A Boy Named Christa?

If you've been reading this blog long, I'm shocked...er...you already knew that the "Santa" that makes holiday season visitations here is a bit...er...politically incorrect.

But have you wondered what this particular Santa might be like, in July?

Well, in the case of this particular Santa...he gets worse:

He knows when you are sleeping
He knows when you're awake,
He knows if you're a boy named Sue
or Christa, for bullsh**'s sake...

While most of my scammers are from Africa and the UK, I do get some Russian bride scammers from Russia. But straight-forward scammers from the Russian Republics are a bit on the rare side for me. So when I got this one from -- allegedly -- the Ukraine, I decided to take a different tact with it. Especially when the writer spelled his country "the Ukruine". He never identifies himself by name; he only goes by "CEO Petroch".

My pet rock, Seymour, got a kick out of that.

Once again (this is apparently the fad "scam of the moment", repeatedly refraining like a bad re-run on cable) he is "remembering my name in the file as the next of kin" and "I am remebering to send you this becuase of my vow in regards this transaction even though your help with the fund transfer fail somehow".

I could have told the crotch cricket that it failed because I ain't the dupe he tried to use the first time. But I digress.

He adds that I must contact his secretary, one Christa Koku (at an email address that didn't work long). The secretary Petroch referred to thrice as "he", will then send me my $950,000 prior services fee. Once, that is, I stupidly fall for their fourth-rate scam from a Third World country.

First I note that "Christa Koku" hardly sounds Ukurinian or whatever it's supposed to be. But then I come back to the more obvious: a boy named Christa? I shoulda just remembered Gender Sensitivity 101 and let it go. Paid it no mind. Like a fart on the wind, just ignore it or blame that idiot White House press secretary.

But nooooooooooooooooo....I just couldn't let it go at that. So I decided to use the 'hot line' I have to the North Pole (named thus, since everything is melting up there this time of year), and see if Santa -- the one I use on this blog -- was in. I mean, how busy can he be this time of year?

Sadly for him, the Missus went and fetched him to the phone. After filling a suddenly very sullen Santa in on the details, he muttered something usually only the reindeer might hear if the wind is as right as their aim during an Xmas Eve journey across a night sky devoid of rest stops. But after hearing the name of the scammer, Santa's ornery streak perked right up, and this is the email that went out to Petroch's man secretary, Christa:

Ho ho ho! Merrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry....Christa! That's..I say that's a joke son, but I digress.

Mr. CEO Petroch, you really had MY NAME -- Santa Claus -- in your file as next of kin? Ho ho hooha! And you are THE CEO of Petroch? Really? I have a pet rock; his name is Seymour! Seymour will be so impressed to know that I have heard from the CEO of a company named for him!

But and again, I digress.

Now, to the business you wish to give me, and to your inspiringly-named secretary, Christa ca-ca-poo: gents or whatever fits, I with exceptional and insincere regret must inform you that this is my vacation season, and I simply cannot make the time necessary for you to give me the business. Had you come along with this offer between January and March, it wouldn't have mattered; with the elves on furlough and the reindeer playing "Who's Your Bucky?" and "Boink The Pillsbury DoeGals" in Alaska, I woulda had some time for you to try to play me like a marlin off the Bahamas.

Granted, I look more like a manatee, but that's just another digression slipping in hyar.

I nonetheless thank you for thinking of me at this, supposed-to-be-my-down-time that I use to prepare mentally for the coming festive season that so many good boys and girls look eagerly to. But perhaps it'll prove an early gift-giving time for you and your gender-confused secretary Christa (Christa, that's a girl's name, son; whatever were your parents thinking in an age of readily-accessible contraception devices? Oh well...guess you're just a Christa what had one of them addadicktoyou operations, eh?).

Rest assured that, a few months from now, as I'm winging my way around the globe covered in reindeer dung* and pee-pee on the eve of Christmas (not to be confused with your self-gratifying secretary), I won't forget you: I have for you a spell checking program, since I don't think the Ukraine appreciates being considered the biggest urinal west of the Urals. I mean, they haven't renamed the mountain range the Urinals on any new maps I've received in the gift catalogs. And for you, CEO Petroch, I will include a case of Handi-wipes, useful to wipe your face off during those rare moments you pull your head out of your ass. As for your Boy Christa, perhaps I'll provide you with a case of Vaseline, so you can put your head up CEO's ass when there's a vacancy. The term in the West is, I believe, "brown-nosing", which is sometime career enhancing. In your case, probably so. The Vaseline will help with the passage of your ears during insertion, and it beats what you probably were using heretofore: the lube already situated up there.

I reckon it smells better, too.

I just want you two to know one other thing: all of us hear at North Pole.com took and vote and decided you two are really perverted.

Ho ho ho (and that probably does suggest something of yo' mamas),

St. S. Claus Kringle

I wonder how Johnny Cash woulda handled this 'un? Worse....what can I expect from Santa six months from now?

Don't answer that...