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Update—Mark Ames Doggedly Persists in His Starry-Eyed Quest to Continue Failing!
Unable to humbly accept his sound thrashing at my hands, rapidly dying (at least from the looks of things) Trust-Fund Class Warrior and perpetually leaky vagina Mark Ames continues posting "as" me over on his site, a habit in which he's engaged continually for over a year now. I only ever become aware of this while gently Googling myself. I'm fairly certain that when he posts under my name, not only is that intergalactically stupid for someone who poses as a journalist—it's illegal! Whaddaya know about those matzo balls? So are his repeated attempts to create an impression that I've tried to contact him at all.
This rumpled, crumpled, burned-out hollow shell of a former sex tourist apparently stalks me to accuse me of stalking him, so we're dealing with a zero-credibility amphetamine casualty whose journalistic mistakes have been exhaustively documented. Why, look at all the fumbling attempts he made to deny he wrote about raping a girl. Mark continues to let his emotions get the best of him, and I continue to enjoy watching it all unfold.
Lately he's posting "as" me reputedly admitting to my darling crime victim's account of what happened fourteen years ago—as she related it to SPIN magazine reporter RJ Smith FIVE MONTHS AFTER the fact.
He keeps begging me to prove how loosey-goosey he plays with the facts and to continue exposing his journalistic ineptitude to the world, so I guess I'll eagerly oblige him yet again because that's the kinda guy I am.
FACT: Ms. Ryan kept changing her account of why the incident went down. (I've scanned the original legal documents with my iPhone but will have higher-res versions soon. I'll also scan tons of other legal documents including what her mom and former boyfriends told detectives. I'll also include my restraining order against her as well as a police report of the time she smashed my car windshield with a shovel three weeks before our final night together. But just sweep all that out of your mind. I mean, it's not like my mugshot is compelling evidence that she physically attacked me first, nor is the police lab evidence that my blood was found mixed with hers on her jacket.)
A few days later when detectives interviewed her—after she had sufficient time to come up with an alibi—she said I beat her up because she was going to tell people I beat up women. Not only is that transparently retarded—I was going to beat up a woman so she wouldn't tell people I beat up women?!—its credibility is demolished by the fact that my ex-wife had, for nearly a year, already been telling anyone who'd listen that there'd been violence in our marriage. Not only that, she'd exaggerated it (see SPIN link below where she admits to lying on a restraining order), and magically it didn't send me into a rage. Not even once! (My sincerest apologies for using facts to undermine the sacred progressive narrative that women never lie about such things. I've felt this inexplicable lifelong compulsion to keep telling you how full of shit you all are. It's like I can't help it.)
It wasn't until five months later when interviewed by SPIN magazine that she had concocted a much more involved and elaborate explanation. (Here's that sprawling middle-class mansion where I was raised and didn't want the world to know about, forcing me into a bout of unbridled Cro-Mag rage when my ex-paramour threatened to reveal how intensely cushy it was. He's latched onto this particular fiction with ferocity, possibly to divert attention from the fact that he hails from a top-1% zip code while pretending to understand anything about the working class.)
If you'd actually like to know why my crime happened and what could possibly lead someone to lose their temper to such a degree, listen to this and read this.
Ames's ex-associate Owen Matthews accused Mark Ames of being a rapist with no balls, but this is one alleged rapist whose unabashed stupidity and cowardice are a comfort unto my soul. Mark keeps shooting at me yet hitting himself. He keeps running his mouth up until the point where it would actually involve facing me. My joy is boundless.