Forecasting Sucks

There seems to be a theme thread in the next couple blogs.

One key word ties it all together. Or not.

Meterologists in Colorado are an amusing lot: on Monday, the extended weather forecast through to the weekend was day time highs in the 60s and 70s, night time lows in the 30s, little/no precipitation in the forecast.

Not unusual in October's "Indian Summer" hereabouts.

Then Tuesday, they reported a "blip" on the horizon: a possible snow maker in-bound. Cold air to the north and west; moisture to the south and west. Possible junction point: Southeast Colorado. Which hereabouts results in what the meteorological types call an "upslope", when the counterclockwise flow of low pressure in SE Colorado piles up whatever bad weather comes with it against the foothills, as it did in the celebrated Blizzards of 1982 and 2003.

Depends on where the 'low' sets up, that determines who gets their winter booty kicked.

On early Wednesday morning, I just heard the radio meteorologist suggest that "Denver could get 1-3" of snow; or significantly more". Naturally, the western 'burbs (aka, moi's locality) and foothills could get 4-8"; or significantly more".

*TOING*

Either way, the National Weather Service is now talking about posting blizzard advisories/winter storm warnings for much of the Front Range of Colorado, effective late Wednesday night/early Thursday morning.

I've seen my share of actual blizzards, here and in both Iowa and Kansas; they ain't pretty, unless you're already hunkered down where you wanna be, with lots of supplies and a snowblower the size of an Abrams battle tank. Whereas, a winter storm warning merely means it's going to snow not quite enough to qualify it as a blizzard, but conditions can cumulate to a point where the difference is...eh.

If you have to work or travel in it, the difference is such that either tends to suck.

According to The Weather Channel, a blizzard is determined to be so when (a) the winds are blowing at 35 mph or more (b) for at least 3 hours (c) causing falling/fallen snow to blow around reducing visibility to 1/4 mile or less. Thus, if the winds blow at 34.5 mph for 2 hours and 59 minutes, and visibility due to blowing/drifting snow is 1/3 mile, it's only a winter storm. On the other hand, it's referred to as a gizzard if (a) the winds exceed 35 mph (b) for four hours or more (c) causing chickens to toss their gizzards (d) reducing visibility to the distance one needs to ralph into something handy.

Since this hasn't been brought up by the National Weather Service, I'm digressing.

By Friday, we'll be back to "Indian Summer" like weather. Colorado is psychotic. Guess that's half the fun of living here.

Check in Thursday morning to see if we're ass-deep in snow drifts, or it's another Dewey Beats Truman story...

UPDATE (0430am October 26): it's snowing in Green Mountain. It's snowing heavier to the west and south. The winds hereabouts have failed to achieve blizzard status; nor have I witnessed any chicken gizzards flying about. Different situation apparently to the west and south (snow-wise; dunno 'bout the gizzards). Denver's morning commute will be starting for many within the hour; Denver's version of demolition derby will be starting by 6a.

'Cept for me; I'm going to watch a few South Park videos.

Ice Capades

(Note: this marks my 200th blog entry. *sound of crickets chirping...*)

A "significant snowmaker" was inbound for the central and northern mountains of Colorado this past Tuesday, October 17, 2006. It was projected to drop 8-18" of snow in those locales, with lesser amounts in the foothills and Denver proper. It was due to arrive in the late afternoon-early evening, and do it's "make skiers happy dance" by Wednesday morning.

The last storm that was predicted -- a couple weeks prior -- was a bust: of the 8" of snow projected for the foothills, we got phfffft. Like many folks hereabouts, I was in a "show me" mode, and I'm not from Missouri.

So my doubts led me to violate several of my general rules when driving into the foothills during the winter months: (a) never on less than a half-tank of gas (b) never without my winter kit in the trunk (c) never without my spare parka in the trunk and (d) never without a spare change of clothes, in case I get stuck at work. I drove up on less than a half-tank, had none of my winter gear aboard, and I wore a light fleece, figuring the snow would arrive, if at all, when I was heading home. Besides, it was the "Friday" of my work week, and I wasn't worried. Eh.

I arrived at work at 0630. The boss arrived at 0900.

So did the snow.

Within an hour, there was a nice, wintery dusting of snow on the everything but the roads; they were just wet. It was almost a picture-perfect Christmas card scene, right outside the window.

By noon, the snow collecting on the patio outside of the deli was about 4" in depth; the snow was just starting to stick to the sections of roadway that weren't driven on. The outside thermometer remained hovering at 28 degrees.

Eh.

By 2pm, I suggested to the boss that perhaps he oughta think about heading for his mandatory meeting at the corporate office in Lakewood (about 30 miles away), even though it was 2 hours later; one look out the window convinced him that this was sound advice.

The road surface was now all white. The outside thermometer now read 24 degrees. And the snowfall was intensifying.

Uh-oh.

At about 2:30p, the boss called me on his cell phone: the roads were crapola; there were accidents and vehicles every which way in the town below ours, and down the canyon highway (which he was gingerly trying to negotiate down), including a now broadside-to-the-road bus. His effort to use the new parkway route and I-70 came acropper: in trying to make the turn to go that route, his Jeep slid right on past the turnoff.

Now the fun begins, I knew from 10 years of winters on the hill. The "fun" being extremely subjective, of course.

With the early onset of the storm, and the sudden, rapid deterioration of the roads, the county and state road crews weren't Johnny-on-the-spot; in the city, they had too little to work with and too much to work on. Thus, the local road net went to sushi in a cathouse. A growing number of patrons were piling up in the lobby, patiently waiting for buses that were now either jammed up behind accidents and bottlenecks, or were the accidents and bottlenecks. Word came in via our radio scanner that there were several accidents on CO 119 below the town below us; a couple more in that town; and on the alternate route -- the new parkway to I-70 -- more vehicles were discovering that ice on a sloped road makes everything else slope too. Right into the guard rails or hillsides.

As 3pm came and went, the patience of patrons awaiting buses started wearing thin; having only the information I was getting over the scanner (Wrecks R Us.com), I was only able to advise repeatedly "stay in the lobby and we'll let you know when your bus arrives". That wasn't getting it done for a growing number of impatients.

So, even knowing what to expect when I did so, I called the respective bus companies to get "assessements of the situation":

One bus dispatcher: All service is suspended until further notice.
Another bus dispatcher: Beats me.

That was my kind of candor.

The third bus company dispatcher was a talking-points champion: our buses are running 15 minutes behind schedule.
Me: Did you say only 15 minutes?
Dispatcher: Yes, our buses are running 15 minutes behind schedule.
Me: Are you kidding me?
Dispatcher: Our buses are running 15 minutes behind schedule.
Me: Ma'am, your buses were 15 minutes behind schedule over an HOUR ago.
Dispatcher: I'm telling you what my boss is telling me: our buses are running 15 minutes behind schedule.
Me: Thanks for letting me know your boss is a fool.

I'll probably hear about that one, later.

Armed with this wonderful knowledge, I gathered the ever-growing throng together, and gave them the news: bus service is off-schedule due to accidents and road conditions (Duhhhh). Stay inside, and listen for announcements as conditions change and buses arrive. While the audible *groan* resonated around the lobby, I looked outside and wondered and how am I gonna deliver on this?

Simple: I had my dispatcher advise me of any changes in road access he heard on the scanner; then I parked myself out on the valet ramp, where I could see buses in-bound (once the roads re-opened), and identify which ones they were, so I could radio inside and have PA announcements made to the throng.

Clad only in my short sleeve golf shirt and Dockers, while it was now 23 degrees.

Good thing Mama couldn't see me now.

Of course, the impatiently-waiting patrons weren't the only ones wondering how and when they'd get home: my shift personnel and those of other departments, wondered too. Most of them were bus riders, and none of them wanted to stay on the hill after their shift. When one of my officers asked me about this (with it being his first winter on the hill), his face fell half a foot when I gave him the short answer: you're here until relieved. So goes it for all of us in Security. Including yours truly, "Friday Boy".

He didn't like that, but he was in full agreement with my concluding statement: sucks to be us on days like this.

Yawp.

And for the next two hours, I spent most of the time on the valet ramp, watching for ever-so-slowly arriving buses (as traffic opened up, closed up, opened up, etc), identifying which was which, and getting the right folks to the right buses, while getting snowed on, splashed on, and leaned on (more than a few were on walkers, canes, etc).

More than a couple of the elderly ladies -- with their maternal instincts in full bloom -- almost begged me to go inside and get a coat on. I'm keeping warm by keeping busy, I lied.

Moms never stop bein' moms.

One heart-stopper came when a school bus on the uphill lane across the street, began to slide toward the ravine with kids aboard. It stopped short (the driver managed to somehow guide it up against an obstruction short of the ravine), and the kids were off-loaded into our casino (normally a big no-no, but not in this case; we put 'em in the deli area, and local police began contacting their parents, while arrangements were made to get another bus to pick 'em up). Beat leavin' them outside, and no one in authority was arguing.

Finally -- approaching about 6pm -- the bus-blocked road across the street opened up, and our relief crew arrived, only an hour late. The lobby had largely been emptied of bus-riding patrons. And by 6:30pm, I had my loose ends tied up. Save for one: getting home myself.

My ride would normally be 40 minutes using the canyon, or 30 minutes using the parkway and I-70. The parkway/I-70 was out: there was a 30 car mosh pit at the Genesee exit, east bound, and right in my path. So it was the canyon option. But it would only take one vehicle to close it again.

Meantime, I was being asked to give rides down for three employees whose buses hadn't yet materialized. And, of course, all three needed different bus station drop-offs, none of which were close together.

Eh.

So the normal 40 minute drive was 2 hours, when I finally parked at my place. But I was satisfied: all things considered, we'd done alright.

And the next morning, when I woke up with a low-grade fever and runny nose, I was also satisfied that I should have been better prepared, just like those two experienced moms said.

I am now.

Flight Of The Snowbirds

During that recent trip made necessary by one of the seminal facets of life -- death -- my younger brother and I found ourselves in Mesa, Arizona, part of the Greater Phoenix Metro area.

With it being mid-September at the time, we arrived in the early stages of an annual migration known as the flight of the snowbirds. A time when many retired folk, who leave the summer oven of southern Arizona, choose to return there. They leave behind places like North Dakota, where summer gives way to the Ice Age.

Neither of us had been to Mesa heretofore; we didn't find it much cooler after 5, 6 or 7 in the evening, either. Not having considered the migratory season in process, we had a harder time finding hotel accommodations than had been anticipated, but find something we did: a Travelodge, along the main street of Mesa.

After getting settled, we decided to look around for a place to graze (our last sustenance had been via a McD's in southern Colorado, hours and miles ago). By merely walking around the corner of the east side of the hotel, I found a "family steak house", right next door.

When we entered, my brother immediately noted that it had to be a disguised Furr's Cafeteria: with only two exceptions (staff), we were the youngest people in the place. With us being 49 and 44, that said something. My brother suggested it said that adult beverages would be served fortified with shots of Geritol or Ensure; I told him to just do with the shooter what I usually did with a side of coleslaw: ignore it, and it might slink away. Over the next couple of days, our other restaurant experiences were pretty much similar. It quickly became obvious that Mesa -- like Sun City, on the NW edge of Phoenix -- was heavily if not exclusively geared toward the retirement generation.

Other tip-offs we noted:

-- a number of RV park communities along the main street and in other residential areas of Mesa, not to mention the ever-increasing number of RVs we encountered on the road as we got closer to Mesa. While hummingbirds migrate to their winter homes in Mexico on their tiny 90 mph wings, human snowbirds opt for the comfort of an RV, eliminating arm cramps and the need of copious amounts of Icy Hot.

-- the heavy use in neighborhoods of golf carts, in lieu of cars, bicycles, etc.

-- the seeming presence/appearance of a funeral home or mortuary, about every third block.

It didn't take a rocket scientist or his older brother much to grasp that we were in a community heavily geared to retirees. Of course, the presence of so many funeral homes made one aspect of our business there easy; it also added a touch of morbid humor to an otherwise somber visit (like during the arrangements we needed to make, our very pleasant, serious attendant cracked up when I lightened the atmosphere by asking if they served cadaviar at parties therein).

Our second evening there, while lounging outside of the room in the dark yet still very warm air of a September evening, we began waxing a touch philosophical. My brother began musing about how, 25 years ago, he had been accepted to attend Arizona State University, in nearby Tempe; only a lack of funds/grants prevented his following through. Years ago, the fiscal reality annoyed him; now, seeing what he'd seen of Mesa, he decided he wasn't sorry he'd missed the opportunity. I found that notion amusing: I suggested that were we to venture about 40 minutes to the west, we'd be sitting in environs probably more conducive to co-eds and tank tops tht didn't look so out-of-sorts as hereabouts.

It was about that time in the evening that we had our brief encounter with the rather interesting 'resident' of the Travelodge; but that's for another time...

Anyway, it got me to pondering life, aging and our diverse views of such. My younger brother -- married and having two daughters -- remains firmly in that category of folks who are "young at heart", and finds the advance of age merely a myth and technicality, easily overcome by vehement denial. He wasn't wild about hanging around in places where the average age could be our mother. Even though he reveres Ma.

I, on the other hand, have a more "that's life" attitude: while I do some things to sort of resist the advance of age, I tend to accept that I'm not what I was almost 30 years ago. Indeed, I subscribe to a notion that many men who reach between their 40s and 50 or so go through what I call "male menopause": they buy a sports car, get toupees, dump their wives and go get 20 year old girlfriends so they can show the world (and probably prove to themselves) that they can do now, what they did at 20.

Speaking for me, I can't afford a sports car, let alone the insurance for one (and living in four-season Colorado, don't want one anyway); I don't need a toupee; and even with not having a wife to dump, the notion of getting a 20 year old girl friend scares the snarf outta me. Bottom line: I don't need to prove to anyone I can do now what I did at 20: I didn't do much at 20, and I'm better than ever now at not doing much.

A person's view of life and aging is every bit as subjective as ones' view of humor: we all have our respective standards we adopt and tend to live by. A recently retired colleague of mine is 65, and fancies himself as still very young at heart. As such, he seeks the companionship of females half his age, many of whom don't see the young heart inside the 65 year old exterior. But the diminutive, energetic former Queens (NY) Italian named 'Vinnie' keeps trying.

More power (and Viagra) to him.

Other retirees, well...a goodly number of them are more physically active than I am. Take Mr. Six Flags (pictured above): he barely gets off the bus, then goes into a dance routine that would put me in six months of traction. And I'll be able to keep up push-up wise, with Jack LaLanne.

Maybe when he's 110.

Or not.

Funny how situations in real life can lead into philosophical examinations of a life and how it's lived, such as the flight of the snowbirds. Which was momentarily interrupted by a visit from that 'resident' of the Travelodge. That led to another interesting philosophical discussion in her wake, but I digress and that's for another time...

Political Ads Nauseum

*Warning: personal political opinions upcoming*

Not that I could really miss it, but an election is in the offing. One needn't have a calendar to tell it: sniff the air and the definitive smell of the season is unmistakable.

Bullsh**.

I used to be immune to the smell, but that was when I lived on a farm, many moons ago.

And not just from the smell in the air from the audio compost flowing to and fro: but from that compost what's winding up in my voice mail and snail mail, too.

I came home from a family matter to find on my phone several political voice messages: one urging me to vote for or against some local ballot initiative (here in CO, there are almost more ballot initiatives and amendments to clutter the ballots in '06 than there are candidates running for office); another, some local pol running for something (spit-on-the-sidewalk enforcer or some such), urging me to vote for him and even leaving me his home phone number so I can call "anytime" so he can sway my vote. Others urging me to vote yes and no on several of the same amendments.

Phffft.

Tempting as it was to call the one candidate for whatever at 3am and ask if his name was Foley, I resisted the urge. Frankly, it wouldn't matter to me if it was: I ain't no stinking naive punk congressional page. Try that crap with me and I'll tie your ears around the backside of your mangy haid.

Despite my quick and deft handling of the *delete* button on my phone, there's no easy *delete* button for radio and TV these days: political ads are SOPC*. Some are sponsored by the candidates and their campaigns; a good many others are sponsored by those infamous 527s that McCain/Feingold deigned were better for us under their notion of "campaign finance reform".

Thanks, John and Russ. You idiots.

So I get to listen to some group formed out of junkyard methane, prattling on about how the current Colorado Secretary of State is "taking marching orders from the party bosses" and "trampling our civil rights", and demanding that we all rush right down to the Capitol and show our indignation with this "undermining of our constitutional rights" by *gasp* some party appointee of the governor. Or how a candidate running for the congressional seat in my district will, if elected, "take away the Social Security benefit for millions of seniors". And yet how another candidate -- because he's "pro-life" -- is "anti-woman".

Bet his wife and family didn't know he was such a bastard as that, eh? Good thing those 527s are there to set us poor, misguided voters straight. By throwing fact out with the baby AND the bath water, and substituting wholesale lies and character assassination instead. Ocktoberfest should be renamed Ockcompostfest in election cycles. 'Cuz there's a sh**load of it overflowing the radio and TV right now.

And yet, amidst the storm of ca-ca, once in a while something almost pleasantly political comes across. While enroute from Point B back to Point A, I listened in on something rare of late: a political debate between two persons of differing views. Not that the debate itself is rare; but the tone of the debate is what made it rare. It was civil. It wasn't Chris Matthews and Bill O'Reilly going "I can out-smear YOU!"; it was two persons of differing ideologies having a reasoned, thoughtful, rational, INTELLIGENT discussion wherein disagreements were discussed, points made by both were acknowledged, and neither denigrated the other as "mean-spirited", "part of the culture of corruption" or "in league with terrorists and traitors".

Hatemongers on the Left and Right might not have liked hearing it, but I did. To me, it was proof that political civility isn't dead; it's just out of step with the deceitful, assassination-by-fabrication/over-embellishing Michael Moore and Michael Savage crowds.

I know I'm asking for something that isn't practical or entertaining in today's political arena, but just once I'd like to read or hear the following from both opponents about the other: "Hi, I'm so-and-so, and I'm running for such-and-such, just as my worthy opponent is. Personally, I like my opponent: he/she is a good, well-meaning, decent citizen I'd enjoy having a beer with, or could trust my kids with. But on some of the issues, we differ as to how to best get to where we need to be. I believe that my approach is superior to his/hers, and here's why....".

But that's my own version of unrealistic polyanna: political civility will never make it past Moron.org, the DNC, RNC or most 527s: too boring. Political operatives say that attack ads resonate, and you need to make your opponent sound like a blood-sucking ogre:

"Hi. If true freedom and liberty, if world peace and universal good will means anything to you, then you'll elect me instead of that Hitleresque heathen that's running against me. Did you know that at the age of 3, my opponent was a shameless bed-wetter? Or that at the age of four, kicked a cat? And you'd be outraged to know that at the age of 7, the devil incarnate farted in church, and blamed his/her sister! In college, this lowlife, scum-sucking naziphile actually drank alcohol and had sex with a hamster! Worse, he/she killed Kenny! That BASTARD/BITCH!

If you elect him/her, this is what you'll bring down upon unenlightened, progressive civilization: an end to Social Security, school lunch programs, health care for indigent and the poor; violating the voting rights of millions of illegal aliens, dead people and the unregistered, by -- gasp -- requiring that a valid ID be presented to vote; poisoning of the air and water and the paving over of rainforests and wetlands; wire-tapping of wrongly-accused criminals and persons unfairly profiled as potential terrorists; re-enslavement of minorities and women; vast, unimaginable increases in putting education over touchy-feely progressive indoctrination in the schools; ever-increasing corporate welfare for Halliburton and the military industrial complex; and run-amok talk of folks having to be self-responsible and accountable for their actions!

STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT!

WHAT CAN YOU DO TO STOP THIS SHAMELESS ASSAULT ON FREEDOM AND THE NEW DEAL?

Elect ME, instead. I, and I alone, can save you from a fate akin to returning to the 1950s! The McCarthyesque 1950s! Just imagine: if you elect my hideous opponent, No IPods! No Blackberries! No bluetooths! No laptop computers and cell phones! Back to black and white TV and I Love Lucy!

Vote for ME before it's TOO LATE!

I am me, and I approve this waaaaaaaaaaaay over-the-top message. Paid for by Moron.org, under the guise of some 527 group with a "good fuzzies" sounding name.

Yeah, I know: fat chance that my preference will win out over the above example. That's simply how the way the game is played. By over-the-toppers on both sides.

Guess I'll just hold my nose and wait to go vote.

And then only ONCE, ACORN (and that means one vote per legally REGISTERED voter, ACORN, not one vote per real or imagined biological entity, regardless of dead or alive, citizen, cartoon character or pet).

* Standard Operating Procedural Crap

Go Widda Flow VIII

I've concluded that Evans Ofuggu would have been perfect as a front-row prop for the hilarious ventriolquist team of Jeff Dunham and Peanut:

Peanut: Hey, Ofuggu...*shoots hand backward over his head*..Yaaaah!
Ahahahahahahahaha!

That's pretty much what this has become: in just about every past scam that I have been directed to use Western Union -- and after the dog and pony show with my notion of "using" Western Union (*snort*) -- most of my 419ers have grasped that they're not going to scam a nickel from this hyar feller.

But not ol' Evans Ofuggu. A curable optimist, this one:

PHULOVIT:

I AM INDEED VERY SORRY ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED. I HAVE CONFRONTED THE WESTERN UNION AND THEY STILL INSIST THAT THE TRANSACTION CANNOT BE FOUND. ANYWAY, I THINK WHAT WE HAVE TO DO RIGHT NOW IS TO WORK TOGETHER TO SEE THAT EVERYTHING GO THROUGH.

PLEASE LETS DO IT THIS WAY. I AM GOING TO LOOK FOR MEANS TO RAISE $1,800 (just hit up another of your intended victims) SO PLEASE TRY YOUR BEST AND SEE IF YOU CAN RAISE THE SUM OF $2,000 AND SEND TO ME, SO THAT I CAN ADD THE TWO TOGETHER TO COMPLETE THIS.

WHAT HAPPENED IS JUST A MISERY THAT I CAN NOT UNDERSTAND. SINCE WESTERN UNION IS NO LONGER RELIABLE, USE MONEY GRAM.

SORRY FOR INCONVINENCE THIS MIGHT HAVE CAUSED YOU.I BELIEVE AT THE END OF TRANSACTION THE PAIN THIS IS WILL BE MADE UP FOR, AND YOU WILL GAIN ALL YOU HAVE LOST.

PLEASE BEAR WITH ME. I CHANGE THE PASSWORD SO THAT NO ONE ELSE CAN ACCESS MY MAILBOX. USE THIS INFORMATION FOR MONEYGRAM (it was the same person to be sent to -- Anthony Dumebi -- but a different street address in Lagos). PLEASE DO THIS SOONEST, SINCE TIME IS NOT ON OUR SIDE.

SINCERELY,

EVENS OFUGGU

Oh, what the hell:

Evens:

Okay. I've trusted you this far, despite the fiscal loss I've suffered by following your instructions. I guess I can try once more.

However, this will cause me to have to travel: there is no Money Gram place in Vaduz; I think I will have to be driven to Zurich, Switzerland, to find such a place. This will take me a day or so to plan out and complete. But since I believe that you are whole heartedly giving me the business, and that I believe you are whole-heartedly genuine in that regard, I will reciprocate with equal genuinity.

Give me a couple days, and I will try this again, from Zurich.

Upon receipt of this, Evans/Evens has an inexplicable change of mind:

Phulovit:

I have gone through your mail and the content was quite understood. I don't want you to start going through stress of travel to send money to me. Since I change mailbox passwod I think we will not get interupted anymore.

Go ahead and I will like you to use Western Union from where you are. Please send this on Monday, even though Monday is a public holiday here, due to our independence celebration (I was going to ask him for which coup this is celebrating, but decided not to bog things down any further). I can get money Tuesday this way. Use this information (again, same person, but yet another different street address in Lagos). Do this immediate and send me the MTCN number.

Two can play the holiday game:

Evans:

No MoneyGram? No travel? Okay, I guess I'll trust your judgement on another try with Western Union.

It will be Wednesday morning before I can do this, however: like you, we have a national celebration here in Liechtenstein, but it is a two-day event. The Dancing Crustaceans of the Eternal Yoda celebration. It's a strange, yet unique-to-Liechtenstein event, a little like that pagan Mardi Gras thing in America's New Orleans.

So I will have Western Union dispatch your $2,000 first thing on Wednesday. This time I feel confident that both sides will realize the actualities, Evens.

Sort of.

So Wednesday morning, I send Evens a quick "here tis" email with yet another bogus Western Union MTCN number, which Evens or his nefarious colleague, Anthony Dumbei (aka Martian Okoh, me thinks), runs right to Western Union with.

Only to receive, apparently, the start of a rude awakening:

ATTN: PHULOVIT

WHAT IS GOING ON.

I WANT TO TELL YOU THAT I HAVE JUST OCME BACK FROM THE WESTERN UNION, AND WAS TOLD THAT THE MONEY YOU CLAIM TO SEND WAS NOT FOUND IN THERE SYSTEM. I BELIEVE IN YOU SO I ARGUE WITH THEM AND THEY INSULT ME MUCH AND HUMILIATE ME WITH PUBLIC THERE.

THIS WAS EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED IN THE MONEY THAT YOU SAID YOU SENT PREVIOUS. I HAVE MADE A TOROUGH CHECK WITH THE WESTERN UNION. THERE IS NO MONEY SENT. THEY TELL ME YOU ARE MAKING FOOL OF ME.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING. GET BACK TO ME NOW.

Usually at this point, I make with my version of Eric Cartman from South Park, and let my scammer know he's dumber than a dung-covered door knob.

But not this time; this time, I'll try the old Sally Struthers ploy:

My good Evens Ofuggu:

Okay...you caught me. The truth is: I don't have $2,000 to send you.

I am broke. I can't even afford a pot to pith in. Do you KNOW what it's like to not even be able to afford a pith pot? Do you KNOW what it's like to grow up dirt poor, living on the WRONG side of the tracks? I didn't even know there WAS a WRONG side of the tracks; but the other kids -- those who had parents with MONEY -- always made fun of me, telling me I came from the wrong side of town.

On the right side of town was the love of my life. But I don't dare knock on her door, 'cuz her daddy was my boss man. So I just had to be content, to see her whenever I could. Then, we were caught. And I was fired.

Now, I clean outhouses on that poor side of town.

It isn't fair, Evans: THEY had all the toys, THEY had all the cars, THEY had the dates with the HOT women. And ME? I had NOTHING. Being from the WRONG side of the tracks meant I couldn't get ahead; those greedy, mean-spirited other-side-of-the-trackers aced me out. I wound up living in a flop house, a two-room tenement with no heat, no flushing commode, candles for light, and a room full of dead flies. I can't even afford LIVE FLIES, Evans.

Then you come along -- you, with hundreds of thousands of dollars. You, with money to burn, looking for someone like me to give it to. You come along and offer me a way out. You offer me a DREAM. And you offered to protect me from HOODLUMS and TOUTS.

I ask you, Evens, what was I to do?

So yes...I lied. I didn't send you $2,000. I didn't have it to send. I hoped that if you had gone ahead and sent me the $800,000, that I could then make it up on you. I really would have, you know.

But...if you forgive me, and find it in the goodness of some bodily organ to still commit to sending me these hundreds of thousands of dollars, I could make it up to you. I could make a difference in my life, by getting a nicer place with a flushing toilet and full of live flies that I wouldn't be stepping on all the time. If you'll do that, I promise I'll make payments to you, until you have all the $2,000. Really. Honest.

If you have a beverage of human kindness in you, you could make a difference for a suffering lad in Liechtenstein, Evens. And I could send you letters and pictures, showing you the joy in my heart and the smile on my face, for the difference your few hundred thousand dollars is making in the life of a Liechtenstein waif from the wrong side of the tracks. Walter Coppage and Sally Struthers would honor you, Evens. On this you could be sure.

Heck, I might even get laid: women don't like to roll around in dead flies, Evens.

So Evans, that's my confession. Will you still work with me in giving me this business you promised?

Apparently not: Evans isn't much impressed with an autographed picture from Walter or Sally, as his continued silence ever since receiving the above, suggests.

Frankly, neither would I be, but I digress.

Go Widda Flow VII

My oh my; give a 419er what he says he wants, and...we're back to meltdown. But not realization. Not quite yet.

When I last updated you, my benefactor and protector, Evens Ofuggu (his latest name change) had asked me to make the Western Union payments to two separate gents of dubious antecedence in Lagos, Nigeria, and forward to him the Western Union MTCNs. And he had assured me that all the fakes and frauds -- like this Martian Okoh -- were out of the picture.

So naturally reassured, I did as I was bade. Sort of. I sent him two thoroughly made-up MTCN numbers to try cashing in at Western Union in Lagos.

The wheels are starting to come off down in Scam Central. Witness this reply from Evens...or is it Martian Okoh again?

FROM THE DESK OF: Mr. Martin Okoh Tele: 234-80-29466861

ATTN: PHULOVIT

RE: RECTIFY THIS

I SENT THEM TO THE WESTERN UNION TO PICK UP THE FUND THAT YOU SENT, THEY CAME BACK AND CONFIRM THAT THE TRANSACTION DID NOT GO THROUGH.I WENT AHEAD AND CALLED THE WESTERN UNION OFFICE AND THEY CONFIRM THE SAME THING.

I WILL LIKE YOU TO GO TO THE WESTERN UNION OFFICE THAT YOU MADE THE PAYMENT IMMEDIATELY, AND FIOUND OUT WHAT IS HOLDING THE FUN. IF THEY REFUSED TO COMPELTE THE TRANSACTION, YOU WITHDRAW THE PAYMENT AND SEND THE MONEY THROUGH MONEY GRAM.

I WANT YOU TO DO SO IMMEDIATELY. TO AVOID ANY FURTHER HITCH MAKE SURE YOU DON'T GO THROUGH BANK TO MAKE THE PAYMENT OTHERWISE THEY WILL STOP IT.

RECTIFY THIS IMMEDIATELY AND CALL ME ON 234-80-29466861.

MR. EVENS OFUGGU

And he told me Martian Okoh was "out of the picture". Uh huh...well, here' s my "ratchet up the tweak" reply:

Evens...or is it Martian, again?

What in the doorknob dildo is Martian Okoh's name doing on the "From The Desk Of" in the opening of your message? And what do you mean, the money isn't there? OF COURSE IT'S THERE! I SENT IT PERSONALLY! Well, I took it to Western Union here in Vaduz, personally; my long-time friend at Western Union, HE sent it personally. I watched him send it. He gave me the MTCNs that I sent you.

Maybe this Martian Okoh has purloined the money? Or are your Lagos Western Union people trying to cheat you?

I am not happy, Evens.

The next reply from Evans (this time) comes without "From the desk of Martian Okoh":

RE: RECTIFY THIS

MR OKOH IS OUT OF THE PICTURE, HE CANNOT INTERCEPT THE TRANSAXTTION IN ANY WAY. JUST TRY TO CLARIFY THIS WITH THE WESTERN UNION. AS SOON AS YOU FINISH WITH THEM, I WILL WANT YOU TO ATTACHE THE PAYMENT SLIP AND SEND IT TO ME.

MAYBE YOU MADE A MISTAKE WHY TYPING THE MTCN NUMBER (oh yeah, go and blame it on me, you who can't even remember who the fork YOU is!). TRY YOUR BEST FOR EVERYTHING IS IN OTHER. I GUARANTEE YOU THAT YOU CAN COUNT ON ME.

Puhhh-lease.

Time to ratchet up the tweak a tad more:

Evens:

I just returned from my Western Union. And I am so disappointed. But first:

if Mr. Martian Okoh is out of the picture, then what was his name doing on your email?

Now to Western Union: they sent the money transfer, and received confirmation from the Lagos branch that it was sent to.

I smell a rat here. A big, butt-ugly, flatulent rat bastard of a rat.

Just what have you and your office brought me to, Evens/Evans? And why does this Martian Okoh keep putting his crank in the works, mucking up things? I thought I could trust you. Why are you forsaking me? I am out $3800, and you have no answers, only more questions!

Evens/Evans does his frustrated best to assauge me in his next:

Phulovit:

I FIND IT DIFFICULT TO BELIEVE WHAT THE WESTERN UNION HAS TOLD YOU. IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR MR. MARTIAN OKOH TO PICK THE MONEY WHEN YOU DID NOT MAKE THE PAYMENT ON HIS NAME. I PLESE WISH YOU WOULD FORGET MR. OKOH, FOR HE CANNOT INTERFERE IN THIS, I PROMISE YOU.

MABYE THE WESTERN UNION AGENT AT YOUR PLACE HAS CAT AWAY WITH THE MONEYAND PRETEND THAT HE SEND IT. I WILL ADVISE YOU TO GO BACK AND QUESTION HIM PROPERLY. MAKE SURE YOU GET TO THE ROOT OF THIS BECAUSE I BET YOU THAT THE MONEY CANNOT BE PICKLED (pickled? ROFLMAO...) LIKE THAT. IS IT NOT THE NAME THAT I GAVE TO YOU THAT YOU USE TO MAKE THE PAYMENT. I WANT YOU TO ATTACH AND SEND TO ME THE PAYMENT SLIP IMMEDIATE.

I AM IN YOUR CORNER ON THIS, PHULOVIT TRUST ME.

This is getting harder to keep a straight email face on...but I'll try in Part VIII.

Go Widda Flow VI

If I hadn't been following this thing myself, I might have looked as incredulous as the folks on the bridge of the Enterprise do. Even Spock's having a tough time following the logic herein.

Prolly 'cuz there ain't any. But eh: that's why I titled this particular series Go Widda Flow.

Two days after I challenged this Martian Okoh to produce authentication (he had only to look at his stupid email header...bonehead), I get a belated reply from hisself, Mr. Evans Ofuggu:

SORRY I COULD NOT REACH YOU SINCE, I TRAVELLED OUT OF TOWN. I RECEIVED YOUR EMAIL AND THE CONTENT QUITE NOTED. I HAVE EQUALLY GONE TO THE BANK TO FIND OUT WHAT WAS GOING ON.I WAS TOLD THAT YOU WROTE TO THEM.

WELL, CONCERNING THOSE LETTERS THAT YOU RECIEVED, I WANT YOU TO IGNORE ANY OF SUCH MAILS.THEY ARE IMPOSTERS, THEY WILL ONLY END UP REAPING YOU OF YOUR MONEY. THERE IS NO MARTIAN OKOH IN THIS OFFICE. MORE HOODLUMS.

THE ONLY PERSON THAT I WANT YOU TO HAVE DEALING WITH RIGHT NOW IS ME AND MR. MATHIAS MERDE (danged if he didn't do it again; adopt my spelling of a name) THE DIRETOR OF AFRICAN DEVELOPMENT BANK.

I WAS TOLD THAT YOU WERE ASKED TO GET SOME DOCUMENTS AS REGARDS THIS TRANSACTION.THE DIRECTOR TOLD ME THAT THE DOCUMENTS NEEDED WAS AN AFFIDAVIT OF CLAIMS, DRUGFREE CERTIFICATE AND ANTI-TERRORIST CERTIFICATE.

I DON'T KNOW IF YOU HAVE ANY OF THESE DOCUMENTS.INCASE YOU DON'T HAVE IT, I WILL WANT YOU TO NOTIFY ME SO THAT I CAN GO AHEAD AND ASSIT YOU IN GETTING THEM.

Now that we're back on the original play script, let's go widda flow:

Evans:

It's about time! Your apology is accepted. I hope you find this Martian Okoh and bury him up to his nose in excretia.

I do not have the documents you have referenced and that Mathias Merde has stated is needed. I will definitely need the claim document; I can assert that I am drug free, other than being drug through the hoodlums and touts that you've warned me about, knowing so much about of them as you do. As for the anti-terrorist certificate, I can assert with no hesitation or mental reservation that I am 100% anti-terrorist, and I have no problem avowing thus in any document of any degree of certifiable value.

BTW, I would look into your DEPUTY, Dr. Donald Smith; he seems to have been in cahoots with this Martian Okoh.

Evans doesn't bother with my closing suggestion (duhhhh), but his next response FINALLY gets to where he's been maneuvering me all along:

RE: PAYMENT INFORMATION

AS I HAVE TOLD YOU, YOU SHOULD NEGLECT ANY MAIL THAT DID NOT COME FROM MR. MATHIAS MERDE OR ME. AS REGARDS THE DOCUEMTS, I HAVE MADE AN ENQUIRY WITH OUR LEGAL ADVICER BARR.AMMED. HE SAID THAT THE AFORMENTIONED DOCUMENTS IS GOING TO COST YOU THE SUM OF $3800 (*TOING*) TO GET THEM. SO YOU HAVE TO TRY YOUR BEST TO RAISE THE MONEY AND SEND IT DOWN IMMEDIATELY , SO THAT HE CAN COMMENCE ON THE PROCESSING OF THE DOCUMENTS.

SEND THE MONEY VIA WESTERN UNION MONEY TRANSFER AS I NOW INSTRUCT YOU:

1.RECIEVER'S NAME..MR. ANTHONY DUMEBI
ADDRESS..2 TOM STR. IKOYI, LOGOS, NIGERIA
TEST QUESTSION..NAME OF CAR
TEST ANSWER..HONDA
AMOUNT...$2,000

2.RECIEVER'S NAME..MR. ABRAHAM IGHO
ADDRESS..6 TOM ST . IKOYI, LAGOS, NIGERIA
TEST QUESTION..NAME OF PET
TEST ANSWER..BINGO
AMOUNT...$1800

DO THIS IMMEDIATELY AND SEND ME THE MTCN NUMBERS.

I WILL ADVISE YOU, WHEN MAKING THE PAYMENT, INCASE YOU ARE ASKED WHOM YOU ARE SENDING THE MONEY TO. TELL THE AGENT THAT YOU ARE SENDING IT TO YOUR BROTHER WHOM IS HANDLING A CHURCH PROJECT IN NIGERIA. OTHERWISE THEY WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO MAKE THE PAYMENT DUE TO THE ISSUE OF TERRORISM AND FRAUD, THEY ARE MAIKING IT DIFFICULT SENDING MONEY OUT OF AMERICA (!!!). TO AVOID ANY HITCH, I WILL ADVICE YOY FOLLOW MY INSTRUCTION.

YOURS SINCERELY,
EVANS OFUGGU

Far be it from me to let him think I'd question him now:

Evans:

I have read and well understand your directions. Since I am not in America, I can project no obstacle to carrying them to completion. I am a bit surprised at the amount this is going to cost me up front, but knowing that you have been guiding me with your extensive knowledge of hoodlums and touts, I am comfortable with your directions and following them to the best of my understanding thereof.

I shall try to bring your effort to give me the business to fruition before the end of business today.

Thank you for all that you've done to give me the business, Evans. Consider this, my accepting your directions in the manure I do, my thanks.

Naturally, I have a couple spare Western Union money transfer forms lying about (I don't go anywhere online without 'em), but decided to save them. I merely waited a reasonable period of time, and then sent Evans the following:

Evans:

As you have so instructed me, I have completed the wire transmission of the funds from my local Western Union branch in Vaduz, Liechtenstein. Here are the MTCN numbers you wished sent to you:

1. Sent to Mr. Anthony Dumbei
Amount: $2,000
MTCN: 4377435701

2. Sent to Mr. Abraham I Aho
Amount: $1,800
MTCN: 4377435705

I await your confirmation of receipt.

Yawp. Shore do. Having done this early enough in the day for him to act upon them, I sit back and await his "confirmation".

The wait comes to an end in Part VII: Those Durned Hoodlums At Western Union...