- Joined
- Mar 1, 2023
4,001 people.
Defendant: Ethan Oliver Ralph - Ethan Ralph's Documented Legal Troubles & Other Court Docs
- Thread starter Sam Losco
- Start date
4,001 people.
- Joined
- Aug 20, 2022
Should hide it under the gunt, like how fat thugs hide pieces in their folds.
- Joined
- Aug 16, 2019
*slaps gunt*
Do you have any idea how many kilos of heroin this bad boy can smuggle?
- Joined
- Feb 4, 2020
He can't, that's where he keeps his vape.
- Joined
- Oct 22, 2020
Reminds me of the line from Ginsberg’s poem, Howl (pt 1):
“who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,” and as you can see, it’s traditional to carry drugs concealed via gunt, from Mexico to the US. Since it’s apparently World Poetry Day, (according to who, idk, who makes that stuff up, anyway?) I’ve included the entirety of Howl part 1, for those wanting context. Reading the first lines of the poem through the gunt drug-smuggling line, has a certain flow. Bold-italicized the lines mentioned, underlined the relevant gunt verse. Long warning for everything after.
I
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time—
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time—
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2022
If I recall correctly, there was a court order, which could have been the DVRO itself, that stipulated Ralph should have returned all of Faith's belongings left over at Sandra's.
Let me recap what I understand about how this case unfolded.
Let me recap what I understand about how this case unfolded.
- There is hearsay that the Vickers specifically asked for Faith's diary, to which Ralph replied it was missing. Is this true?
- Then the diary magically appears on Daiymo's stream with some specific pages missing.
- Before Daiymo could get fully involved, Vickers called his mother, and all sorts of shenanigans went down. At this point, Vickers got a signed affidavit from Daiymo about how he got the diary, which specifically mentions Ralph having knowledge about the diary. Is this correct?
- Now, Amanda claims she, of her own accord, shipped the diary to Daiymo (which doesn't even make sense because she didn't have any business with him, and Ralph claims over and over she doesn't allow his wife to talk to anyone without his permission) basically to defend Ralph, in that he wasn't directly involved in anything involving the diary.
- Joined
- Oct 15, 2021
Do you fellas think Ethan wakes up in a cold sweat knowing the fame and money he pissed away not doing that boxing match?
When he’s begging his paypiggies for money, are there an intrusive thoughts about how much more secure his financial situation would be for enduring 45 seconds of embarrassment?
This dude is a mistake that dreamed he was a real boy.
Don'tAnalizeMeBro!
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Apr 5, 2021
This is all under the "I I Remember Correctly":
A court document from 2021 specifically names the diary, a particular camera, and two dresses and more among things that FaiFai wanted back. Ralph signed it, meaning he doesn't have it or will return it if it miraculously pops up I guess.
I think there was a half-assed attempt at extortion when The Daiymo put out something along the lines of "Gimme $5,000 or I will read this out loud on my show" that happened before and is what led to the Vickerses calling up The Daiymo's mother.
It sounds like Pantsu and Ralph are trying to spin a yarn that says:
Pantsu happened to find FaiFai's diary when she was cleaning something out. She didn't tell EOR. She kept it for whatever reason. At a point where she felt that she and EOR were being attacked and no one was paying attention to her she got pissy and mailed the diary to The Daiymo. This is around the timeframe that EOR contacted The Daiymo about EOR having a fan that wanted to send something to The Daiymo that sounded interesting as well as EOR's second foray into getting his ass soundly kicked in Portugal.
As I see it best case scenario is that the court (and jury?) believe Pantsu's bullshit story that was written by EOR, give Pantsu a slap on the wrist, and EOR gets off scott free of anything related to the journal. Worst case The Gunt and Pantsu both get the book thrown at them because they see Pantsu as having been aiding and abetting this bullshit all along AND it took place during EOR's one-year suspended sentence and they both get the book thrown at them. What I think will probably happen is that Pantsu will be seen as only having done whatever at the orders of EOR and she doesn't really get much for her involvement but EOR is found guilty of having lied to the court numerous times and having the journal sent to The Daiymo but I have absolutely no idea what the punishment would be. A fine? Some time in jail? I'm not at all sure.
- Joined
- Aug 17, 2022
The benzos keep the intrusive thoughts very quiet, which I expect is component of his addiction to them - not merely chemical but psychological as well.
- Joined
- Oct 19, 2018
It was really stupid for Ralph to have Meigh make that confession video, for many reasons. Setting aside the fact that nobody believes Ralph wasn’t 100% responsible, and that it destroys Meigh’s credibility as a witness, it potentially opens Pantsu up to questioning about her conversations with Ralph, many of which would otherwise be privileged (at least since the marriage).
Another thing is Meigh states her purpose clearly: to get “revenge” on Faith for Faith’s words against Ralph, and to “humiliate” Faith. When viewed in conjunction with Ralph’s messages to Daiymo, and Amanda’s prior knowledge of the RO, Meigh’s statement could be viewed as an admission of a crime. (Check out CA Penal Code. §§182(a)(1), (3), (4), (5): https://leginfo.legislature.ca.gov/faces/codes_displaySection.xhtml?sectionNum=182&lawCode=PEN).
Does that mean Meigh or Ralph will be charged with conspiracy? No. We live in an age where people rob stores on camera and still never get charged. But if a prosecutor were so inclined, Meigh’s statements would be very helpful. Bottom line: Meigh’s statement benefits Ralph in no way, and potentially hurts him.
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2022
thebigdream
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jan 12, 2023
I'm not a lawfag, but I can't see The Case of the Missing Diary netting the Gunt any more than a fine (which he will happily ignore in Mehico). It's not a significant piece of property, what does the state gain from jailing the Pig over it?
- Joined
- Aug 25, 2019
Ralph was serving a one year suspended sentence for releasing revenge porn when the diary was released, and it was the diary of the victim of the revenge porn. The court might throw the book at him for continuing to commit crimes even when the court gave him a second chance in the form of his suspended sentence.
- Joined
- Aug 16, 2019
Ralph’s not going to jail he’s a teflon tard. Everything bounces off his gunt. Vickers is right by wearing him down but holy lord he has to stop going on the internet. Ralphs attempt at forgiveness is laughable because it’s such an abuser tactic. It’s out of Ralph’s hands and a matter of the court. He’s just trying to portray Faith as the vindictive one.
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2022
I imagine if this goes before a jury all those clips of Ralph saying shit like today's "Like a give a shit about women" "I am an OG gamer gate of course I am a misogynist" or "Revenge porn does not exist" would damage Ralph's case. If he goes Pro-Se he won't have a lawyer to object none of that shit to be used against him and might heavily sway the jury's opinion on him.
Even so I don't think there will be too much punishment for him he will probably get an even harsher restraining order like that of Adrianne Blair.
But I have been a total of zero times inside a court room so Ralph would know better of course
- Joined
- May 6, 2020
- Joined
- Jan 9, 2023
Unfortunately we're too late. But I think the alcohol and content pills have taken all hope from Ralph's dreams of positive pregnancy tests.
- Joined
- Feb 4, 2020
While it is clear that Ralph was involved in this, the court may decide there isn't enough evidence - or maybe they will. Who knows.
What I do know is that this diary shit is neither here nor there as to whether Ralph violated the DVRO. He has done so many, many times.
Remember he tweeted about Faiths "loose" pussy?
The diary is an attempt to patch things up with Faith, however this is not out of a genuine want to bring the drama to a close - it's because Ralph knows he's fucked and thinks doing this will get the Vickers off their backs. The reason it's May saying it and not Ralph, is that he realises this is unlikely to work so admitting to sending Daimyo the diary would be an admission of guilt.
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2022
I think the diary is particularly heinous for the court because it carries an intent to get “revenge” and to “humiliate” Faith by the horses' own admissions (big lol if this is later used in court against them). Most of the other stuff could be argued against with "oops I'm a klutz, sorry but there was no real damage here I'm just being retarded" (Of course when you pile them all together you give less and less credence to that idea) However the diary carries more planning and intent. Which is why I presume it is a bigger fuck up that all the other violations combined.
If you kill someone while you were doing something you shouldn't have, like breaking into someone's house, it's not the same as planning in advance, gathering all the resources needed and making a conscious choice to execute a plan to murder the same person. It's the premeditation what makes it worse.
- Joined
- Oct 19, 2018
They’re on here. They were in the Council of Evil thread. This was leaked from their Dischord:
That missing image from Daiymo’s May 8, 2022 post is a DM from Ralph to Daiymo asking for Daiymo’s address.
As you can see later on, Daiymo was aware that he was getting a “notebook from Virginia.” Then they do a voice chat, which is partially transcribed, and you can tell from the context that they know it’s Faiths Diary. Check out the thread for more detail.
It’s tough to say. This is civil contempt,
but technically the court can impose jail time. Ordinarily I’d say no chance the court imposes jail, but since Ralph is convicted of a sex crime where Faith was the victim (which was the basis for the RO), and since we’re talking about 30 or so alleged violations, I wouldn’t write off that possibility.
Maybe. He commits a lot of low priority crimes, which usually don’t get prosecuted. On the other hand, Ralph is not a smooth criminal—he actually gets caught a lot. He would have completely gotten away with revenge porn if he just kept his fat mouth shut about. Then he got that reckless driving charge where he did community service. He was criminally charged with violating this same RO, but it was dismissed. Ralph isn’t really “teflon,” more like a pan with some leftover bacon grease.