Frodo: the latest troll casualty

Bernice, my dad's cousin-slash-girlfriend, has been real helpful in my quest to become an Internet troll hunter. And so, I'm trying extra hard to forgive her for what happened to my darling Bichon Frise, Frodo, last week. I just have to keep reminding myself that Bernice is not the enemy: the true villains are the blog trolls.

Before
So, what happens is Bernice was over here for hours the other day, showing me some tricks of the trolling trade. Bernice found out that trolls ain't too creative or good at subterfuge. One thing is, they tend to telegraph their punches, so to speak. How? By their sorry-ass usernames or email addresses -- I swear, they may as well have flashing neon BLOG TROLL signs over their misshapen heads.

Bernice says a lot of trolls can't resist naming themselves after anime characters. If someone comments on your blog and has a "chu" in their name, be wary. They may be out to "get-chu"! (I told that one to Bernice, and she had to go home and put on a fresh Depends, poor thing!)

Other trolls use pseudonyms they steal from pop culture. Like, a troll might ID himself with a relatively normal-sounding name like Jonathan Crane. Type that name into Google and -- surprise! Jonathan Crane happens to be the true identity of the DC Comics villain, "Scarecrow". Holy lame username, Batman!

So, back to Bernice. She's telling me all this primo troll info the other day, and the whole time she's got my little Frodikins pinned down on her heavily-dimpled lap. And she's petting him like there's no tomorrow with her stubby little hands. (By the way, the other day I noticed that her hands are so fat that her fingers look like cocktail wieners with press-on nails, and now I can't even look at Lit'l Smokies without upchucking. I used to love them guys drowned in my Mama's famous grape jam BBQ sauce, goddammit.)

Next couple days, Frodo's all whiny, keeps rubbing himself on the carpet all frantic-like. So I take him to the vet, and she says, "Has your dog been playing by a lake?" Which, well, absolutely not because she knows I never let Frodo go outside. (Trained him to do his business on the toilet years ago, ya know. Otherwise his hair gets all nasty, and I pride myself on keeping him in Best in Show shape.) Anyhows, the vet goes, "Well, I can't figure out how else your dog got the duck mites so bad. He's covered in the little buggers." And I'm thinking: Bernice! That lutefisk-scented harlot done infested my baby!

After
Next I know, the dog doc's got the shaver out, and my Frodo's naked as the eyes of a clown. He looks like a mutated drowned rat. The ugliest, creepiest thing I ever seen, and when he tries to snuggle up to me, I throw up a little in my mouth.

I know Frodo's hair will grow back eventually, hiding his hideousness. Until then, I'll be using my loss of Bijon (and lit'l wiener) affection to keep my eye on the prize.
Be afraid, trolls. Be very afraid.

I been in bed all day with a nasty case of indigestion; took Pops to the VFW Father's Day smorgasbord yesterday, ya know. VFW Lodge motto: If we can see your face above your heapin' plate of food, you just ain't trying.

Pops is a cantankerous sumbich. My Father's Day gift every year is, I don't sock him in the kisser when he tells all his vet friends why he's called me "Butter Buns" since 1979. (That unfortunate incident involving me, the prom queen, and a well-greased powder blue rental tuxedo still gives me nightmares. That's all I'm saying.)

So anyhow, after I administered Pops' annual Father's Day Heimlich maneuver, he settled down and starts telling me how his "honey pie", Bernice, wants to help me hunt down blog trolls. He's always trying to get me to cotton to that woman of his. I don't know how he can stand to be around her. She always smells like lutefisk, cracks her gum until her dentures unhinge, and hands you soggy Kleenex straight from her cleavage if you sneeze. And you ask me? Dating your first cousin just ain't right.

But then he hands me this stuffed-to-the gills envelope from Bernice, filled with lilac-and-lutefisk scented papers. She's been doing her homework, I gotta hand it to her. Found me this hilarious "Are you an Internet Troll" quiz on another blog called Center of Gravitas. And she also had scrawled lots of stuff about something she called "cybertools" that you can use in troll hunting. Way over my head, I gotta admit. Pops says that Bernice, in addition to having thighs that can crack walnuts, is some sorta self-taught computer whiz.

Damn. I guess I got me a partner.

I got all excited about being a blog troll hunter, so I ran over to the Dairy Queen to tell Doris, my favorite soft-serve jockey. That woman is the sunrise in my pants, let me tell ya. Wears her maroon hair in a beehive that towers over her blue DQ sun visor, her ample-if-lowhung bosum brushing the counter when she takes my order. And every time she asks me, "Want me to dip your cone, hun?", I blush like a goddam school girl.

So's I'm telling her all about this new career path I'm taking, and she says in her husky, cigarette smoker voice, "How 'zackly do you hunt them trolls, Melvin? Din't you say they was all 'nonymous?"

Huh. Hadn't really thought about that.

I went on-line to find anyone else who's hunting for blog trolls, see if they might be able to give me some start-up tips. Far's I can tell, no one else has attempted what I am aiming to do. I am a trailblazer! If that don't win Doris' heart, I don't know what will.

The rest of this week, I'm gonna do what they call "market research". I've already found me a topnotch article about trolls that was in the New York Times last year. Let me tell ya, the article sent a chill down my spine when one of trolls explained why they do what they do.

“Trolling is basically Internet eugenics,” he said, his voice pitching up like a jet engine on the runway. “I want everyone off the Internet. Bloggers are filth. They need to be destroyed. Blogging gives the illusion of participation to a bunch of r-----s*. . . . We need to put these people in the oven!”

I'm realizing that this new career I'm aiming to start up ain't just another job: It's a sacred mission. It's a calling. And I'm just the Melvin to do it.

_____________________
* This blog is an R-word free zone.

Pass the toilet auger

You're back! (Unless of course you was looking for Mama on the Edge, in which case, here's her new address. She moved so's I'd have a place to hang my bloghat.)

Still here? You won't be sorry. Do I have an update for you!

As they say in my industry, sometimes life gives you about as much help as a low-flow toilet trying to accommodate a high-flow human. It's messy, easily overwhelmed, and you better have you a mighty powerful plumber's auger at the ready.

I always figured my job as a fecal contamination inspector at the water treatment plant was safe. After all, no matter how low the economy goes, people still gotta do their business, ya get my drift? But I didn't take into account all the young, job hungry sludge-turks who'd be sniffing around to steal my position. And it didn't help none that I haven't gone to work for over a week, ever since I got a powerful fear in my head that my co-workers might be covert blog trolls just waiting to strike.

In short, I got canned, and the boss hired some 20-something nitwit kid with a hotshot sanitation engineer degree.

But don't you worry none about me. I have plans. I'm gonna use my fecal contamination-detecting skills for something that will result in more than just a clean glass of water. I'm gonna get my hands dirty, descend into the muck, face the putrescence head-on. Wait for it....

I'm gonna become a professional blog troll hunter. They done messed with the wrong Melvin.


P.S. Mama Edge made me promise to keep all past and future comments hidden here, because that ensures that the mess the Dicks left behind never sees the light of day. If you want to comment, you can always e-mail me at melvinontheedge@gmail.com.

A note from Mama (Mara)

Dear Readers,

Thank you so much for your patience these last few days. I also want to thank my crazy friend, Melvin, who's been guest-posting while I’ve been working on a special project. I hope Melvin didn't worry you with his Roseanne-style, “This blog was all just a weird fantasy” storyline. He tends to get a little carried away. Hey! I'm standing right here, MM. Oh, sorry, Mel.

Just in case you were confused, let me make this clear: I am a real autie-mom to two very real and amazing teens, and my blogging endeavors have only just begun.

As you know, the Dicks infested my comments, leaving behind a nauseating trail of slime and an unbelievably foul stench. I thought about cleaning it all up, but instead, I have hidden their mess away forever. Their fifteen minutes are up. *ZAP*

(Perhaps because he is used to the smell of sewage) Melvin really likes it here, so I am giving this URL to him. He's going to use this site to keep us updated on his life as a fecal-contamination inspector.Yeah, and also I'll be showing off my latest Bichon Frise collectibles, telling you about my unrequited love for Doris (the Dairy Queen cashier), and introducing you to my some of my favorite blog hangouts.

As for me, I'm feeling emancipated, a lot like I did when I first got divorced. I'm excited to make a fresh start, with a new name and a Dick-free home. Here's the address. Come on over for the blog-warming party!

Sincerely yours,

Mama Mara

P.S. from Melvin - Come back soon, ya hear?

Me and my big fat mouth

So I called in sick today, and my plant manager goes, "Too bad, Melv-o. You are missing out! Ronny brought in a shirtload of day-old bagels from his ma's deli." And I can barely bark out, "Gotta go barf", so's I can hang up and start bawling like a Republican in Congress. 'Cuz, I'm thinking, "He said bagels! BAGELS! Rocky! Taz! Gone! Gone! NO!"

I know it's all my fault that I'm in this spot. And I'm not just talking about the fact that I -- a fat, bald, middle-aged fecal contamination inspector -- masqueraded as an autie-mom for so many months that I actually began to believe my own lies. I know that I -- a childless Protestant who owns every Bichon Frise plate ever issued by the Danbury Mint -- deserve the gut-crushing grief I'm feeling now.

But you want to know the real kick in the pants? I'm guessing the trolls never would have found my blog if it weren't for my big, fat Twinkie-eating piehole.

See, about a month ago, I went to a regional wastewater treatment convention, aka Sludgefest '09. I had just written a post about Taz's brain, and I was real jacked up about it. So I get a little toasted that night at the Sludger Mixer, and I can't help myself. I start flapping my liver lips about how "this friend of mine" writes this HIGH-larious blog.

Big mistake. I mean, I was in a roomful of guys who are obsessed with effluvium, for criminy sakes! No doubt that among them, there were (as we sewage engineers put it) a few loose stools in the bowl. I'd bet my left nut that one of those crap-herders was the "ground-zero troll" who started it all.

I wish I could take it all back, but I can't. And I don't know how I can ever go back to the plant again. I keep thinking that one of my coworkers might be a troll in sanitation-engineer's clothing.

Gee-Zuss Aitch Cryist. I. Am. Screwed.

The Gig is Up

Dear Readers,

Well, folks, it's been a great run, but it's time to come clean.

I don't know how the trolls found me, but they did, and I guess I can't keep up the charade any longer. My name is Melvin, and I am, just as they guessed, an overweight, balding man in my late 40s.

I lost my job at the local bait shop last summer when it was torn down to make way for a Wal-Mart (where I refuse to ever go to buy my Twinkies, even though they really do have the best scooter-carts in town). I was so depressed and lonely at the time that I started reading blogs, seeking companionship.

I don't even remember when I found my first blog about autism (I think I was searching for hands in pants visuals), but I have to say that once I got over the initial "Darn it, where's the money shot" reaction, I found it fascinating. I was moved for the first time ever to actually post a blog comment (anonymously, of course). As I got bolder, ,I started going to the library, reading every special-needs book I could get my hands on. I wanted my comments to sound more informed.

And that's when this crazy idea came into my head to create this alter-ego, form an instant on-line family, and well -- now it's all over.

So I admit it. There is no Mama Mara. No Taz. No Rocky. No Turd. It was all lies. (Except for the bichon frise. He's real, and my little Frodo is all I have left, godammit.)

I guess I'll still post here about my new job at the sewage treatment plant. Maybe I can start afresh, show you the real me, my real life, my real sense of humor. After all, everyone can relate to work humor, right? And my job stinks (get it? 'cuz it really stinks in there! HA!).

But I'll be taking a few days off first, and I hope you'll understand my need for privacy by giving me a little space -- Yeah, right. Thanks a lot, trolls, for taking away the one true joy that this fat, middle-aged,bichon-loving sludge tester had. I'm turning off my comments now. I need to be alone.

Goodbye, cruel blogworld.

With deep regret,

Mel