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|MELLTD FACE isn't who you think it is, and I have proof. Investigative report inside.|
Recently, the news of user “MELLTD FACE” being granted moderator status rocked the community. Many emotions burst forth from the ordeal, ranging from amusement to apoplexy, bemusement to rectal prolapse. Soon after, speculation began. Why did this happen? Just who was this “MELLTD FACE?” Among the most popular identity theories was this:
male reproductive organFACEPANTS Posted:
Actually, MELLTD FACE can’t be JB, and let me tell you why.
*puts on Detective Hat, and places Corncob Pipe in mouth. a puff is taken; it blows bubbles.*
As news of MELLTD FACE’s moderatordom broke, I, too, suspected JB was behind the awful fiasco. After all, I’d long suspected him of being responsible for such other horrible things as AIDs, Darfur, and hit television show The Jersey Shore. I immediately began to do some in-depth investigative work. Just an hour ago, my labor concluded, I returned home from an entire day devoted to getting to the bottom of this boondoggle. Yes, I returned, and I returned with an answer. Here’s how I did it.
JB, or Jalapeno Bootyhole as we all know him, has long foolishly made his name public. He is Mike “Double-D” Drach (pronounced by choking and gagging on the –ch, as he does on so many other things, hint hint), and it is known that he is a damn dirty Canadian.
Using the above info, I was able to, with surprisingly trivial effort, gather yet more information about him: his hometown, his phone number, his address; his family, his Facebook and MySpace friends (oh yes, he DOES have MySpace, and it is AWFUL); his likes and dislikes, habits and addictions; even his employment history (or lack thereof.) With all this information on hand, I set out to find his current and future whereabouts. It was easy.
What few friends of his I uncovered had easily-accessible contact info. I used this to make a few telephone calls to them, using hacked Skype to spoof my Caller ID. My ploy was simple but brilliant: I simply imitated the most drunken, incoherent, alcohol-dazed speech I could muster – apparently this is a common state of JB’s – and peppered it occasionally with a sweet spice of “… eh?” I could tell that these friends immediately recognized me as Mr. Bootyhole, so I took the ruse to the next level: getting the info. Dear **** was it ever idiot-simple. All I did was drunkenly drool, “Eh man. Yyyyou rememmer whaar I wwwuusss gon’ be t-t-t’tammarroooo? I furrgut.” In no time, I had a list of places, dates and times JB would be. It wasn’t my business, of course, but I made it so.
As it turned out, Bootyhole was due, that very next day, to head to across the border from Liberalistan to the midwestern United States for a “National Beatnik Smackdown.” Research revealed that, yes, it was just as gay an event as it sounded. Beatniks from across North America were gathered in a corn-fed metropolitan city at a series of patchouli-reeking exchanges of fey, camp, and cliché “progressive” dialogue – mostly yelled, in invariably-failed attempts at presenting some semblance of masculinity. Like a moth to a dim bulb, it seemed that our favorite dim bulb on Forumwarz was drawn to gaiety. I decided to use this weakness to my advantage with Sir Booty.
I hopped in a car, and drove many hours to the area surrounding the National Beatnik Fest. Tired and weary, I scoped out the area: a couple of relatively clean, “forward-thinking” lesbian-sister-cities populated by a breed of people so engaged in the lie of appearing to be “nice” that ubiquitous smiles seemed permanently pulled by invisible marionette strings even in the most annoying situations. Citizens held doors open for the elderly, waited patiently in lines, respected personal space, did not talk loudly on cell phones, and apologized profusely when even so much as grazing one another in pbuming. In short, this place was populated by hippies. I could almost smell the liberal sap of Maple Syrup. Jalapeno Bootyhole was near.Bashy edited this message on 08/08/2010 5:47AM
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 5:42AM||View Bashy's Profile | #|
After another faked drunken “Urrmm, eh, wherrrre wurr I goin’ tooooo?” call to a friend of JB’s, I learned his whereabouts. He was on a metropolitan bus to – of course – an even more liberal area, a place so uppity it even dared call itself “Uptown.” Where was he headed? Take a guess. I’ll help you. Think of the gayest event that can take place in a city other than a Beatnik Smackdown. Got it? If you guessed, “an art fair,” you win the prize. I was told Mr. Bootyhole was headed to the starting place for said Uptown Art Fair, a central urban mall called Coon Square. With a name like that, I knew it would either be full or devoid of darkies. I was correct.
After finding ample wide-stall handicap parking for me and my Lil’ Rascal Obesity Scooter, I puttered past crowds of just about every color but black. White people sporting all manner of eye-burning hues of hippie and hipster and hip-hop and what-the-****-ever-word-with-“hip”-in-it colors shuffled past me with airy, purposefully-casual steps that seemed to drum out the word “omphaloskepsis” in Morse code. I neared the mall – which turned out to really be called Calhoun Square (whatever, I knew what it really meant) – and entered the heart of pastel-colored darkness.
I scooted past tables of overpriced “artistic” trinkets and other bull****esque bull**** and found a security desk, where I left my precious Lil’ Rascal with the way-too-helpful staff, in an effort to appear as “normal” and charming as possible during my fast approaching and destined confrontation with Bootyhole. For that purpose I was wearing a too-tight blue mini-striped bumon-up that only partically covered both my pubic hair and ample stomach lard. Working up a lathery sweat in only a few hundred feet, I struggled on foot to a central area of the mall that could not be avoided on the path to the Art Fair and camped, as I do for hours a day in Team Fortress 2. I was waiting for JB.
After a couple minutes of wait and rest, clarity of mind returned and revealed a problem. Oh, ****! I had no idea what JB was wearing. I knew what he looked like: greasy Guido haircut, pierced ears, bulging man-mammary glands with artificially-hardened nipples, general hippie air of hippyism. But without knowing what he was currently wearing, I realized, I’d never find him in this sea of similarly-dressed fops. Being the brilliant tactician I am, I improvised and yet again called up one of JB’s friends, this time from a payphone.
“Daaaaah, duuuuuude. Dissis JB. Eh? Uh. Question. I ah, got a littuh drunk an’ puked all over mah shirt. Gotta buy new one. DARNIT EH! …-hic- You ‘member what I’ze wearin?”
Oh, so simple – both the minds of his friends and my particular effort. Red LaCoste polo, and backpack full of gay porno mags and poetry binders. I had my target. Squeezed against a wall for both support of my mbumive girth and optimal stealth, I camped, waiting for Mr. Red Polo and Backpack.
Okay, so I admit I dozed off for a while and drooled on my shirt a bit. But I woke up without any bumistive devices, and did so just in time – it was perhaps fated – to spot a particularly fabulous person jaunt, which materialized into a shock of dark-brown pomade shaped like hair, atop a too-pretty face, which itself was atop a red polo shirt and backpack. It was Bootyhole Himself.
As JB neared the escalator, I burst forth in front of him with the sprightliness of Pillsbury dough escaping the over-compressed confines of its cardboard tube. Perfectly executing my plan, I purposefully fell to the floor like a bowl of Jell-O when I go into a temporary diabetic coma while having desert, pretending to have tripped – or been tripped – by JB, in an effort to pull at his hilariously naïve liberal sense of empathy. It worked splendidly.
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 5:43AM||View Bashy's Profile | #|
As I opened my eyes from a pained wince (which I faked, totally), the pomade-topped face of JB hovered worriedly over me. In a maddeningly soothing, over-educated voice that could only belong to a poet, polished through decades of talking to oneself in the form of imaginary Shakespeare characters as friends, he cooed, “Are you okay, eh, buddy? “ Perfect. Then was my opportunity; for the first time, I spoke to Jalapeno Bootyhole. I spoke to him in the gayest, most conceited Ivy-league-hipster voice I could muster.
“What ho, good man, I seem to have tripped,” I said, still lying helpless on my back. Appearing helpless, I mean. I can definitely get up off the floor on my own. Anyway, JB reached out a hand, as I knew he would, and hefted me with muscles obviously hewn from hours of squat-thrusts directly in front of a large mirror.
“There,” he said. “You gonna be all right, man?”
The “man” part was obviously just to make himself sound cool, but I withheld my rage as I responded.
“Thank you for helping me up after surely tripping me on accident. You, sir, are a gentleman and a scholar.” I knew the latter phrase would appeal to JB’s internet-nerd self. I continued. “Your bumistance in my time of need was almost… poetic.”
I allowed that word – poetic – to hang in the air like a snare, and JB walked right into it, as I knew he would.
“Hah! Well, I actually am a poet, if you want to know,” he said, as I nodded, “and as a matter of fact, I’m going to the National Beatnik Smackdown finals tonight. I came all the way from Canada for it, even.”
The way he emphasized “Canada” to make either the country, travel, or both sound important made me want to vomit. It may have also been due to eating twelve White Castle burgers an hour earlier. Still, I knew I had to continue…for the sake of the mission, and because I was hungry. If I vomited, I’d only get hungrier. I contained myself.
“Well, isn’t that respectable of you! You seem like such a nice guy, sir, with great taste in culture and clothing alike. Are you here for the Art Fair, perchance?” As I spoke, JB didn’t seem quite convinced enough of my [in]sincerity as I wanted. Quickly, I added, “… old bean?” It worked.
“Oh, actually, yeah, I am. You here for it, too?”
“Boy howdy. I mean, indeed yes. I know the fair well. In fact, as I strive to be an upstanding member of the art community by supporting these local artists. I come to this venue every year.” JB seemed to be paying attention. “Say,” I suggested, “What say you that I repay your kindness by showing you around?”
There was only a slight pause before the answer. “Actually, yeah, that’d be cool.” And so our day began.
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 5:44AM||View Bashy's Profile | #|
Jalapeno Bootyhole and I walked out of the mall together and into a swelteringly hot street full of people who smelled of suntan lotion, incense and marijuana. JB must have smelled it, too, as the first thing he asked me during our time was, “Hey, do you know where I can find some weed and booze?” I mumbled something about not knowing but expecting to find alcohol somewhere ahead, trying to continue the charade of actually knowing where the **** I was. He seemed at least temporarily pacified by my answer, but then asked another.
“Ah. Well, how about some hookers? … Gay… ones?” He looked me in the eye, seeming to probe for my reaction. I stared back blankly. Quickly, he interjected. “Ha ha ha,” he nervously laughed, aggressively (or so I hope to this moment) patting me on the shoulder. “just jokin’! So, this art is pretty nice stuff, eh?”
JB and I walked slowly down a straight urban avenue lined on both sides by white tents containing various overweight and/or overly-mustachioed artists and their work. I made small-talk as we walked, and he generally replied with all sorts of completely uninteresting stories of his experience being in the area, of the Beatnik Smackdown (he could not shut up about this, and I wished I’d come up with a better, less-lame topic with which to start our encounter), being in Canada, etc.
We both variously pretended to have an opinion of some of the art on exhibition as we walked along, eventually getting to the end of one end of the street on which the Art Fair was laid out. We looked around, a bit bewildered by the abrupt end of the exhibits. I, however, had to pretend I knew what I was doing, so simply said, “I’m hungry.” Well, I was. I’m a big man, damnit, and I like my food. Luckily, JB was, too. He again asked where weed and booze might be, but this time also commented about wanting food.
As we turned to go back down the street from which we came, JB spotted a stand called “Simply Nuts and More,” and seemed drawn to it. I presumed he was drawn to the presence of the word “Nuts,” and was proved correct after he purchased a large handful of what he called “Pray Lines,” which I knew as “Prayleens.” I made a mental note to call him an idiot for that later, but ended up much chagrined by learning that it’s actually pronounced “Prah Leen.” **** us both. Anyway, he quickly told an anecdote about how a friend had told him to eat his nuts. The man wasn’t even trying to hide his tendencies, and I was, to him, a total stranger! Damning evidence.
We made our way back to our starting point, now both sweating from the urban heat: me from being husky and plump in the hot weather, he, probably, from being around what seemed like an endless flow of obviously homosexual men in the crowd.
We pretended to like yet more art, and walked some more. Once, JB asked permission to pop into a spice store, explaining that he had to bring home, to Canada, some gifts for his “friends.” Of course, he came out with nothing.
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 5:44AM||View Bashy's Profile | #|
Our starting point approached, and we met and pbumed it on our way down the other stretch of the street’s artistic tent-chain. I was dying from the heat, and sweating rivulets of gooey salt which were pooling under my ample pannus. No, I’m not talking about my genitals, you perverts; look it up. It’s a medical condition, okay?
It was ridiculously hot. We both wanted food and drink, and conversation at this point was either nonexistent, or too liberally boring for me to remember, or about finding food and drink. But it was too hot to move very fast, and , of course, we had to keep pretending to appreciate the art as we walked. It took us perhaps a half an hour to reach the far end of the last of the art displays and a few booths and restaurants that looked to contain food, but either at too expensive a prices or looking not trendy-hippy-bull**** enough to enter. Obviously, neither of us could enter a bar and grill or pizza joint; he because he was genuinely pretending to be pretentious, and me because I was just pretending to be pretentious. Oh, look, that art over there. We like that one.
It was the end of the line, and I, for one, had no more energy left in me to go and look in other tents on other sides or down other roads. It just isn’t true what they say about fat being a store of energy, damnit. JB was thirsty for booze and weed or booze-flavored weed, and gay hookers, I guess, but mostly we were just desperate for any food or liquid. After frantically looking around for somewhere to pretend I’d known about all along, a near-perfect little shop arrived, dues ex machina. A coffee house. A little one. With tea and all sorts of Eurotrash-sounding coffees. And cakes. Holy ****, cakes. JB couldn’t turn this down. I mean, he wanted booze, caffeine would be good enough. As for weed and gay hookers, he could probably find that in the bathrooms.
“Let’s go in here, sound good?” I asked JB, who agreed, but needed some time to browse… shoes. No comment. Anyway, he suggested I find a seat, and he’d join me.
A half hour later or so, JB pranced into the comfy-trendy little place with three large bags hanging limply from his wrists, all full of shoes. I stared; he noticed. “Shoppiiiiiiiiing!” he exclaim-explained. I headed to the front desk to order whatever the hell I thought people at coffee houses ordered. I waved JB in front of me, so I could observe his picks.
Something called an “iced chai” was Bootyhole’s pick, and that sounded pretty gay. I was hungry, and ornery, and hot, full of pit-sweat and generally wanting to off myself after so long hanging around with the guy. Still, I hadn’t found out the mystery of MELLTD FACE’s modship yet. I couldn’t quit now. I put on the charm… hard.
In a moment, I found myself choosing from a black marker-board predictably scribbled with effeminately-written menu items. I chose the absolute most fruity thing I could find. I found myself uttering the words, “I’ll have a Spunky Monkey” to the token ethnic waitress. I figured the name and my choice of it would naturally attract JB to me, so I could get down to my detective business.
We waited, mandatorily bobbing our heads to the house “music,” for our items: me, a fudge cake and the Spunky Monkey, he, the iced chai. Eventually they came, and we sat in a cushy booth. It was time to talk. Time to get to the bottom of this all. Time to really see whether or not Jalapeno Bootyhole was responsible for yet another travesty, and maybe uncover some other dirt. All of this, over drinks.
JB sipped his “iced chai” and seemed to like it. As homosexually and pretentiously as I could, I slurped my Spunky Monkey, which turned out to be aptly named. It was the milk color and gooey consistency of jism. It could literally have been monkey jism, bumuming said monkey had eaten about ten thousand of the most over-sugared banana splits ever. I could faintly taste coffee in the thing, but mainly, it was eye-wateringly sweet. Somewhere inside my body, I heard my diabetes scream.
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 5:45AM||View Bashy's Profile | #|
I tried to take my mind off the horrible taste by making conversation as I took tiny sips. I asked about Mr. Bootyhole’s work. He’s a writer, he said, for all sorts of thing, and does some marketing, too. He did bring up writing for and helping produce an internet game (hah! He had NO IDEA I was a spy FROM that game!), but didn’t elaborate, probably on purpose given its horrid nature. He specifically mentioned nothing about making a gimmick alt and finding work as a moderator there. Dastardly.
I asked about his home, and we talked about the housing market in both our cities. I accidentally mentioned that I lived at home with my parents, *and* that I’m 39 years old, but I made up a lie about having done that only to save up and buy a house, which I’d totally and triumphantly done at a steal of a price. He told me that his place was small, but that his home-town had ridiculously expensive properties. I just love how these elitist liberals find pbumive-aggressive ways to tell you how rich they are. It must be genetic. Again, he purposefully didn’t mention anything about moderating Forumwarz from his home under the name MELLTD FACE. Grrr.
I asked about his education, and future plans. He mentioned the idea of going back to school for video game design, which I enthusiastically supported. Forumwarz community, you owe me if this game ever stops sucking as hard. He also said he loves his job and the people he works with. By this I knew he was referencing his relationship with Evil Trout. He did say “loves” with that certain erection-voice. But again, he did not mention also loving roleplaying as MELLTD FACE.
We continued to talk, me trying to appear more and more fruity in an attempt to get the information out of him that I wanted. At some point, I must have really gotten into the role: I found myself genuinely getting into the conversation and actually feeling good toward him.
After a while, I had to urinate fiercely and excused myself to do so. It was then that I checked my watch and realized we’d been talking for nearly three hours, and I’d actually started enjoying JB’s company. I was terrified, obviously. So terrified, in fact, that I decided to abort the mission.
I returned to the table and made up a story about how I needed to quickly leave to get to IKEA before closing hours, to buy furniture for my fictitious new house. In reality, it was only a slight lie: I needed to get there for the all-you-can-eat Swedish Meatballs for $5. JB, being savvy, pretended to have a friend to go meet, too. I wondered if perhaps they were meeting to moderate Forumwarz as MELLTD FACE, but at that point didn’t care anymore. I had started to like Jalapeno Bootyhole. I had to get the hell out of there.
We exited the building and started walking back toward Coon Square. I began to feel dizzy from the combination of heat and terror, and also what I started to realize was a mbumive caffeine and sugar hit from the Spunky Monkey ****. My body seemed to drag along at a snail’s pace, never seeming much closer to getting away from the unforgivable situation. I prayed for deliverance.
God existed that day, for JB mentioned his “friend” again and said he’d catch a bus to go see “her” (lol) on the intersecting street behind us. We exchanged fond goodbyes and good-to-meet-yous, which at least were the least phony part of our day. After all, I was fondly saying goodbye and getting the hell out of three hours in which I did indeed inexplicably become fond of him, and I’m sure he was fondly looking forward to finding the weed, booze and gay hookers he was looking for. We parted ways and headed off. I was exhausted.
As I picked up my Lil’ Rascal Obesity Scooter and entered my car, I thought that the day’s efforts and frustrations and sheer terrors of enjoyment had all been for naught. I hadn’t found out whether or not MELLTD FACE was Jalapeno Bootyhole. I thought that all the way back home and to my computer, where I logged into Forumwarz. I thought it as I started summarizing my day in this post. But then I had an idea.
I looked through Melltd Face’s post history, and found one, “Posted On: 08/07/2010 6:35PM.” Converted to my local time, this is 5:35PM.
I checked my watch again, as well as the detailed diaries I’d kept. I’d physically been with Jalapeno Bootyhole from 3:45 to 7:15PM, and he hadn’t left my sight or done anything on his cell phone besides what looked like reading Jezebel.com, a feminist blog.
In short, Jalapeno Bootyhole could NOT be MELLTD FACE. MELLTD FACE posted at 5:35PM. I was with Jalapeno Bootyhole, in person, the whole time.
And I live to tell the tale.
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 5:46AM||View Bashy's Profile | #|
i kinda did the same thing but i just went “he doesnt have a star by his name”
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 5:49AM||View Chawin's Profile | #|
Wow major Log in to see images!
But I think I am 99.9% sure who MF is.
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 5:50AM||#|
FoW, though my investigations – basically analyzing the orthographic and stylistic cirgreat timesstances of this mercesque longwindedness – revealed, this text isn’t from who you think it is, too.
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 6:41AM||View Aldo_Anything's Profile | #|
I’m pretty sure I’ve seen admins with alts without a star beside the name.
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 7:54AM||View CrinkzPipe's Profile | #|
So Bashy, this was quite interesting (and frankly makes me feel my postings have been delightfully to the point!)
However, I am left wondering about the truth of your timezone and whether JB would mark your meeting with a ♥, ♥♥, ♥♥♥ or ♣ ?
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 8:17AM||View scully's Profile | #|
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 9:07AM||#|
stop being a molestering
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 9:17AM||View Chawin's Profile | #|
AIDS woman's genitals Posted:
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 9:46AM||View SIG-ENABLING-MOC...'s Profile | #|
Everyone who was in IDC last night knows who MELLTD FACE is.
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 9:59AM||View Fran's Profile | #|
I figured it out and asked him flat out. He told me along with a few of his other alts. i cant believe how generous he used to be from the stories ive heard.
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 12:32PM||View bobdisgea's Profile | #|
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 12:35PM||View Chawin's Profile | #|
for those dumb enough to believe chucks bull**** look at his voting status rofl
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 12:46PM||View Chawin's Profile | #|
Good work Bashy. For your sacrifices for the community I am having an sending you a “Wide Pride” bumper sticker for your Rascal.
|Posted On: 08/08/2010 2:29PM||View Malaise's Profile | #|
Hilarious, and perfectly accurate. Thanks for clearing my good name, eh?
And it was nice meeting you too, you fat bastard.
|Posted On: 08/10/2010 5:00PM||View Jalapeno Bootyho...'s Profile | #|