After I thanked the whistleblowers who helped expose Keith Raniere, an anonymous reader—“Mr. Anonymous”—threatened legal action unless I removed a named “Jane Doe.”
Mr. Anonymous
Mr. Anonymous argued in the comments section:
“Only reputable journalists honor Jane Doe designations out of professional ethics, respect for privacy, and to avoid interfering with court proceedings, but let’s be honest, you are a bottom-feeding “journalist” with absolutely zero integrity. Good day, sir!…
“Your lack of empathy is palpable. You think being brainwashed… is an easy experience to get over? But hey, anything for a few clicks to my shitty website, right?!…
“You really are as stupid as they say. …. You are a fucking clown, Frank.
Mk10Art painting of Frank Parlato
Frank
“Brainwashing is very real, and you are the proof. It must be hard to have a weak brain…. Please get your brain dirty again. It’s been washed too well. I’ll help you.”
Mr. Anonymous
“You are what you eat, Frank, and you, sir, eat dogshit all day and look what you produce: absolute filth content that serves no value to anyone on this planet….
That clash—with Mr. Anonymous and the culture of perpetual anonymity—prompted NiceGuy to endeavor to dox Mr. Anonymous.
We possess no picture of Nice Guy but based on various descriptions regarding his attire, Frank Report feels reasonably certain that the man in the middle is Nice Guy.
Nice Guy made this comment:
My guess is: This critic of yours is an AI-assisted clod and is most likely the cad, Bangkok.
We all love Bangkok, but boy, does he know how to pull someone’s chain.
The passage, “good day, sir,” is a dead giveaway. I’m surprised he didn’t put his smiley face in the salutation.
It’s elementary, my dear Parleto.
Oh BangCalk!
It did not take long for Bangkok to reply:
Bangkok
Reply to NiceGuy
Wrong. It’s not Bangkok. LOL.
Just not his style of writing. Bangkok doesn’t use AI-assisted shit.
On a different note… Bangkok is good at triggering people (he’s especially good at triggering LIBERAL/SOCIALIST cocksuckers and RINOS).
That’s why I know that you’re a fucken Beantown LIBERAL RINO (i.e., a ‘pretend’ republican) who voted for Pocahontas.
Admit it, you fucken socialist asshole!!!!!!!! 🙂
Problem is, you just don’t understand basic economics.
Socialism doesn’t work. It never has. It never will.
Boston is an economic shithole drowning in debt. IMO, Trump should strip that socialist hellhole of all federal funding until it wises up.
I implore you to PLEASE DITCH YOUR SOCIALIST BELIEFS!
Have a nice day! 🙂
NiceGuy
Reply to Bangkok
Dude, I’m a blue-state Republican.
A Lover of capitalism!
I love Bush and Nixon!
Sorry, I don’t like Donnie.
Nutjob
Reply to NiceGuy
Did NiceGuy get triggered?
A. Yes. Bangcock did it again
B. No. He just felt compelled to share random political noise in his head.
Bangkok
Reply to NiceGuy
LOL. True ‘Republicans’ don’t vote for Pocahontas, sir.
Frank would never do that shit. Neither would I.
You don’t like ‘Donald’ because of deportations, which means you suffer from toxic empathy. That’s a classic socialist mindset.
It makes you feel ‘sad’ to deport people, right? But that’s only because keeping them here doesn’t cost you anything personally (if you had to pay 25% of your paycheck to feed them each month, you’d quickly change your tune).
Let me ask you a question, sir.
What’s the point of even having a border?
Why do countries have borders?
Why does Mexico have a southern border that prevents massive numbers of Guatemalans from entering illegally?
Why? It’s because they don’t want them in their country.
Yes, even Mexico is a hypocrite (they keep out illegal Guatemalans while demanding that the USA accept tens of millions of illegal Mexicans).
Grow a backbone. You’re not any more virtuous than me.
Please change your tune, or I’m gonna personally ask the Republican Party of Massachusetts to boot your ass right onto the pavement, sir.
Have a good day. 🙂
NiceGuy
Reply to Bangkok
People who live in their parents’ basement and threaten to call ICE on their Guatemalan nanny shouldn’t talk.
The Hirsute Heartthrob
These men inspired me by their exchanges and I entered the Bulwar Lyton Plagiarism of Purple Prose Contest only to learn the contest no longer exists or never did exist. So I chose to write a Harlequin Romance novel based on a true story but protecting the anonymity of participants just as Mr. Anonymous would want it.
I call it:
Lip-Locked in Bangkok.
Here is an excerpt from Chapter 14: Braces & Embraces
Jenny was 54. Bangkok was just 18, though he talks and writes, and when he doesn’t shave, he was prematurely hirsute even at age 18, looks like he is a lot older.
He had won over Jenny who thought he was at least 21.
Bangkok was bold. He stuck his tongue out at her. She put it in her mouth. Jenny surrendered completely to the invigorating intermingling of their spit — not the Polident-tasting spittle of old age, nor the salivary excretions of middle-age, with its tart hints of gingivitis even among those who floss daily, but the invigorating drool of youth–spittle that dazzled the uninitiated with its exquisite hints of promise, innocence, and braces.
And Bangkok was far from done.
Like a bird gliding over the surface of a Wyoming river rippled by a gentle Spring breeze, Bangkok’s hand passed over her stretch marks.
Jenny bit her lip anxiously, hoping with every nerve, cell, and fiber of her being that Bangkok would be the one man (actually teenager) who would understand—who would take her away from all this—and who would not just squeeze her boob and make a loud honking noise, as Snorlax had.
Strawberry Ripple Nights
But in fairness to Snorlax, Snorlax had kissed Jenny back then with a certain vigour – not in a lingering manner as a connoisseur might sip a glass of 1963 vintage Taylor Port, but more clamorous, if not voracious, like an unhoused individual applying his mouth around a bottle of Strawberry Ripple near the dumpster behind the 7-11.
Oops, sorry Snorlax, we had the wrong photo. Disregard the above. See below.
But Snorlax was a stolid man, prone to excessive and extended bursts of emotionlessness; but don’t put him down for it, for when he loved, he loved with the passion of a dog itching its face against the grain of a firm pile carpet.
The Gentleman Called Pilgrim
And she also remembered Pilgrim; how could she ever forget him?
For a time she wanted—no—she needed Pilgrim, oh, what she would have given if he only knew that he was the first thing on her mind at the start of each day, if he knew that she yearned, yearned to be happily by his side at the spring dance, yes, she needed Pilgrim unless Benji Carver dumped that bleach blond snob Peah Onyu in time, in which case she’d need Benji.
Still, she met Pilgrim’s gaze with an intensity that couldn’t have been matched by even a starving junkyard dog in the meat aisle of a suburban supermarket.
The Boil & Bubble of Jenny’s Heart
But she forgot them all, all the men she had been with, including Nice Guy’s father – though she was not certain which of all the men she had been with actually was Nice Guy’s father, and if she was even conscious when it happened for she had both narcolepsy and the habit of falling asleep when she was bored – she probably would not remember his name – and maybe not be able to pick him out of a lineup – though she was pretty sure it wasn’t Nutjob for he was always exciting – like that time when he stood looking at her.
She was seductively naked except for a bra and a pair of pants, the smile on her face come-hitherish and inviting, but a little aloof, but Nutjob won her heart with a clever bit of sophism paired with parsing as he riffed on etymology and the oddities of colloquial usage when he quipped “Why are they called a pair of pants, much better English if it were a pair of bras and a pant?”
But she forgot all that, even Nutjob and all the men she loved before, who traveled in and out her door, all the men she once caressed who held her breast – yes she forgot them – like she always did when someone was groping her like she was now being groped, and despoiled by Bangkok.
The youth and the middle-aged lovers’ lips latched to each other, not unlike the way in which, to be lyrical, two coital snails would, with both slime and suction, frothing as if someone had just poured salt on them.
Nice Guy’s Question
Then suddenly, Nice Guy came in and said, “Mom, I’m home.”
Seeing Bangkok with his mother canoodling and in a cuddlesome embrace, he asked the question he invariably asked his mother since he was a boy –”Is this my father?”
Jenny did not have the heart to lie to him, but she also did not know who his real father was, and she knew that broke the dear boy’s heart, so she said “maybe” because Bangkok was prematurely hirsute, though he was the same age as Nice Guy.
And Jenny had to sit down and tell Bangkok to keep his hands to himself when their “son” was in the room.
To be continued in our next chapter, Chapter 15—Zamboni of the Heart.
Here is a music cue I wrote for the score of this tender love story. This cue comes in when Nice Guy realized Bangkok is not his father
https://frankreport.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/09/not-nice-guys-dad-aflat.m4a
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