Time to bring it all home.
In 2006, Lang returned to public life at a pro-GINO site called Frakheads, where the admins enjoyed having him around so they could poke him with a sharp stick. A few diehard Moistees are registered over there, and we’ve tried to get him banned, but they would have none of it. Lang pushed the envelope when he started insulting Jews, Mormons, and homosexuals, but it has never been enough to get him smacked down permanently. If you’re interested in reading fresh Languatron rants, which sound an awful lot like the old Languatron rants, you can follow him here. He’s also written several polemic books, one of which I’ve reviewed at length, and you can buy his nonsense at Amazon if you want a hard copy – for only $18.95 apiece! Last time I checked, his latest, Caprica Sucks, was #4,126,992 on the Amazon.com bestseller list, so get ‘em while they’re hot!
There is just one more story I’d like to share.
It didn’t take much investigation to find his REAL NAME AND ADDRESS, and, more importantly, his phone number.
I don’t know what possessed me, but on one occasion sometime in 2008, I think, I became frustrated with the fact that I’ve interacted with this guy for a decade or so, but he’s still stuck on the same note after all this time. I was tired of him assuming I was Glen Larson, and I wanted to prove, once and for all, that I wasn’t.
I called him.
That’s right. I picked up the phone and dialed his number. What’s worse, I made no attempt to block my own number. I wasn’t thinking. I just dialed, and waited for an answer. It was the middle of the day, so I assumed he’d probably be at work. I was curious what his voicemail message would have said.
But then someone picked up.
The voice on the other end wasn’t Andrew Fullen, AKA Languatron.
It was a woman – an elderly woman. According to the info I’d found, a woman of 83 years of age shared the same address with Langy.
I panicked for a moment. I almost hung up. But then, out of curiosity, I asked the simple question…
“Is Andrew there?”
“Oh, yes!” she chirped pleasantly. “Andrew!” she called. “Phone for you!” The tone of her voice suggested that Andrew didn’t get a lot of phone calls, and that this was a special occasion.
And then he spoke. With only one word, the first and last he would ever speak to me, I heard the Voice of the Lang.
The voice sounded sullen, disinterested, like a teenager being forced to talk to his meddling aunt. It was a baritone voice, but not particularly sophisticated.
And I panicked and hung up.
About ten seconds later, my phone rang. Langy’s number was on the caller ID. What could I do? If I let it go to voicemail, he’d hear my name, and I wasn’t going to fool anyone.
I picked up. “Hello, there!” I said, as pleasantly as I could.
Lang hung up.
In another ten seconds, Lang was posting my number all over Frakheads. He posted info about where he had traced the call – a cell phone station a few miles away from where I work. He accused me of committing a felony and promised to sic the cops on me. This time, he didn’t know exactly where he lived, but he could reach me by phone, so that wasn’t as empty a threat as all the rest of them.
The admins at Frakheads made him take down the number and promised he would be banned if he kept posting it. I sent him a message, apologizing if I’d unnerved him. He accused me of making an “obscene call” and propositioning his mother, who he insisted was working at “his home office.” He did tell me that he’d never call me, and that he insisted on a “buffer” between the Internet and real life.
Anyway, that was two years ago. Nothing came of it, except an entirely pleasant phone call from a Moist Board guy and a prank phone call from a young girl in – of all places – Chicago, asking if I wanted to buy some furniture. I said no, while some people giggled in the background. Then she hung up. As far as prank calls go, it was pretty substandard, at least as far as my own track record is concerned.
Today, Lang is where he was in 2001 – obsessed with Glen Larson, convinced that I’m him, and that everyone else is me/him, too. Some people ask me if I’m scared that he’s going to come after me. Not at all, I answer. Lang is like the pair of pale green pants in that Dr. Seuss story – more scared of me than I am of him. He will go his way, and I will continue to go mine.
I have now spent two weeks chronicling this odd relationship, which I sometimes liken to Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man. Is there a point to it all? No, although I really would like to communicate with Languatron as a human being.
That won’t happen. And I refuse to try again.
Monday: No Lang at all – Iron Man 2!