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.
To: email@example.com; firstname.lastname@example.org; email@example.com; firstname.lastname@example.org; email@example.com; firstname.lastname@example.org
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.
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.