I'm A Baaaaad Santa
*From the blog archives of November 2006*
If you find this illustration (right) from somewhere online indecent, offensive, and totally uncalled for, I can guaran-dang-tee the rest of this post is from the same movement.
Especially if you're an online scammer.
Of course, I could blame MissCellania for this; on a recent post (I believe it was her November 19 Links column) she solicited for, among other things, letters to/from Santa of the humorous nature.
In late November of 2005, I had received a Nigerian email scam letter that was tailor-made for a "bad Santa" reply; and I gave it one befitting of the sender (at least in my opinion), putting it in my "to use" pile for an upcoming blog. But then I got involved in the tiff over my idea of a politically incorrect Xmas column with some blogging malcontent 'Tom' and his "hurls at nativity scenes" friend Michelle, and I forgot about it, leaving it to languish in my email archives.
Until MissCellania's solicitation reminded me to dig it out.
The email title and bad grammar in and of itself was nothing special (I need your urgent respond) from any of the others I was getting, but the first paragraph from Barrister Gabriel Tijani (email@example.com) elevated this one well above the average nonsense:
I must ask you this. do you like children? do you desirous of giving to those who need? are you of the spirit of giving? are you a charitable, upright man with christian soul? if you answer this yes then you are the one I seek.
He went on into the usual gobbletygook about some family perishing in a car accident on one of those delightful highways of Nigerian design and carnage back in 2001, and how the breadripper-offer of the family had left a tidy sum of US dollars in a Lagos bank (about 18.5 million US). And how after years of trying to find next of kin "with no hope of succeed", time was fast approaching that the bank and the Nigerian government were going to confiscate the funds.
Unless you are willing to help me in this 100% risk free transaction to brighten lives (his words). He then went on with this paragraph: Upon release of the funds to you, My own share shall be donated to an orphanage in time for the holiday brightness of the season for the children of less opportunity than I and you will have. I want this brightening of the spirit this giving time. This is my wish that you help me with.
*Sniff*...awwwwwwww. A scammer that wants to help out orphans by giving me the business. I was truly touched by an anvil. I can still hear it ringing in my ears.
Now I confess...I didn't see the movie Bad Santa. Nor have I any plans to. After you read this reply I sent the bannister, you'll see why it isn't necessary for me to do so:
My good fauxson:
Ho ho ho, and that might be yo' mama I'm speaking of here. Your wish in the forwarded email has been electronically selected at Wish-n-Elves-Hear.Net* for special consideration. And that is how your message found it's way directly to me.
Who'm I, you ask? Were I to be present in the flesh -- and there'd be a lot of it, I assure you -- you'd know my belly-full-of-jelly frame, and my jovial ho-ho-ho in an instant. For I bear many names in many denominations: Kris Kringle, St. Nick, Santa Claus...and under some venues I've been called "that fat red bastard" and "Yo bitch, make wif my bling bling!".
Yes, I am He who defies conventional laws of Nature and science by travelling the globe in 31 hours on one night a year, bringing joy and gifts to all the good little boys and girls around the world, save for where heathen practices deny my existence or anti-air defenses try to knock Rudolph's bigass red nose into orbit around Uranus.
Screw them non-believing cheeseballs, but I digress.
Wish of me to help you help yourself under the auspices of benevolence to orphans, eh? Now, that's nice. That's mighty nice. You must have been among the school yard's finest in the milk money reallocation/extortion department in your rough-and-tumble youth. In fact, I find your name does appear of a few of my archived lists down the years.
As a reprehensible turd.
But far be it from me to turn a deaf and fat ear to such a transparent plea in the Time of Yule; then again, Yule died in 1985 so his time is passed and thus never mind about him. He was only a faux king who danced with Debbie Reynolds, anyway.
I tell you what, my good lad of dubious antecedence and purloiner of lunch money: I am not as game as my reindeer are if they wander off the 'Pole during hunting season, but I will be happy to entertain your efforts here, if you will just write back to Jolly ol' me and present me with ten good reasons I should allow you to give me this business, which would be ten good reasons I shouldn't show up and put my oversized fur-lined boot up your chicanerous bunghole.
Or maybe I'll just have Rudolph & Co. do a proctological exam on you with their head gear. Tain't pretty, lemme tell you; though it might be better if I let one of the surviving elves who underwent it describe it in intimate detail, if you'll pardon the pun.
Ho ho ho...and I'm back to yo' mama again.
Let me know your pleasure on the matter, Mr. Bannister, and I shall assure you a Merry Crispmoose (my reindeer always find that funny; they never liked Bullwinkle), and a particularly jagged-edged lump of coal to place sideways in your anal stocking one silent (but not for long once placement starts) night.
A Merry Christmas to all, save for you who can bite me!
Jolly Ol' St. Nick (and other 'nick' names...ho ho ho!)
* courtesy of the US Homeland Security Department's alleged evesdropping Act thing of 2002 or so...
The other reason I probably forgot about this particular exchange is the fact that this is as far as it went: the bannister didn't reply with any ten good reasons to try for my fat fur-lined boot up his ass. Guess he was a non-believer. Or became one, after reading this.
So there you have it, folks: I'm a baaaaaaaaaad Santa.