Guest Post from Rick Buchanan

(Editor’s Note: I received the following from Rick on Tuesday evening, with a note asking if I might consider posting it on his behalf. Originally planned as a comment, we agreed that it deserves its own space. I have made a couple of minor proofreading edits, but it is Rick’s material in all substance and particulars. -PK)

An Open Letter to Bill Schmalfeldt on the True History of Doxxing


Your recent ham-handed attempt at net sleuthing has bothered me enough that I just have to tell you a few things.

Do you know anything about the history of ‘doxxing?’ It started out on Usenet in the mid ’90s. There had been earlier occasions where someone or other had their identity revealed. There was one particular flame war in alt.culture.computers where folks on both sides were outed, but this bore little resemblance to what we now know as doxxing.

Then one day I saw an article working over an anonymous net vandal. It was from SPUTUM (“Subgenius Police, Usenet Tactical Unit, Mobile” – an activist bunch of SubGs with whom I had worked). They started from one morsel of info about this troll and produced a tour de force – listing his name, school attended with GPA, hobbies, car make, model and plate #, family and relationship data, employer and home phone numbers and addresses – with Mapquest directions! And they did it before Google.

This was the progenitor of the modern dox. I was impressed and – after I cleaned the coffee of my CRT – I set about to emulate them. I’ve always been careful to note that I didn’t invent the art form, but over the 35 or so takedowns I proceeded to write, it’s a simple fact that I’m the one who popularized it and brought it to a wider audience. For a while I was getting nearly a hundred fan emails a day about them.

Simply put – I feel responsible for what it’s become. I feel like YOU are my fault!

My targets were spammers, who were raping the shared resource of Usenet for personal profit, scammers with their chain letters and Nigerian uncles, and assorted miscreants like scientologists trying to use DOS attacks to stifle conversations. These were people attacking the community, and laughing behind the anonymity that they thought was impenetrable. Well, they thought wrong.

In other words, I considered myself one of the GOOD GUYS!

Anonymity itself was never a problem. I fully support the right to protect your identity. In fact, while I know who a few SPUTUM ‘units’ (agents) are, the real life identities of most (including Unit 0) are a complete mystery to me, which is as it should be.

I took pride in my work, and achieved a perfect accuracy record – over 35 doxxes without an error. In cases where there was any doubt whatsoever, I didn’t post. In fact I had decided that if I ever DID make a mistake, I would retire in shame.

So what has become of that ‘art form,’ which I was partly responsible for bringing to public awareness?

You. That’s how far it has fallen.

Let’s set aside your competence for a moment, and discuss your choice of targets. Two in particular really piss me off.

First, there is Patrick Grady. I saw the comment he left on your blog that set you off. It was a mildly negative, gentle suggestion that you might be feeling too sorry for yourself. I’d give it a 0.02 on the 1 – 10 flame scale. Real weak tea.

You went APESHIT. You doxxed him, his wife, his disabled kid and you actually tried to get the guy fired! In the history of overreaction, this one makes the Hall of Fame!

But Monday you outdid even that. You attempted to interrogate (with your insufferable attitude of entitlement) a guy whose only ‘crime’ was reading your tripe without using a proxy! You threatened a man’s family and their jobs because you didn’t like who this guy read and followed.

I would say you should be ashamed of both these cases. But I know you lack the capacity to feel that emotion.

No letter about your ‘doxxing’ activities would be complete without at least mentioning your skill level. In this review, recall that I’m speaking as an expert on the subject.

You suck. You suck so bad that people who just suck at an average level complained about being categorized with you and requested we find a new term just for you. You have no talent for the work and lack the technical skills required to be even mediocre. You are a drone doing Google lookups and drawing unfounded conclusions from ordinary inevitable coincidences. Your misunderstanding of simple logic is exceeded only by your laughable lack of facility with flowcharts.

But instead of recognizing your staggering incompetence and going away, you persist in your empty threats, misguided bluffs and childish insults.

Stop. Just stop. Breathing would be a top-end get, but failing that, stalking is what I’m specifically asking you to stop.

Stop making me ashamed of something I used to be proud of.

— Rick

Note: it is unfortunate that when Google acquired the Usenet archive from Deja News, much was lost. This includes practically all the spammer takedowns (doxxings) I did. But in case anyone wishes to verify the claims I made, one of the later ones – a ‘Make Money Fast’ chain letter spammer workover (from ’99) survives. It can be found at this link.

It’s not really typical, since I was getting bored with it by then.

Another example of actual net detective work uncovering anonymous spammers is archived
here and has become something of a tutorial on tracking spammers.


"Oh, I'll Take 'PLAGIARISTS' For All the Money in the World, Alex!"



Thank God I have no friends online. Friends who know how to return a favor. Friends who trust me to help them PUNK a brother, and who will help do it again a couple months later.

Strike two. Loser. Only 6.85 Billion less 2 to go.

Your number…I HAZ IT!



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


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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t know. Whatever.

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

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


Where was I?

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

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

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

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

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

Evening came, and then the morning…Sunday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Evening came, and then the morning…

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

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

This is libel.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So shut up, hater.

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

How was your weekend?


I Owe Everyone In The World Robin Causey an Apology

I was wrong.

Let me repeat that – I. WAS. WRONG.

It’s been a recurring theme throughout my life. Usually, I’m right 100% of the time, but wrong the other 9 times out of 10.

Like now, when I’m WRONG.

Here all this time, I believed Lost Causey was the creature known as “Embryriddlealum.”

I was mistaken. Another word for that would be WRONG.

Every time I tried to broach the subject, he just took a smart ass tone like he was playing with me.

Because I was wrong.

This time for sure, I know who “Embryriddlealum” is, and he gave HIMSELF away!

The first six hundred twelve times, I fucked up. Because I was wrong.

I made a mistake. Actually I made mistakes. Lots of mistakes. Oh, so many mistakes.

But first… I am not allowed to contact Lost.

Because, you know, if you haven’t noticed, I was So. Fucking. Wrong. And because I WAS WRONG, I cannot contact him.

But if I could, I would apologize.

Thank God I was wrong, because now I can’t contact him. I’m NEVER EVER WRONG (except when I’m breathing), but if there’s one thing worse than being wrong, it’s having to apologize.

But now I don’t have to, ha-ha-ha, because I was WRONG.

This does not excuse his swearing out an Injunction Against Harassment against me, a poor, indigent, disabled retiree who can’t walk or barely speak, a sweet old teddy bear who wouldn’t harm a flea, but would, in a fucking second, carve Embryriddlealum’s heart right out of his chest and show it to him before taking a big bloody chomp out of it as he curls up and dies like the cur he is. And his little dog Toto, too!

But I would never do that. Because that would be wrong.

Like me. I’m wrong.

Wrong about labeling Lost Causey as the vile and disgusting “Embryriddlealum.” (It’s probably his wife, Itza.)

But I’m not wrong now. Or maybe I am. I don’t know. Whatever.

But this I can tell you, with the exact same 100 percent certainty that I knew it was Lost Causey, that “Embryriddlealum” is none other than the same person who tweets as “Guntotingteabag” and “LiberalGrouch” and “ParkyBillTweets” “2014Radio” and “RadioFreeOfBrainCells” and “RadioWiseGuy” and “RadioLobotomy” and “INeedALobotomy” and “IWhizzedOnTheElectricFence” and “BrainSandwichLobotomy” and “ShakyBrainRadio” and “FamousLobotomyParky” and “ParkyCyberStalker” and “DerangedAnalBigot” and “KimberlinsBitchToy” and “BallGaggedByBrett” and “OwnedLikeToby” and “TeabaggedByBobber” and “IndigentDisabledVictim” and “FootlongWithMayo” and “KnottyBitch” and God Knows How Many Other Sock Puppets. He is – oh, please oh please oh please oh please ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease God let me be right this time – Christopher Heather of Racine, Wisconsin.

I was wrong before. And the time before that. And the time before that. Aaaaand the time before that, and that and that.


But I’m not wrong this time. Because except for every time I’ve been wrong, which is only about 99 times out of 100, I’m right 100% of the time.


Chris Heather, who has been ERA at least four other times previously, with soon to be dead girlfriend Kendra, who never calls or writes her dad who isn’t really even her dad, although we really have no idea why.

Follow me. You’ll enjoy this. Because you know I’m going to end up being wrong and deleting this post and the hundred or so tweets about it.

I started to suspect I was wrong – get that? I was WRONG! AGAIN!! – about Causey being ERA about 6 years before Al Gore even invented the internet. Even though I am a liberal scumbag and was completely gobsmacked and sent slinking back to my slime pit during the Operation Burn Notice nonsense, I contacted one of the senior folks of the former Knot My Wisconsin group, with Alzheimer’s, and with whom I’ve developed a friendly relationship because he has no idea who I am. Like that nice old lady in Oregon had no idea who I am either. I was right about her being PEMason54 too, remember. I had to 404 those posts for some reason. I don’t remember why. Whatever. He said he was aware of “Aaron Burr” who killed an “Alexander Hamilton” a long time ago and now tweets as “SuperAaronBurr” and is, in fact, 210 years later, Lost Causey of Khaki Valley, AZ. My new friend could not say for sure (I think one or both of us fell asleep), but he was fairly certain that Heather Locklear was ERA.

That was just what I wanted to hear. Because it means I was WRONG.

So, because I think and write like an 8 year old girl with Down’s Syndrome, I laid a little trapsy wapsy for ERA today. I did a simple search on the Wisconsin Judiciary Case Search and found a domestic violence case involving Chris Heather and a girl named Stacy Thomas. I’ve been taunting ERA with that all afternoon because I NEVER START AAAAANYTHING! He gave himself away when I said I had called her and she said the fight was because she made fun of my junk.

No wait, that’s wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

Sometimes I’m wrong. Not often, though. Only 999 times out of 1000.

I didn’t say she made fun of my junk. I said she made fun of MY junk.

ERA, as idiots like me will do, gave himself away.


Hah. So, he knows Stacy Thomas had shuffled off the mortal coil. Keep in mind, I did not mention Heather Locklear at all in my very characteristic I-NEVER-START-AAAAAAAAAANYTHING! taunting of ERA today. In fact, because I’m so smart (think “Fredo Corleone” smart) I covered his name on the Wisconsin report. Regard my epic SOOOPER GEEEENYUSSSSNEZZZS!


Like a big old catfish (say, I heard this joke the other day: what’s the difference between Bill Schmalfeldt and a catfish? One is a scum-sucking, bottom-dwelling garbage eater, and the other is a fish! I don’t get it. Whatever.) Heather, or ERA – embryriddlealum is hard to type more than 5 times in a thousand word post, you know – if you will, took the bait. The rest was just legwork, no pun intended (because I’m a cripple, you know, a poor, indigent, disabled failure of a dying crippled cripple-y crip-crip-cripple, get it?). No problem for a genius super ethical puhrtend internet investigative journamalist.

1. ERA knows a Stacy Thomas and knows she is dead.

2. Stacy Thomas was the respondent in a domestic abuse case, which must mean she beat the wimpy bastard Chris Heather up – there can’t be any other possible explanation. Just like there couldn’t possibly be any other explanation but that the person I continue to seek to frame for threatening the dogs who love to lick mayonnaise off my privates was a senior citizen in Oregon. Remember how I was EXACTLY RIGHT about that for like, 45 minutes before I 404’d it when I turned out to be WRONG AGAIN AS USUAL!

Anyway, here’s the original file.


Now this all happened in 1995. 20 years ago. Why should we care? WE shouldn’t. But I do. Because I am a psychotic fucking nutcase with a blog and Twitter audience of about 6 and I believe that I can shame and intimidate people off the internet by telling secrets in the public record that even my targets don’t give a shit about – because even when I’m right about the embarrassing facts, I’m wrong about the target 9,999 times of 10,000.

And that’s just fucking WRONG. Which is your basic, all-encompassing perfect description of…ME!!

So, we know that Heather Locklear lives in Racine.


So, where did Stacy Thomas live in 1995?



Is it possible that there could have been another Stacy Thomas living in the area at the time? Is it worthwhile to try and find out? Of course not! Because if I found one, then someone could say I was WRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONG.

And I’m always right. Except for every other time I’ve doxed ERA. But not this time. This time I’m sure it’s Itza Lost Causey!

And you will notice she died in 2010. In Virginia. Much closer to my neck of the woods, you see. And I was a bit more mobile then than am now. I’m not suggesting that I had anything to do with Stacy’s death, you understand.

Because that would be wrong.

And I’m only wrong 99,999 times out of 100,000. The rest of the time I’m perfect, the World’s Greatest and Most Awesomest Investigative Journalist. Ever. Ezra Klein should hire me.

According to the Social Security Death Index….


Hey look! A social security number! Anybody need to apply for a mortgage? I’ll bet her credit is excellent with no missed payments for 4 years.


A. Heather Locklear got beat up by Stacy Thomas (mmm…girl fight)

B. I disguised Heather’s name on the court report and accused ERA of getting beaten up by a girl. But I wasn’t starting anything!

C. ERA denied it all. And no matter how much she denies, even on a stack of Bibles in a court of law, she must by a lying dog because I AM NEVER WRONG except for 999,999 times out of 1,000,000.

D. I told him I talked to her and she made fun of the fact that my feet are hairier than Bilbo Baggins’s and I pee out the top of my head.

E. ERA says, “Oh, you can talk to corpses?” Meaning he knows she’s dead. And he probably knows I killed her, too.

F. A simple search – which is about all I’m capable of anymore, unless it involves REALLY POOR quality photoshops of Ali Akbar- finds Stacy L. Thomas, who once lived 5 miles away from Chris Heather, died in Virginia in 2010. She’s the right age, or… was, I should say. And therefore, in the same manner that I was right about Palatine Pundit being KimberlinUnmasked and having a weapons training permit despite being dead (404’d, of course), I must be right about the Stacy Thomas who died in Virginia being the same one who must have carved Heather Locklear’s face off in college.

G. I never once mentioned the name “Heather” in my taunt.

But there was this little girl named Heather when I was in grade school…I remember I used to chase her around the playground, but I could never catch her because I was already big and slow at age 8, physically as well as intellectually. Once I caught her when she wasn’t looking and tried to give her a kiss. She slapped me and kicked me in the junk.

Stupid girls, I hate them!

I got her, though. She fell in the river and drowned just a couple days before we moved away. I remember it well, especially anytime I’m close to a rushing river and smell the water. I can almost feel her stringy hair in between my fingers as I –

Uh, never mind. Where was I?


[A*(B+C)/D-(E^F) + 3.1415927*G] over the square root of the hypotenuse = ERA is HEATHER LOCKLEAR RAINES, who “accidentally drowned” in 1963!

This time. See, I wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t. No, I wasn’t. SHUT UP, MOTHER! YOU’RE DEAD! WHY WON’T YOU JUST STAY DEAD???

So, give it up, ERA. You, slimeball, are BUSTED!!!

At least until I need to bend reality again. Which I can do. Because I’m Dook Man. My bigs have super powers. Speaking of which…

Oh, but before I post this, there’s just one more thing to say:


IF YOU TAKE ONE THING AWAY FROM THIS POST, THIS WOULD BE IT: except for the rest of the time when I am always 100% completely mistake free, I only foul up really bad 9,999,999 times out of 10,000,000.

And that’s a lot better than I used to be.


PLEASE, I'M BEGGING – For the Love of God, Stop Me Before I FailDox Again!

Victorious, the soldier returns from the battlefield. I am no longer engaged in Internet warfare. I have scrubbed this blog of all reference to the vanquished foe who lies vanquished in Westminster having been vanquished by me, the Great Vanquisher. But my victorious victory has not come without a price. In every battle I have ventured forth across the cyber-minefield of blogs and Tweets carefully planted specifically and for no other purpose but to intentionally aggravate my Parkinson’s disease. Continue reading “PLEASE, I'M BEGGING – For the Love of God, Stop Me Before I FailDox Again!”


Oblivious People Tend to Be Oblivious

The person that I thought might be the slime ball I want to frame for threatening to gut my dogs is not the person I want to frame for threatening to gut my dogs.

I know, I know. You’re shocked. I’ll give you all a moment to regain consciousness, splash some water on your face, maybe get the smelling salts.

As it turns out, she is a very nice, very sweet lady who has no idea why a poor, indigent, disabled, creepy old man from the other side of the country would call her up and threaten to publish all her personal information on the internet for no good reason other than pettiness and spite.

She returned my phone call about an hour ago and we had a very pleasant conversation. She was far more polite to me than I had been to her. Because, let’s face it – I couldn’t be more of a dick if my feet were testicles. Regardless, after she spent 50 minutes trying to convince me that I was wro**, that I was incor****, that I had made a mist***, that she wasn’t the motherf*cking bastard LICKSPITTLE!! who threatened my mayonnaise-loving puppies that I’m going to track down and expose if it’s the last goddamn thing I do.

What was I talking about?

Oh, yeah…so, anyway…

I apologized for calling her out of the blue and scaring her like that, but I needed to be sure – or let an arbitrary deadline pass – before I went public with the info I had, which everyone knows is always right (even today, no matter what this poor bitch says, it’s probably her husband, just you wait). See, unlike Chris Heather (or Jeremy Kinsey) and Robin Wesley Causey (or Howard Earl) and Patrick Grady (or KimberlinUnmasked or OwainPenilyn? Frankie? Johnny Tyler?) and Nancy Gilly (or Tom Puzio), I did not have independent verification that the person I thought to be the slimebag was the slimebag.

I wanted to post something online, in case the slimebag was keeping an eye on me, the way I stalk all the blogs and Twitter feeds of Hoge and all his little HOGEIST LICKSPITTLE MINIONS!!1!1ELEVENTY!1!!

But I didn’t reveal all her info. Now, I don’t have to. I have to keep digging because I was wro**, because I was incor****, because I made a mist***, because she MIGHT not be the motherf*cking bastard LICKSPITTLE!! who threatened my mayonnaise-loving puppies.

This is what happens when a person who has never heard of me and has no idea what a leaking sphincter I really am or what evil I’m capable of, ignorantly treats me with infinitely more deference and respect than I deserve simply because I say I’m a “journalist,” which is a little like saying Barack Obama is a “good President.” They don’t hang up, because they’re completely oblivious. They don’t pretend to be something they’re not, because the “world’s greatest investigative journalist” – yes, me, you MORON! – concluded that Google Hit #1 Must Be The Perpetrator. You ask questions, you get straight answers from gullible senior citizens who have no clue who you are.

How much simpler would my life be if Ali Akbar had done that. Or Lee Stranahan or any of the scum sucking bottom feeders who refused to be coerced and bullied into answering sick, twisted questions from a sick, twisted Puhrtend EHRMAGERD! Germy Lust.

She wanted to know how I got her cellphone number. I told her that one does not question the magical talents of the purtend jurnurlirst. No, seriously!

I’d love to be able to say I had to dig seriously to find the number, that it really was a serious journalistic achievement, but I came by her number the same way I always do: it was a total accident. The stupid broad left it on her answering machine message. I told her the best advice I could give her is to get offline and don’t ever come back, because I’m very likely to forget the whole conversation ever happened and dox her anyway. I’m sure she’s a very nice lady, but, well…I’m a leaking sphincter with a hole at the top of my head and testicles where my feet should be. What do you expect?

This is what I have been saying all along. Ignorant people answer stupid questions when they are asked. If the answer is, “none of your business,” that’s fine. But don’t duck, dodge, hide, try to twist or slime the person who asked you ignorant questions that are “none of their business.” All you do is get my curiosity aroused.

And if there’s one thing NOBODY needs to see, it’s me when I’m aroused. I don’t think they sell eye bleach in 55 gallon drums.

And you really don’t want to see how that turns out. Every time I’m humiliated, I just hide for five days in shame and bitter embarrassment, then re-double my efforts. Do I give up? Do I give up pursuing the people I am pursuing?

Golly, no. There’s only one thing that will stop me and that will be the day the men in white come to the tornado-magnet, put me in the extra-long sleeve jacket and take me for a ride to Spring Grove.

Until then, scumbags beware, because The Great Walking – well, Rolling, actually – Skinflute of Elkridge is coming burst your bubble. So do a better job of covering your tracks.

OK, PXXXXXX Mason of Portland?

Is that Maine, Oregon, Texas, Tennessee, North Dakota, Indiana, Connecticut, Michigan, Arkansas, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Missouri or Kentucky?