For teh EPIC Monkeydancing Dick Stomp You Perpetrated Today

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Weaponized Self Awareness FAIL

2-13-2015 10-29-58 AM

Gee, I don’t know, “HOOOOOOOGE!!!!!”

…with the altered picture of the person you are so obsessed with that you spend every waking moment hating him…

…why don’t YOU enlighten us?

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An Email To…the FEDS!!

The Lord of the Monkeydance sent me the email which appears after the jump. Other recipients include:

– Wayne Kirwan
– Dario Broccolino
– Raymond Trodden
– Jim Marshall
– Judge Hollander
– Howard County Police Liaison
– Someone in Carroll County
– Kenneth Grote

Enjoy! Continue reading “An Email To…the FEDS!!”

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Mocky Mock and the Funky Bunch

This may or may not be a Bonus Earworm; mostly it’s an excuse to say “Mocky Mock and the Funky Bunch.”

Because fresh, delicious mockery is called for, and I’m not feeling it right now, let this be your point and laugh open thread.

But before I post, I will offer a couple alternate theories to contrast the dastardly crime spree that the World’s Worst Internet Investigator (Johnny Fatsign?) posits.

Alternate Theory #1

Johnny Fatsign has it wrong because he is making connections where none exist.

Alternate Theory #2

Johnny Fatsign has it wrong because he is being played. He has been getting played for three years. He has been getting played so hard and so thoroughly that he gets confused when he ISN’T being played.

Alternate Theory #3

Johnny Fatsign has it wrong because #JohnnyFatsignIsBATSHITCRAZY.

Comments are open!

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Another Fun Comment From Cabin Boy And/Or Friend

First, a note on the post title. I have concluded, through my mad internet investigative journalism skillz that the comment below was submitted by the Oedipal Ass Troll through a proxy in Tilton, New Hampshire (where??), or it was submitted by his friend.

This is the iffy part…I have not been able to confirm the existence of a “friend.” I’m sure that he can’t have more than one friend. I mean, I could self-publish a shopping list on Amazon and get 5 positive reviews from my friends. And it wouldn’t have to be a particularly artful shopping list, either.

So it was either Mister Mayonnaise or his only friend, using the name Knot Neal, who posted the following:

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But I really think it’s Your Jovial Host of Roly-Poly Radio who is the culprit. There are two main reasons I have reached this obvious conclusion.

  1. The content. We all know what he loves more than anything. Always with the BUTT STUFF, right? Can’t escape it.
  2. The writing style. It’s so very familiar. (Actually, that’s horseshit, but he likes to trot that out frequently enough that it needs to mocked.) It’s not easy to write in his style on purpose. I expect that to thoroughly imitate him successfully would require the ingestion of some really powerful recreational pharmaceuticals. And maybe some paint chips.

So I’m thinking this was our Serially Adjudicated Cyber Harassing Super Victimtroll.

And unless he denies it within some arbitrary period after this post appears, then we’ll all know it’s true.

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You Want It Done? You Want It Over? Simple.

Here’s a road map:

1. You surrender and slink off the field like the cowardly weasel you are;
2. I stand victorious, absorbing the accolades of the cheering throngs;
3. After a fortnight of celebration in my camps, coinciding with a fortnight of complete silence from your camp, I withdraw to the border status quo ante, to take up watch;
4. If you remain silent, you remain free, but at the first hint of a desire to renew hostilities, I rejoin the battle and once again bring all my energy and resources to bear.

Or…

We can keep going just like we are now.

I dropped my sword and walked away once, at the request of John Hoge. Remember what happened next? I do.

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So you’ll pardon me if I respond your assurance that you will drop your sword with a) a 50 lb bag of rock salt, b) a hale and hearty GFY, and c) a requirement of 100% compliance with my terms as a condition of your surrender.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

And, taking a page from your book, this is not a negotiation.

If you try to negotiate, the beat goes on.

If you question, the beat goes on.

If you bother anyone else, even somebody I don’t know or care about, the beat goes on.

If you cannot figure out how to control yourself, the beat goes on.

If you want it to stop, then stop it.

All you have to do is quit, and weather the shame of it for 2 weeks, probably less. Easy enough if you just power down and read a nice Danielle Steel or Jackie Collins rag. If you’re half as intelligent as you think you are, you know you are going to have to take that hit – it will come regardless, and I don’t have any power over what people say on Twitter. Yes, I do have power over the comments here, but I made a conscious decision to allow exactly the kind of comments you decry, including from you. I will not change that policy to suit you or anyone else. You dug your own hole here, and you hastened your own exit after being given every chance. You didn’t care enough to answer one question. Your choice. Your action. Your consequence. Your responsibility.

You want a “truce?”

Now you know how to get it.

I hope I have not been unclear.

UPDATE –
https://twitter.com/parkinsonsmedia/status/513031724608266242

https://twitter.com/parkinsonsmedia/status/513031869072703488

Wait…what?

Are you saying you NEVER WERE SERIOUS ABOUT A TRUCE?

Well…color me shocked.

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AND LEAVE ME ALONE!!

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He doesn’t really want that, you know. Of course we all know that.

He had it. He had the “LEAVE ME ALONE!!” It was the most important “get” that he took away from the settlement. All he had to do to stay left alone was to do the same.

But he couldn’t. The poor, bitter, hateful, lonely old mandouchebag. He had to go hunting again. He had to come hunting for me.

So, for the THIRD GODDAMN TIME (because YES, HE IS THAT DENSE), I trotted out something Grady had given me. And finally, finally! the tiny four-watt bulb that hangs outside on the terrazzo of the ever-so-spacious mansion where I live rent-free popped on, the “trapsie-wapsie” snapped shut, and we have liftoff on what looks to be a three day monkey-dancing Feldtdown of epic, nay GARGANTUAN proportions.

He wants to be left alone, but only on his terms. He wants to be left alone from the consequences of his actions. He wants to be left alone to tell his lies without anyone standing up to call him out. He wants to be left alone to hunt down Grady and try to scalp his job again.

Because that worked out so well the last time.

He’s not afraid of Grady. Just ask him.

“No, I’m not afraid of that mentally unbalanced, self-professed sociopath. (You notice he can never let that menacing phrase go? Just like he can never remember the evil thing Grady did that required the doxing in the first place?) Never mind that I falsified evidence in order to swear out a peace order at the mere whiff of a suggestion that he might be looking in the general direction of the state where I live. Which I then completely pussied out on at the prospect of him showing up to face me in court. He doesn’t scare me. I’m not even a little bit scared.”

(Grady wrote that bit. Good, right?)

It’s worth remembering. Yesterday, today, tomorrow, forever. He lies. Especially when he says he wants to be left alone.

Or when he says –

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What he’s really saying is: “someone PLEASE tell me who Krendler is! PLEASE, PLEASE, mock me! hate me! loathe me! Give my pathetic existence the gravity of your hatred as a substitute for the lost love and companionship of the family that I’ve driven away and the failures I have endured!”

And what I have learned is that the best (and most FUN!) way to deal with him is to DENY him what he really wants by GIVING HIM what he says he wants.

He doesn’t “fucking CARE” who I am. Hence the frivolities of the weekend thus far, to show how much he DOESN’T care.

He says “LEAVE ME ALONE!!” after nearly a week of being left alone, during which he tried to bait me, followed by four days of hammering at Hoge and every Lickspittle in reach.

So I’m with Grace. And Dalton.

I’ll leave him alone.

Until it’s time to NOT leave him alone.

Which surely won’t be long.

Tomorrow – the Major Bleg.

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This Is How It Works Around Here

For the residents of Moderation Purgatory…

You just write about whatever your little heart desires. Everyone already knows it will be about someone who’s living rent free in your cavernous brain pan:

HOOOOOOOOOGE!
Cousin Roy
Ali
Stacy
Aaron
Me

Because you’re a CREATOR. You CREATE! You create the same thing, over and over again, just like a cat in a litter box, and twice as stinky. Thank God for your CREATIVE tool kit, the Ctrl-C and the Ctrl-V. Where would you be without them?

You remember your tool kit, don’tcha?

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You just go on CREATIN’ WIF YO BAD SELF!

Do the best you can do. I’ll make it better. Because it’s FUN. And it pisses you off. Even more FUN.

Do the worst you can do. (A Gatorade bottle full of urine? This is the most debasing thing you could come up with? SAD). I’ll make it So. Much. Worse. And dump it right back on you. Because it’s FUN. And it pisses you off. Even more FUN. And how you DANCE! WHAT A FUNNY LITTLE MONKEY YOU ARE! Waaaaay more FUN.

I can hit you any time I want. You are easy to find, and you have big red button that says “DANCE” right on the top of your big, round, leaky head.

Tell me – doesn’t all that riverdancing hurt your little testiclefeet? Seems like it would hurt really bad!

How does it feel to be a penis with a vagina? Shouldn’t you be in the Guinness Book of Records for that? Now that would be an accomplishment!!

But I’m getting off point. Sorry.

You don’t know who I am. I’m a fictional zombie. Try to make “Krendler” an epithet as bad as “Schmalfeldt?” Go for it! Krendler’s just a name, a phantom. Doesn’t bother me a bit. And taking it viral with 7 followers?

Good luck with that.

You don’t know who I am. And you won’t know who I am.

Until I decide the time is right.

At the moment I decide that it’s more fun for you to suffer the knowledge of who I am than to suffer not knowing who I am, there will be a knock at your door. And then you’ll know.

It will be FUN.

Because all I have is FUN.

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Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s “copyrighted,” right? All registered and everything? Are you ready for your Fair Use defense to come flying back at you like a boomerang, mate?

You want it gone?

Pull up your big girl panties and SUE ME.

Oh, wait…

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You gotta do a lot better than that, Bill. Palatine Pundit owns you.

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AND IF YOU BELIEVE THAT, I'VE GOT A BRIDGE IN BROOKLYN FOR SALE!

I’ve been keeping my peace about this, but let’s look at the facts.

  1. William M. Schmalfeldt filed a horribly botched Answer and Counterclaim and First (and Second) Amended Counterclaim in his ill-fated, woe-begotten, doomed-from-day-one attempt to identify and maliciously prosecute me for some very vague and legally specious charges of libel and some such bullshit. Read all about it in “Cheesinus Fromundies – Intent to Sniff.”
  2. He spent all of his mayonnaise budget for the summer on postage, and was willing to dig into the penicillin and cranberry juice money to pay for subpoenas and processing fees from WordPress and Twitter to smoke me out and persecute me for authoring a genius parody that gave him Jerry Falwell levels of epic butthurt.
  3. Before he even figured out how to affect service on me, he folded like a pup tent in a hurricane. He got nothing, because he’s a cowardly, no-account, shuffling lump of weenie-meat with no guts for a fight he claimed to be spoiling for. He claims victory, yet refuses to look in my direction, when his prayer for relief of $1.500.000 (no that’s no typo – he really did try to sue for twelve bits) results two fingers raised high and proud back at him. He paid his costs, I sat back, pointing, laughing and mocking for most of a summer at no cost to myself.
  4. Continue reading “AND IF YOU BELIEVE THAT, I'VE GOT A BRIDGE IN BROOKLYN FOR SALE!”

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We Didn't Start the Fire

Oh, dear. A fight. A punch has been thrown. And of course, the Fuhrer of Footlongs, the Marshall of Mayonnaise, didn’t throw it!

He would never do that. He never throws the first punch. He said so. And we know he never lies.

Apparently, calling the Walking Wiener a “cyberthug” constitutes a punch.

On Friday.

On Friday, punch thrown, fight started! Q.E.D.

Friday.

I realize I once told the old man to get a mallet, head for the nearest beach, and pound all that sand up his ass. What I didn’t know is that he missed and filled his vagina instead.

All worked up over being referred to as what he is. Boo hoo hoo.

But he doesn’t understand what’s happening. After a settlement was reached on the 14th, WJJ Hoge did indeed ask his readers, a loyal bunch if nothing else,

I recommend that Bill Schmalfeldt be given the opportunity to make the changes in his Internet presence that he described to me. He will probably be more successful in doing so if folks don’t joggle his elbow. Each person is free to speak, largely limited by their conscience and a few rules, but it may be best to give him some space for a few days to see how he does.

My feeling was very much the same. Up to a point. As a sign of good faith, I changed my Twitter avatar and stopped posting here. A show of good faith is one thing. But I am not a fool. I know the brand of monster we’re dealing with.

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I was ready and willing to leave him alone. In fact, I did.

And then this happened:

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“…or he can sell his blog.”

That quote was his next tweet, and it didn’t include my handle. He’s taken his account private again. A great way to promote his book, yeah?

Did he think I wasn’t paying attention? “Trust…but verify.”

I’m always watching. But, in good faith, in the interest of “not jostling his elbow,” I stayed my hand. I kept my peace.

On Wednesday. In good faith, I remained quiet. “Nary a peep from the boy,” said the Mooky button pusher. “Looks as though Krendler has gone private at least on Twitter,” said the silver-haired cartoon button pusher.

Yes. For four months now, dim cartoon girl.

FOCUS.

Speaking of focus, Wednesday comes before Friday, right?

Ok. Just checking.

See, on Wednesday, TWO DAYS BEFORE he was called a “cyberthug,” the cyberthug was letting his followers know that he was creating a new Ktrl-C/Ktrl-V masterpiece featuring yours truly.

Who gives a bright blue fuck what he’s going to do? Nobody’s going to read his lies but him. If it salves his microscopic black heart to fabulize his pathetic existence for an audience of zero, who am I to stop him from doing so?

Or care?

A “true” (read “bullshit”) story featuring a fictional kharacter kalled Krendler kompletely kicking his keister over a kopyright kase?

I am a character. As I said before, HE DOES NOT KNOW WHO I AM.

Oh, but he desperately wanted to, didn’t he? Oh yes, he did:

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This is something, you understand, that was sufficiently on his mind to send to me, where it remains in Moderation Purgatory (still got an outstanding question waiting for an answer), on INDEPENDENCE DAY.

But now, see, he just wants to tell the tale. He just wants the truth (read “bullshit”) out there. He no longer cares who I am!

I’m nobody.

Or am I?

Because this fight, which started Friday, was prefaced on Wednesday by this comment, which also sits in my moderation queue:

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Does that sound like a CHALLENGE?

I thought IT WAS OVER!! I thought WE SHOOK HANDS AND WALKED AWAY!!

And thank God for that. Because

HE
NEVER
STARTS
ANYTHING,
DOES
HE?

Nawwwww…

So, howzat for a gut punch, you – what’s that phrase you like so much? Oh yes – you cum gargling fuckwit?

Do you understand now, you lonely, twisted old control freak? This is what it means to have friends. You attack one, you attack us all. The enemies you have made (a/k/a the answer to the outstanding question) are EVERYWHERE. When you say “mind your own business & go back to your knitting,” we respond with hearty laugh and an even more hearty “Fuck you.”

And we always will. So get comfortable. And enjoy your websites. I do.

UPDATE – He has spoken. From the greasy, verminous, cockroach-infested garbage bins deep in the fetid, stinking bowels of cyberspace (conveniently located in a trailer park in Elkridge, MD), he left a couple small piles in Moderation Purgatory. Neither is an answer to the outstanding question, and thus both are as irrelevant and as unworthy of publication as the rest of his simian keyboard-smashings.

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