Cartoons for Terrorists
A few weeks ago, my source on Twitter gave me the email address for a girl named Fiona in Idaho (aka "The Other Maine"). She was the one who'd broken off her engagement with Joe "Dave" Chadwick, the brain-damaged Iraq War vet whose insanity and bizarre behavior was so pronounced even from 6000 miles away, she'd decided to break off the engagement.
Assuming, wrongly as it turned out, this girl could be reasoned with, I sent her an email, summarizing what her ex had been putting me through since June of last year and asking for some context behind their breakup. Before you crinkle your eyebrows and ask me why in the world I would want to do such a thing, let me explain that we writers (and political bloggers, if we're worth our weight in Cheetos) will go to extraordinary lengths in the name of research. Remember, I'm writing a thriller in the near future featuring the Chadwick twins. No, I wasn't kidding about that.
I was pretty low key, wasn't writing in all caps and doing the cybernetic equivalent of screaming. I had merely synopsized what her old flame had been putting my fiancee and me through and asked for context regarding their breakup. Remember, at this juncture, I thought I was writing to someone who was actually sane.
Boy, was I wrong.
It turns out this right wing nut bag named Fiona once worked as a volunteer for Ted "BusTED" Cruz and Mitt Romney. A couple of weeks went by and, as I expected, she never wrote back to me and there I let the matter drop.
Then I got a series of DMs from my friend in Utah who said Fiona's head exploded when she read my email and called up "Dave" Chadwick for the first time in 12 years. Before anyone knew what had happened, she went to Weber County, Utah, they got re-engaged and now Chapped Dick's moving his semen-stained Goodwill furniture into a storage unit in Farr West along with his twin "Danny" (who's moving to Los Angeles this Wednesday, obviously to continue ducking his child support obligations to his daughter).
And that leads me to the title of this post, the last one I will ever write about Joseph David Chadwick, the poor man's Mike Nelson.
Among the bombshell revelations made to me of late by my Man in Utah was the incredible news that Chadwick actually got himself a literary agent and a publishing deal that's reportedly worth about six figures. I have no idea who this Israeli literary agent Ariel Levin is as she has no internet presence nor can I find any reference online to this Israeli publisher who put him in touch with this agent.
In all fairness to Chadwick, the publishing business is gradually getting to the point in which only insiders can realistically hope for a publishing contract. The only other way to cut in line, it seems, is to have your work referred by someone who has an "in" and this is exactly how Chadwick slimed his way through the back door. Apparently, Israel also uses in-house agents and, seeing something in his mouthless creations worth cultivating, they wanted to kick back 15% to their buddy literary agent.
Not only that, but this contract necessarily involves a relocation to Tel Aviv because they're offering him a staff job. Gee, I wonder how long it took for Chadwick to throw Granny from the train once he got wind of this deal from this Levin character? My guess: About a nanosecond, if that. Now poor Granny won't have anyone to do her lawn since Danny Boy will also be heading for greener pastures so he can better dodge his child support obligations.
Because if I hadn't written that email to his ex Fiona weeks ago, she never would've called him and he would've gone off to Israel alone so he could draw cartoons for a terrorist rogue nation that apparently is suffering a dearth of bad, derivative cartoons. So where's my thanks?
There will be none forthcoming. Even though Chapped Dick cleaned his trailer, got rid of the body odor and even threw away all the pictures lining his laptop monitor of WWE wrestler Becky Lynch (Boy, that must've hurt because let's just say Pal Joey didn't need tape or glue to get them to stick to the edge of his monitor). He's got an agent, he's got a publisher and he's engaged to a fellow right wing, Palestine-hating moron. And they're now on their way to Israel, after a stopover in Idaho, which, for evolutionary dropouts like Joe and Fiona, is like floating up to the mother ship.
Now, ordinarily, I wouldn't begrudge another their success. While I can't say I'm overjoyed to see others getting a literary agent before me, it's not as if writers are actually in competition with each other. True, we're all going for a thimbleful or two of the rapidly shrinking advance pool that seems to fill the in-ground pools of right wing morons and hacks who largely don't write their own books. But we're not really in competition with each other.
But when a stinking (literally, stinking, from what others say about him), right wing stalker, jailbird and cultural hack like Chadwick gets an agent and a contract while I'm still getting boilerplate from flunkies... Well, that's proof positive that God is dead and rotting in heaven. And this is the forensic proof.
And apparently the future Mrs. Chadwick is still spitting nails at me, much moreso than Chadwick himself. Apparently, she resents the fact that I told the truth about her man and that the truth is embarrassing in the extreme.
Plus, one has to wonder about the suspicious timing of Fiona's voluntary reinsertion into the semen-flecked world of Joe Chadwick at pretty much the exact moment he had a six figure contract waved under his nose by some Israeli publisher. Do the words Gravy and Train ring a bell? How about Gold and Digger?
So, this is just to let Pal Joey know he's still in my thoughts and that sometime in the near future, he'll be further immortalized along with his semi-vestigial twin John when I finish my thriller starring the Brothers Chadwick. I don't expect the stalking to cease and if I start getting a shitload of hits from Israel, I'll know exactly where they're coming from and I'll let his employers know what he's doing when he should be churning out inferior cartoons for them on the company dime.
So, the least deserving person I know is now blessed with love and is living a (literally) cleaner life thanks to the efforts of yours truly. He and Fiona deserve each other and they can continue spitting venom at Palestine across the west bank after they trade one worthless, arid desert for another. Maybe in lieu of a mirror, they can fornicate under a huge poster of the baleful, well-fed face of Bibi Netanyahu on the ceiling. Let your imagination run wild.
Still, a little appreciation would've been nice.