses again!

But how to get Howard to admit that he cares… I know! The Postal Inspector! I’ll keep researching the laws regarding manure being sent and keep pulling out the wrong thing to make him afraid that I really want something bad to happen to him for sending me this love gift. THAT will send him running into my arms. It will be the only way to fully bring him into my large orbit. He will LOVE being in my orbit….


Is it possible that I have misread all of this? All of my bluster and bluff thinking first it was Eric and then Howard? Could it possibly be? You know what it could be from? This ultimate gift of true, lasting love?


OMG, OMG, OMG, OMG, I’m practically quivering with desire at the thought that the two of them have partnered together to send me this tub-o-manure, this gift to get me to notice them even more than I already do.

Hoge has teased me for so long. He draws me in and then pushes me away. Like Bill Cosby said Eve did to Adam… “Come here, come here, come here! No, get away, get away, get away…” Those orders he filed against me. And especially the one he last renewed, when he said that he wasn’t going to try and renew it. It’s all part of his plan to make me CRAZY with desire for him, and this fragrant, wet delivery is all part of it.

And Krendler. KREEENDLEEEEERRRRR!!!!! the most elusive one of all. He dances at the fringes of my mind. Tormenting me. Teasing me. Tantilizing me. He and Hoge have been knee deep in their conspiracy to keep me panting and begging and begging and panting. The two of them together have made me spiral into this vortex of desire. No one else on this earth can make me feel this way. Not even the excitement when I was on stage with the tranny comes close to this. And that was really exciting.

It is the culmination of the desperate search for love that I have been sending out all over the internet these last few years. That Daily Kos article about butt sex? Mere foreplay to see who would be interested in true man love. The harassment of the Wisconsin Knots? Mere warm-ups. This. Krendler and Hoge. Hoge and Krendler. Over and over and over. This is the way I can finally achieve my climax. No more pretending with the mayo. No more feeling less and less like a man.


The police and the FBI and the Postal Inspectors will bring them to me. And then. At last. At long, long last. We three can satisfy ourselves with what we want. What we need. I don’t know if any of us will survive the pleasure of the encounter. It will be far too intense. The glory will explode from my trailer and everyone will know what has happened and how wonderful it all was.

But what a way to go, eh?


Well, Here's A Giant Shock

The Tub’o’shit is lying to his law enforcement pals about the tub’o’shit he received!


Quoting: “I am afraid of what I’m going to get in the mail next. I received this last Friday and the shock so affected my Parkinson’s disease symptoms, I lost my balance and bashed my face of the living room floor.”

This is not just a lie, it’s a terrible lie, told by a terrible liar. A proven liar.

Let me show you. My sources are unassailable.

Friday, November 28:
Tub’o pets dog, fall down go boom. Posts photo with psycho face.

Saturday, November 29, 9:25AM:
More details & pictures about the Friday Faceplant.

Then, at 11:23 AM, about 13 hours after the Friday Faceplant, the subject abruptly turns…


Now, right about midday, suddenly it’s Horseshit Saturday.

Faceplant Friday before Horseshit Saturday.

But like always, the truth doesn’t make Tub’o look like ENOUGH of a victim. So he needs to enhance his tale of woe. Like always.

Such a narcissist. A lying narcissist. A proven, terrible, lying, narcissist with mayonnaise breath.


Interesting Thing About The Law

If you swear to something under oath, and sign your name to it, even if you do it under false pretense and for retaliatory purposes, like this:
then you are quite bound by your oath to behave as though you believe that what you have sworn is true. To do otherwise provides both indication and evidence that you may knowingly have provided false information.

So now that Patrick Grady has been granted a plenary Stalking No Contact Order against William Schmalfeldt of Elkridge, Maryland,

Schmalfeldt is prohibited by court order from communicating to or about Grady in any forum or social media.

But that’s okay, right?

Actually, no.

Schmalfeldt doesn’t need Hoge to make sure of anything. Schmalfeldt is sure. Because…SCHMALFELDT. Sure enough to swear an oath under penalty of perjury (up to $1000 fine, up to 90 days imprisonment, or both) that Grady is me, and I am Grady.

So here he is, ordered by the court not to write about Grady, and bound legally by his own sworn oath not to write about Krendler, because HE SAYS I AM GRADY.


Stupid people call this an “Oh, Fuck! What Have I Done?” moment.

Everyone else calls it a “What A Cute Little Corner You’ve Painted Yourself Into!” moment.

I just call it FUN.

I have it on “competent authority” that Grady is perfectly willing, as he has demonstrated by his recent trip to Maryland, to take Schmalfeldt at his word and treat any communication toward or about me as CONSISTENT WITH HIS SWORN OATH to be a communication toward or about GRADY, and a violation of the Stalking No Contact Order.

And reported accordingly. Every single time.


The Demented Freak Forgets His Place


Oh, William💩…

Poor, poor William💩…

Are you💩 finding that being left alone does not suit you💩?

Because we can always do something about that…


…and just to be clear? This is me being nice.

Now be a good freak and go back to being left alone. There’s a lad.


Be Careful What You Ask For

Back in August, I wrote:

This is what it means to have friends. You attack one, you attack us all. The enemies you have made…are EVERYWHERE.

Then, just last month, after filing a second petition for a Peace Order (a CHICKENSHIT remedy, he calls it, now that he has CHICKENED OUT on both of them), he summed up his post announcing that filing with this oft-repeated bit of false bravado:

See? You wanted to fuck, Patrick. So? Let’s fuck.

I guess he did not take the lesson to heart about attacking people with friends. Which is sort of strange for all of his past braggadocio about going to peoples’ houses backed up by his brothers to beat people up that he wasn’t sure he could take man to man (or was it “fed to fed?” *snerk*).

In any case it sure looks like someone on the side of Team Lickspittle has had some fun at his expense. It was as exquisitely hilarious as it was vulgar and tasteless. I wish I knew who did it; I’d find a liquor store near them and send a gift card. It was both inspired and inspiring.

And hopefully, this time the lesson will stick: if you ask someone if they want to fuck, don’t be so stunned when the answer is an unexpected and surprising “YES” from a shocking direction.



ADDENDUM: ADDENDA are usually “added” at “the end,” but I put it “up” at the top because I’m edgy and creative like that. Plus I get to think about getting something “added” “up” “the end,” which is something I have “sorely” missed since I left the Navy.


For over two years now, the weak, grey-skinned booger eaters I call friends have stood by and laughed at me (literally! My “excellent chauffeur” was independently witnessed snickering up his sleeve while I was stomping my little grapes in a Peace Order modification hearing last year.) while I have tried to fight back against the friends and allies of the phantoms I have been chasing these last many years. I have been begging for them to “come get me,” because I’m tired of being nothing save the “butt” of everyone’s jokes, yet here I sit, un-got. Does no one understand when I beg people to come and kill me that I am absolutely serious? That I can no longer stand the thought of facing another day of surfing the internet in search of the daily ignominies visited upon me? That I lack the willpower, as always, to take responsibility for myself and do what must be done? CAN’T YOU PEOPLE READ BETWEEN THE GODDAMN LINES AND FIGURE OUT I NEED SOMEONE TO KILL ME TO FINALLY MAKE ME THE VICTIM I’VE TRIED SO HARD AND FAILED TO MAKE MYSELF?!?!!?

would someone please just put me out of this misery? please?

Want to impress me? Come to my house and open my neck with a utility knife. Please. Show the kind of balls that I don’t have. My wife has owned the coin purse for over a year in more ways than one. I’m so weak, so useless, I can’t do anything but pretend I’m funny, and nobody even believes that anymore. And now I have to go and pull it all down off the web or else it will taint (*snerk*) my legacy FOREVER. Can you imagine if your last conscious thought was complete and total understanding of what a failure your life had been, but even worse, knowing that the evidence of it had been immortalized in cyberspace FOR ALL TIME?

Please, God, won’t you send some Judas to seal my fate?

And now it’s time for lunch. Footlongs and mayo, with crusty booger flakes (if I close my eyes I can almost imagine they’re like those crunchy things you get at Long John Silver’s) on the side and extra funky, I mean chunky, chocolate chip cookies that my wife has been making almost constantly over the last month. I like them fine, but I never see her eating them. Strange.


Got an e-mail this morning from a friend of mine. I wanted to congratulate me on my strategy. “Good idea,” I wrote. “Pull the same trick Hoge pulled. Say I’m not going, then show up and lower the boom.”

I replied. “I am not WJJ Hoge. I wear diapers. I have no integrity, courage or sense of smell. No one sits within 10 feet of me if they can avoid it. If I say I am going to do something, I do it unless it becomes clear that I’m going to look like a fool. If I say I will talk with Patrick Grady under oath on Friday, I will be hiding under my bed weeping instead. If I say ‘come and get me’ and it becomes apparent that I can’t extort or intimidate someone into backing down, then I dress up in a big muu-muu and say, ‘You wouldn’t hit a girl, would you?’ If I file a Peace Order petition, I ALWAYS FOLLOW THROUGH, unless it’s against Patrick Grady, who scares me so bad it takes a crime scene cleanup crew to deal with the mess I make when I come to my senses. And I will not haul myself up from the comfort of the shit pit to truck with WJJ Hoge.”

The shit pit is actually a couple levels up from where people like me belong. Luckily, the bureaucracy here in Maryland is incredible and they are still working on widening the passages to those lower levels to accommodate wide-assed, skirt-flapping, cowardly, smoke-blowing gravelpanties like myself. Exactly like myself. Okay, Goddammit, it’s just for me, all right? Shut up!!

Everyone is pretending that Grady showed up, even after that OBVIOUSLY FAKE photo of his Illinois Driver’s License sitting on the order of dismissal, signed by Judge Mary Reese, that reads “After the appearance of the RESPONDENT…”

(Say, you can’t put that on a LEGAL COURT ORDER if it’s not true, can you? -PK)

I have it on incompetent authority that he did not. My incompetent authority is named Mark in MD, or as I call him in private, Little Voice In My Head #8.

Got a nice note from none of the Howard County States’ Attorney lawyers today.

I’m getting ready to head home but I was worried that my mental health may have precluded my appearance.

If it’s any consolation, I understand that in addition to the usual contingent of state-employee baliffs and courthouse security, there were uniformed Howard County Police Officers in the courtroom. So somebody WAS concerned that I would show up “heavy.”

Try to get some rest this weekend. Opt for TV vs. the internet to give myself a break. Just let me take care of the sockpuppetry.

Take care,

Wayne aka Little Voice In My Head #2

Thanks, Wayne. And thanks to my other Little Voices In My Head who supported my decision. I will be closing this website, killing off the Twitter account, etc. and etc. But I will be online. If I find me, and I am my friend, pop in, say Howdy.

And don’t even think about reproducing any of the vile stuff I have created, that I know is screencapped for posterity for just this eventuality, after I take down every disgusting and or true word that’s ever been written about me.

But the Schamalaschamaflapt brand is dead,

Long live the Voices In My Head.

I fought. I fought hard. Too hard. And Wayne, Mark, Lester, Old Uncle Scoutmaster and the others are poised to take over.

“Beware that, when fighting disembodied voices, you yourself do not become a disembodied voice… for when you gaze longingly at the footlong with mayo, the footlong with mayo slides also into you.”

– Matthew Lillefeldt

It’s way too late to save William Scham? – Schamafeldt? It was always just me and the voices against a couple dozen make believe monsters that I had invited to live rent free in my head. And eventually even my voices realized they were on the wrong side and turned against me. So, have your Bill Scham-schamalfeldt, deranged Oedipal buttsex-obsessed cyberstalker. The fool who lied in every breath and believed that someone believed him. The toy you’ve almost, but not quite broken beyond repair and will soon discard to the dustbin of memory. Uniformed cops in the courtroom. They saw Grady, but the Little Voices In My Head shout them down. They were there in case I changed my mind about changing my mind about being brave and standing my ground, borrowing my scrote from my beloved’s coin purse, and getting Grady under oath to point out the many, many lies I have told about him.

Funny little pictures of dolls and power tools that make me flood my gravelpanties with the brown stinky. Such brave comedians.


Wait, what???

Little Voice In My Head #5 has something to whisper in my ear…

What? They WANT me to suffer? They want me to feel the pain and injury that I have tried and failed to visit upon them so many times? Why? What have I ever done to them?

Oh shut up, you liar.

SHUT UP, Little Voice In My Dented Head!!

(Why does that never work?)

It’s too late to save the thing I’ve turned me into. So, I will turn me into something else. And I will shave my hole.

May I someday realize the evil I have done to so many good men and families. And if I do ever realize it, may it gnaw at my stomach for the rest of my life.

(Shoves Microphone Up Pooter Hole. Waddles Off Stage. Until Next Time. Because There’s Always A Next Time.)