The 419 Files: A 'Sithole' In Progress

Normally, I would consider the picture at the right indicative of what I find at the end of the rainbow, particularly when I play Powerball, but I digress.

On this occasion, this is exactly what I'm going to help a Nigerian email scammer find.

One with the improbably appropo name of 'Joseph Sithole'.

Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out how I'm gonna play that one now, does it? Or rather my alter igor in such cases, the one and only Dr. U. R. Phulovit, pHd KMAM*.

I received my first offer from the esteemed and soon-to-be-sauteed Mr. Sithole yesterday; using the ever-so-mild variation of his last name in reply, I didn't expect a follow up. But these nipplehea..er..intellectually/ethically 'challenged' persons of dubious antecedence and buffalo breath, tend to get excitable about any kind of reply, even a mildly denigrating one. They think they've hooked a live one.

In essence, the mugu (aka in Nigerian dialect as "a big fool") thinks he's hooked onto a bigger one. Moi. Or more specifically, Dr. Phulovit.

I'll update you as the effort to give me the business (a line I frequently use with these cretins) proceeds apace. At the moment, I am awaiting his presenting me with an emailed copy of his 'passport with photo'. Only after I get his, will he get mine (next update).

Hooha.

* Kiss My Ass, Mugu

Update: October 26, 2005

The opportunity of a phototime is apparently put on hold. Mr. (Oops)hole didn't reply to my insistence on him sending his bona fides before I sent mine; so I sent mine. Still nothing.

I suspect it had something to do with the manure in which I addressed him: Mr. (Oops)hole.

Ignorance is bliss, but apparently this one wasn't quite that ignorant after the first reply.

I do passionately hate when that happens.

Oh well...another 419er is tapping at the email account of the good Doktor Phulovit; with a wee bit of Irish blarney -- okay, a wagonload of it in my case -- ah'll git him to ken an' go fer it. Aye, 'tis a fine mugu he is, be gosh and begorrah.

It's either that, or a meeting with my Southern redneck cousin, Dr. Waldorf Billybob Lipshiz, pH-duheee. Ah'm no' thankin' he'd take kindly to bein' told to git his goat-smellin, egg suckin' backside over hyar so's ah kin open up a can o' whupass on the danged galoot.

Besides, I can't even read what I just writ. And Cousin Lipshiz is a speech therapist?

Lordamightee!