Someone Forwarded Me This

Well, not exactly this.  But close.  I sort of did my thing with it.  


From:  LoadofShitturd <LoadofShitturd@*****.com>

Date: Wed, May **, 2015 at *:56 AM

Subject: The fecal smears on the wall

To: Thurston Howl <*************@******.com>

NOTICE: THIS E-MAIL IS BEING SENT AS IF IT WERE FOR A LEGAL, PEACEABLE PURPOSE, BUT IT REALLY ISN’T. IF YOU ARE SMART ENOUGH TO UNDERSTAND THIS IS THE CASE BASED ON THE SENDER ALONE, HIT DELETE NOW. OTHERWISE, I WILL CONSIDER YOUR READING OF THIS LETTER AS YOUR CONFIRMATION THAT YOU ARE AS DIMINISHED IN MENTAL CAPACITY AS I AM.

Thurston:

You don’t have to be Einstein to see that I am a complete idiot who has been taught that the world revolves around me, that I am always right, and that if I tell enough lies one of them will eventually be believed by someone, somewhere, if I just wait long enough. But after 15 long years of dying from Parkinson’s disease, I fear my time is running out. I need someone to believe my lies, Thurston, and aren’t you the lucky one?

If you are a smart person, it’s time to start acting like one and delete this email. If I were smart, I would never have started writing it, but like an avalanche, once I’m committed I am impossible to stop. I remember this one time we drove from Maryland to Florida. When we stopped in Butte, Montana for dinner, my wife W.D. suggested that we might be going in the wrong direction. I said, “Don’t be silly, you foolish female woman! And besides, we’re making great time!”

I have submitted a full report on the “forged letter” scheme to Montgomery County authorities today. They love getting “full reports” from civilians like me. Knowing that this will not be high on their list of priorities, I want to give you a chance to help yourself before you are not contacted.

After you are done laughing, I need a bit of info from you. I promise not to dox you.

No, REALLY!!

You can tell me you thought it was a perfectly innocent gag, like the horse shit, if you want. You remember the old innocent horseshit gag, right? The one where I, a guy who likes to pick up my own possibly diseased turds and roll them up into little balls and sniff them (totally in the name of SCIENCE!), went completely BANANAS for two weeks on Twitter accusing people, animals and some passing clouds I don’t even know of FEDERAL CRIMES!!1!1ELEVENTY!11!!1ONE!1!!

Good times, good times.

I do not wish to prosecute you. Even if I did wish to prosecute you, I can’t because a) I am not a prosecutor, b) as much as I pretend otherwise I am not even a lawyer, and c) I would just screw it up like everything else I’ve ever tried to do in my life.

That’s why I need your help.

Here’s how you can help me get to the bottom (tee hee!) of this, and my word – that I will tell the authorities that you did not know what the letter would be used for – is pointless to give, because I’m a liar.

1. A copy of the e-mail “Paul Krendler” sent you the night of January 4, 2015. I know he sent it, because it’s in the Hoge Honey Pot, so it must be true. And also because everybody always tells the truth on the Internet. Except me. If you don’t have a copy, your best memory of the contents will be fine. Or just make something up! If it isn’t what I want to hear, I’m just going to make something up myself. So what harm could it do?

2. Did you act as a courier for the mailing of a letter to Hoge’s home address? Did you drive to the greater Baltimore area to mail it so it would have the proper postmark? Or am I crazy?

3. Were you paid or otherwise rewarded for your participation in this “prank”, which is actually a FEDERAL CRIME AS HEINOUS AND VILE AS SENDING IMPROPERLY PACKAGED HORSESHIT TO A PARKINSON’S VICTIM WHO LIVES IN A TRAILER PARK? Or am I just crazy?

Thurston. Take a look at Lovey and think. You have been stuck on that island for so many years…Gilligan and the Skipper are going down on Ginger and Mary Ann. So is the Professor. You’re not getting any because let’s face it, Lovey Dear has been paper-dry for a couple decades…like me. I’m sure your role in this whole thing is marginal at best, because you just aren’t smart enough to mastermind this yourself. Your cooperation will make you seem even less guilty than you could possibly be, you pathetic moron.

I will make somebody pay for trying to frame me, Thurston. As your part in it was likely innocent and small, I don’t wish to cause you any heartburn. But you will do, Thurston. Oh, yes. You’ll do nicely. So do yourself a favor and answer the above questions so I can have them ignored by your county authorities. If you don’t, I will simply continue to annoy you with vague, toothless threats. Which would be a shame and a waste of my time because I have much bigger and smarter fish than you to annoy with vague, toothless threats.

Be well, idiot.

BS

Tincasa 71

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My So-Called Friends Need To Learn That the Expert on Me Is Me, And It's Always About Me.

For some reason I will never understand, the so-called conventional wisdom among my so-called friends is that I should stay off Twitter.  I love my so-called friends, but I can no longer honor that request which I could never honor in the first place.

For one thing, I do not CARE what the people who hate me have to say about me. When they invade my Twitter timeline by reading it and stalk me by responding to it, and they are the same trolls who have figured out how to make my life miserable for more than two years by quoting my own words back at me, I block them, I report them, and if Twitter does its job, it removes their accounts. Of course, especially puerile individuals like, well, I know who I am, just create a new sock puppet account and I’m back online within hours…one hundred nine (109) times and counting.

I need Twitter. Like a meth-head needs the next hit.  Like an excellent friend needs sleepovers.  Like I need Krendler’s head on a spike in my driveway.  I need it to be able to pretend this podcast is successful. I need it to spread the word to my zero followers about what the subject of the day is.

My so-called friends refuse to participate. They have wised up, at long, long last. That is why I currently have “O” followers. They seem to equate my not following their advice as not having respect for them.  I could ask them if that’s true, but then I would know for sure what they think, and I would no longer be able to fabricate their opinions for myself in Cloud Cuckoo Land.  Besides, I know they are wrong.  They must be wrong if they take the side of my enemies in anything.  I love my so-called friends. But I intend to run my life according to my wishes for how the world should work, not at the whim of my enemies or at the demands of my so-called friends. If my so-called friends wish to show their disapproval of this decision by not feeding my delusion that someone on the planet cares what I have to say?  Well, achievement unlocked.  The trolls have known this for years, and now that my so-called friends have shown their true colors, the undeniable fact is truly undeniable, even to a thickheaded pudding brain like the Dim Weeper.  This is why I took my account offline earlier today. But as soon as I am done producing today’s show I will be back online on Twitter @enditalltribune. If you, my phantom listener who knew me when I was nothing and nobody, who has seen the depths to which I have now sunk, less than nothing, less than nobody, if you hear this podcast before I delete it in shame and fear pee like every other thing I have published online, I hope you will subscribe to it, download it, and share your thoughts on Twitter and on our website, end_itall_tribune.com.  That way, I will be able to identify you by your IP address and dox you because you left truthful comments on my blog which are just as hurtful and cruel as someone leaving a bag of dogshit near my trash bin.

But I am not going to allow my life to be controlled by people who think they know what’s best for me.  Like those idiots who think it’s a bad idea to post pictures of my dying wife.  Who doesn’t love Rule 5?  Nor do my so-called friends get to decide FOR me if and how I continue to inflict myself on the world.  No.  The expert on me is me, and closure is drawing near.  Yes.  Closure.  Drawing.  Near.  8 days until relief.

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Prodo Ignominus (yes, my Latin sucks.)

A DISCLAIMER FOR THE DULL-NORMAL:

WHAT FOLLOWS BELOW THE JUMP IS A

PARODY

IT IS ALSO A WORK OF

FICTION

IF YOU ARE OF A MIND TO GET ALL WHINY AND BUTTHURT ABOUT SOMETHING THAT DOESN’T EVEN HAVE YOUR NAME IN IT,

TOUGH SHIT

THANK YOU.

THE REST OF YOU ZOMBIES…PLEASE ENJOY.

Continue reading “Prodo Ignominus (yes, my Latin sucks.)”

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Nothing. We Have Learned Nothing. That's What We Have Learned Here.

Actually, that’s not quite true.  I did learn that brevity is the soul of wit.

Silly me, I thought the soul of wit was to be, you know, FUNNY.

So, for the benefit of the slow, lazy F5 reader out there… FUCK YOU, YOU PATHETIC DROOLING IDIOT.

Brief enough for ya?

For the rest of you, the truly good stuff that flies over his head is after the jump.

Continue reading “Nothing. We Have Learned Nothing. That's What We Have Learned Here.”

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Teh EPIC, AWESOME, SEVEN-PART Parody! !!1!ELEVENTY!1!!1!ONE!!

The FIRST

Did My Wife Even HAVE Cancer? Or Is That Another Lie?

In the couple of days since WJJ HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGE!!! announced his wife’s “cancer,” the closest he’s come to saying anything about it is “I have other issues at hand,” or words to that effect.

I can’t understand why he hasn’t created a new blog like I did so he could over-share every step of her illness for his legions of Lickspittles the way I shared with my sockpuppets. And Sweet Willy Winkie in La Chupacabra, California or wherever the hell he squats himself these days.

It was this announcement by HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGE!!! Friday night that FORCED me to, perhaps stupidly, split an infinitive and choose air-quotes: “ethical responsibility (wink, nudge, what a GREAT EXCUSE, RIGHT??)” over an unjustly (stupid judge, thinks he knows the law better than me!) applied law and violate a valid and legal peace order that simply doesn’t apply to an ubermensch like me to contact him to put him in touch with Public Relations people I worked with at the National Institutes of Health who could help them work their way through the Clinical Trials maze, if that was a route they chose to take.

It sound so…reasonable…when I put it like that, doesn’t it?  And by reasonable, I mean #BATSHITCRAZY.  Like teh EPIC Deb Frisch. ELEVENTY.

As I type this, no charges filed against me. But it’s the weekend and Monday’s a holiday. I’m the guy who fell off an 80 story building, and as I plummet past the 30th floor someone shouts “Are you okay?”

So far, so good. Continue reading “Teh EPIC, AWESOME, SEVEN-PART Parody! !!1!ELEVENTY!1!!1!ONE!!”

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Letter To the Mayor of Eugene, Oregon

Dear Mommy Mayor Piercy,

I’ve never been to your fine city, but I’ve read awfully nice things about it. In fact, it’s one of the few places that I haven’t worked, which is why I have no pension or 401K. And I have Parkinson’s Disease, which you’ll be hearing a lot about in my letter to you.

I write to you this morning because it appears that you have a trash collection problem. For years, I’ve been viciously stalked and defamed by one of your constituents, a Facebook friend of yours by the name of Dan Foreman! Please refer to the attached charts that lay out my investigative process in detail. You’ll be as convinced as I am. I’m actually probably entirely wrong, but let’s pretend that I’m not for the moment.

I’m a war hero with Stage XLVIII Parkinsons. I can’t work, walk or even drive car. I haven’t made sweet, sweet love to my wife since the mid to late aughts. The dementia is now so bad that I forget that I’m demented and start investigating the evil stalkers who call me demented, which is how you came to my attention.

Foreman, who is your best friend in the whole world, even impersonated my COUSIN for several years. My noted legal scholarship, along with that guy on AVVO, the one who doesn’t think I’m a crazed turd, informs me that this is a felony. A felony that you abet through City Hall!

Do you know why he and a cabal of right-wing thugs are persecuting, hounding and bullying me like they did to esteemed Professor Deb Frisch, Ms. Piercy. They’re doing it because I have a most excellent friend who just happened to repeatedly bomb a small town in Indiana in the 1970s, which was a long time ago. And he’s a good Democrat now, just like you and me! Except I’m a disabled veteran with Parkinson’s who only drops bombs in my pants, and I don’t think you spend all day cursing at a computer monitor.

But I demand that the bullying stop! I’ve had enough! ENOUGH, I say! I want “Cousin Roy” to grab his ankles, and you can make Foreman do it! I found him. Now you must finish him!

You don’t want you city taken away, do you, Your Honor? I don’t want to have to do it, but I will. I will issue a press release and make a video telling everyone the truth about you, “Cousin Leroy” and all of Eugene! I may even write 12 books about it! It WILL be worse than Watergate. Your name will forever be tied with shame in history, Kitty!

You might be asking, “What does this fine, disabled veteran want?”

I want it ALL, Kitty! I want you to send Dan to me. Strip him of his citizenship and send him to my trailer. And most importantly, unfriend him on Facebook this instant! There will be dire consequences for you if I don’t have evidence that you have done these things by close of business, eastern time! Tomorrow I send everything I have to the WisconsinOregon media.

Be well,

William M. Schmalfeldt,
Elkridge, Maryland.

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Here's A Grain Of Sand For You

The written word is a very powerful thing.  It has brought down presidents.  And people who can’t spell.  Or type.  People have done great good through their writing.  I have done great evil through my writing, even though some barely consider it typing.  I don’t take it lightly.  I’m nearly 300 lbs, I don’t take anything lightly.  Writing is an art.  What I do is more like self-abuse.  Some artists are better than others.  The picture that accompanies this blog was taken the day I retired from the National Institutes of Health in 2011, and I am holding some of the awards that were used as extra ballast in the canvas bag they put me in when they tossed be in the Potomac River. Thank goodness for the good old Swiss Army knife I carried back then, and the ambulance, and the paramedic who lost the coin flip and gave me mouth-to-mouth.

I respect my chosen career enough to know that I am no longer capable of being stupid in front of people who will pay for the privilege of watching.  I have given people who hate me far too many opportunities to mock me (like now!) and downplay my fast-declining abilities.  In other words, I can not only not hit the high fastball anymore… I can’t even see it.  At least, not until just before it pelts me in the face.  Again.

Was a time (see? Typing, not writing), as long as we’re going to use the baseball metaphor, when I could see the pitcher’s fingers on the laces of the ball when he let go, and I could anticipate the pitch based on that alone.  How that relates to writing press releases I have no idea, but it’s an interesting image in a non sequitur kind of way.  Now, I can barely see the pitcher.  Metaphorically.  Metaphysically. Metastatically.

I’m missing things that a typist who has accomplished things I’ve accomplished in my body of work should never miss.  I used to be able to type 40 words a minute with one hand and juggle tennis balls with the other while spinning plates with my feet and telling dirty jokes all at the same time!  Can you believe they forced a talent like mine to retire??  But it took a rocket scientist like WJJ Hoge of all people, to make me realize that I had all the information I needed about my credit card minimum payments right there on the statement I received every month.  I had $1200 in book marketing expenses to pay off, and it never occurred to me to check it!  A year ago, I would never have missed such an obvious clue.  It took an electrical engineer to show this idiot who has lost the ability to see the high hot one (boy, that brings back Navy memories!), to open my eyes to how far I’ve slipped in the past year.

It’s okay, though.  Tomorrow I’ll have forgotten all about it.  I’ll pull on my tights and my cape and become SOOPER JERNOMALIST all over again.

The one thing I value about myself is my honesty.  I’m not always right. Okay, I’m not EVER right.  But I can state that I have never written a story with the intent to deceive.  And I can say that because I value my honesty.  I don’t exercise it, but I value it.  It’s like a golden ring, a…Precious, if you like, kept hidden in a safe. I think, like a Precious, honesty is too valuable to be used, and too dangerous.  If I used the honesty that I value so much, people would begin expecting me to be honest all the time.  And that can’t happen.  Because then I would have to admit all the times I have been proven wrong.  And, if we’re speaking honestly, which we may or may not be doing, I have been proven wrong A LOT.  If I have been wrong, whenever that was pointed out and proven to an arbitrary and capricious standard known only to me, I have always issued a correction.  Which is the same as saying I have never issued an honest correction.  Sure, I have issued corrections, but they are those half-assed, you-think-I’m-wrong-but-I’m here-to-CORRECT-you corrections.

I had to retire in 2011 because I could no longer manage the commute.  I kept forgetting where I was, and several three letter agencies that I didn’t work for were getting very upset when I showed up at the gate several times a week insisting I worked there and they were in the wrong place. Eventually everybody decided that it would be easier to take away the car keys.  They tried to take away the computer too, but I put by foot down.  It made my balls hurt when I did that.  But we also knew that my ability to process facts and keep them organized would eventually suffer from this condition. (The Parkinson’s, not the being a human dick, though that has disadvantages too.)  And I have certainly reached that point.  Whether we’re talking about not being able to process and organize facts, or my balls hurting every time I take a step, I have definitely reached that point.

I am not shutting down the blog.  I expect to keep writing about the Kimberlin lawsuits (I should have no trouble there, he packs his briefs with disorganized facts just like I pack mine with STOP! DO NOT LET THE HONESTY OUT!!) and about my own serial legal beatdowns (again with the unprocessed disorganized facts, but I KNOW I don’t have to worry about wearing out my PRESSSSHHHHHIOUS honesty in that endeavor) delivered to my leaky, sand-filled vagina by the taunting evil of WJJ Hoge and his small but mighty band of followers.  I am only one man with a handful of sockpuppets, but THIS. IS. SPARTA!!!!!!!  They may not fight in the shade of the arrows I can fire, but I’ll bet they don’t have near enough sunscreen.  So there’s that.

They are free to say whatever they want about me, especially about my flapping skirts heading for the hills when Patrick Grady comes to Maryland to fight the second groundless Fear-Peace Order I have filed against him in less than six months.  Say, I wonder if that, along with that brave lawsuit I filed then withdrew in a three day window last May, might have any bearing on an attempt to have me declared a vexatious litigant?  I doubt it.  I have a hard time processing facts and keeping them organized, remember?

I know what I’ve done in my life, and as I look back I do so with very few regrets.  The Japanese tranny isn’t one of the regrets, and neither is the way I treated my children and my first two wives.  That’s no reason for them not to talk to me, though.  There are plenty of other reasons for that, reasons that I can’t process, organize or even recall.

The headline indicates my gift to each of you.  As I have clearly been affected by the common late stage LegalButthurt “execute me dysfunctionally” disorder, I issue you each a grain of sand from my delicate labia to take whenever you read something I’ve written.  I’m not going to do any more investigating until the next time, at least I don’t believe I will.  And you can trust me on that because I value my precious honesty too much to ever use it.  If I do break that pledge, it will be because I forgot I made it and I can’t process or organize those facts (to say nothing of any facts I might find or make up when I’m trying to dox somebody like shaka49) , I will have a friend double and triple check my poor processing and disorganization before I publish.  Hopefully my friend Mark in MD or State’s Attorney Wayne will be able to do that for me without laughing hysterically, because that makes me mad, and when I get mad I jump up and down and that makes my balls hurt more, and I fall down and then something else gets hurt too.

I can no longer trust my own judgment on some (any – SHUT UP!  HONESTY, GET BACK IN THE VAULT!) of these matters. And my detractors love pointing out when I type like a mamboing monkey with muscular dystrophy, let alone when I get a whole post full of facts incorrect because someone led me like a tethered goat down the primrose path.  They are going to say whatever they are going to say, and frankly, I don’t give a good God damn.  At least not enough to spend the NEXT eleven months griping about defamation, slander, libel, perjury, intentional infliction and false negative reviews, like I have the PAST eleven.

That’s just not going to happen.

I need to step away from the plate, hang up the cleats and watch the game as a spectator, not as a player.  The continuous and repeated impact of the high hard one just doesn’t feel the same these days as it did back when I was in the Navy.

I have too little respect for journalism to actually practice it.  I will continue to run my little internet radio stations and write for entertainment purposes.  (My entertainment, not yours.  What I think is entertaining turns the stomach of the overwhelming majority of normal people.)  But I can no longer expect, or ask, anyone to take what I write as fact.  What I really mean by that is – I know no one ever believed anything I wrote in the past; but now the time has come to admit that even I can’t delude myself any longer.

And Team Hoggy, and especially you, Krendler:  Fuck each and every one of you.

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A FINAL, FINAL VOMITOUS RANT THOUGHT, AT LEAST UNTIL THE NEXT TIME I LEAVE FOREVER

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.

Anyway…

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.

WHY WON’T THEY KILL ME LIKE THEY PROMISE??? WHY MUST THEY PROLONG MY MISERY???

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.)

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The Following Letters Were Just Sent – To Everyone, Everywhere

F
U
2

To: everyone@everywhere.com; everyone@everywhere.net; everyone@everywhere.org; everyone@everywhere.biz; everyone@everywhere.tv; everyone@everywhere.uk

To whoever is reading this (Everyone, Everywhere):

I am a nearly 60-year old man, a retired federal government employee, living with Stage IV Parkinson’s disease. I am also a whiny bitch. I am reaping the rewards of many years of online harassment of men whose diarrhea I am not fit to strain into a blender of mayonnaise to make a delicious smoothie. I am being continually force-fed my just desserts by a person I believe to be Blurrity B. Blurry, Blurpy N. Blurblurby Blurt, Bluriblur, BL BLURR-BLUR. His phone number is BLU-BLU-BLUR, his IP Address is BL.URB.LUB.LUR.

He runs an anonymous blog called Blurring Blur’s Blurrie (http://blurringblursblurrie.blurredpress.com) that is completely devoted to highlighting my reputation. At the moment, Mr. Blurry is conspiring with his readers to post false negative reviews on my various products on Amazon.com.

I know this because he sent someone a Direct Message on Twitter that could only have been about me. Because all Direct Messages are about me.

EVERYTHING is about me. Why else would I tweet all day about my wife instead of Parkinson’s Disease advocacy, which is what I keep insisting I want to do?

I don’t know. Whatever.

I know of one person who can positively identify “Blurdler” as Blurry. His name is Blurriam Blur Joblur Blur III, 29 Blurdge Blurd, Winchesblur, Blurryland. His phone number is (BLU) RBL-URBY. Mr. Blur can positive identify “Blurdler” since he allegedly purchased the “world book and e-book rights” to the following piece of filth Blurdler posted on his blog. He mailed a check to “Blurdler’s” address, then sued me (unsuccessfully) for copyright infringement in the U.S. District Court for the District of Blurryland for using this garbage in a book to show the distance folks are willing to go in their efforts to show my true nature.

http://blurringblursblurrie.blurredpress.com/2014/04/23/we-can-write-whatever-we-want-right/

This was his first blog entry. It has nothing whatsoever do to with anything I have ever written, and no matter what he says it’s not a parody and it’s not fiction. I swear to God it’s like he was hiding in my house!

Through my own process of investigation, I have discovered that “Blurdler” is the aforementioned Blurry. I won’t bore you with how I found out, because I’m probably wrong again like always. You can ascertain the truth of this by asking Mr. Blur (under oath) and inquiring of Mr.. Blurry.

I have written to BlurredPress/Bluromattic in the past about this blog violating the BlurredPress/Bluromattic terms of service for copyright violation, invasion of privacy, interference with publicity rights, and the failure to label obscene material as mature, which I have never done, as far as anyone knows, because I have so much pride in my writing that 98.7% of it winds up going down the memory hole (Of course that number jumps to 99.628% when you include all the Tweets I’ve never, ever deleted. Up until now, I have been ignored by BlurredPress/Bluromattic. It might be because I’m a whiny cum-gargling fuckwit monkey vulva’d bitch who can’t take what I dish out.

I don’t know. Whatever.

The problem with this is, these blog entries show up on Google because they get page views. They’re funny. Funnier than hell, actually. They are shedding the light of truth on my reputation as a merchant of smears and lies. Other right wing bloggers have joined in the merriment and, as a result, I have been painted in the dark, ugly hues that match the tinct of my tainted soul, and I can’t help but feel this is interfering with the sales of my smear books.

Two other individuals, Blurric B. Blurson, BLUR Blurrock Rd, Blurris, UR, and Bhlurs Blurther, BLUR Blurlington Ave, Blur, Blurine, LU, have been actively involved with Mr. Blur and Mr. Blurry in defaming me. Mr. Blurson, under the pen name of BLUR, has been bragging on “Blurdler’s” Blog about writing negative reviews of my smear books that he has never purchased and only reads the online samples. And he promises to continue doing so, despite my warning that he cease and desist treating me as I treat others, the meanie! Bhlurs Blurther has been involved with me since I was epically pwn3d by his “Knot in My Blursblursin” Facebook crew in 2011 in their involvement with an effort to scam the media (and me, they’re mutually exclusive) into thinking they were trying to interfere with the gathering of petitions to recall their governor. He uses the name “Blurard B. Lurl” or Embrlurrybluriddleablurum, but he has been positively identified as Blurther by his former “Knot” cronies (who shined me on before and would never do it again! Because by God, if I could drive or lift my arms, I’d beat them to death and they know it) and by my own investigation which has misidentified him “about a hundred and forty-seven times, and it keeps gettin’ funnier every time I fail at it!!”

What I want is to be able to harass these people without consequence. I want these people to have nothing to do with me. I want them to stop telling people the truth about my books and to stop doing such a good job spreading my trashy reputation all over the Internet. I want someone to conspire with me to harass them, and to conspire to write fake positive reviews for my smear books so they will sell a few more copies and I can buy a special jar of wasabi mayonnaise to paint my taint.

What I want is, after two long years of this, is for law enforcement to take me seriously for the online threat that I am – a deranged, unbalanced, undiagnosed, unmedicated, unsupervised, undisciplined, serially adjudicated cyber-harassing online thug who cannot stop, will not stop digging into the private lives of people who would rather I just go away. Please, please, PLEASE SEND SOMEONE TO FIT ME FOR AN EXTRA-LONG-SLEEVED JACKET, a big poke of Thorazine and a ride to a nice assisted living facility where I’ll be protected from myself –
a disabled Vietnam Era veteran, a Stage IV Parkinson’s disease survivor who has pledged the proceeds of his piddling sales to the benefit of Parkinson’s disease research agencies who, once they take a close look, run like the Mississippi in flood season.

I have been tormenting these people, and others, for more than two years. Mr. Blur has had to seek two separate peace orders against me. The first he won from a judge who disagreed with me regarding what behavior constitutes harassment. The second was uncontested because I failed to check the calendar and didn’t bother to appear. But it was ALL HIS FAULT BECAUSE NOTHING IS EVER MY FAULT! I always have a lie, an excuse, a prevarication, a rationalization for my behavior and an externalized cause for why it has never turned out my way.

I have asked Blurnry County, UR, as well as Blurard County, Blurryland, Blurine County, LU, and now Blurk County, BL to investigate the activities of these people and all I get is shrugged shoulders and advice to “get off the internet and they’ll stop bothering you.” Which, oddly, is the same advice the people I torment give me. Isn’t that weird. I don’t know. Whatever. The Internet is my last connection with the outside world, and I will not allow criminals to deny me that connection. Dear God, how did old people survive before the Great Gift of the Benevolent AlGore, Peace Be Upon Him?

I put it to our elected representatives and law enforcement to look into this. Here in Maryland, we have dandy laws to protect minors from people like me. But an adult living on a meager pension who can’t take triple the butthurt he tries to dish out is out of luck. I can’t afford a lawyer, hooch is weird because I was making nearly $100k when they “forced” me to retire, and I can’t find anyone willing to sue these people on a “contingency.” Maybe it’s because I’m a “cretin” who can’t “understand” that not even the lowest, scum-sucking, bottom-dwelling “ambulance chaser” will take a case on “contingency” if that case has no “chance” of “prevailing” on the “merits.”

But, “hey,” “don’t” “these” “air quotes” “make” “me” “look” “cool,” “hip” “and” “smart?”

I need law enforcement to do its job and stop me before I dox again. I need these Internet service providers to live up to their terms of service and ban me for life. I need protection from these people who are out to destroy any chance I have at living my life without being able to harass you, should the mood strike me. They have already so poisoned Google that anyone searching my name will see all manner of hilarity. And mayonnaise.

I need an advocate to look out for my interests, because if nothing else in this letter is true, I am not capable of recognizing my interests. It’s me vs. all of them. I started this war, and now the Allies have taken Berlin and I’m alone in the bunker. I need your help. Hit. The. Freaking. Tip. Jar.

Thank you.

Parkinson Williams
Blurridge, Blurryland

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