Judging from the picture at the right, I'm sure you think I'm going to write something really bad here about a spoiled celebutante, aren't you?
Dennis Brown, Esq (email@example.com
) sent me one of those "please help me, I'm dying and I need to save my soul by spending my millions" scam letters. Nothing unusual there.
Except he copied the entire scam letter in the email heading. And then again in the body of the email. Twice.
What a moron. And so I told him, in a brief, "blow it out your rectal thinking cavity" reply.
Perhaps Dennis Brown is an esquire; as we all know, esquires don't take kindly to being trash-talked by commoners. Thus did Dennis Brown, Esquire, reply to me:
"I do not take kindly to you speak to me liek this. People like you never see help in your life and I promise you. You think all is well with you today but tommorrow is pregnant".
After a "huh?" and I got done laughing at that, a bad skunk *TOING* followed, like gas after drinking a Coke. I should learn to hate when that happens, let alone admitting it online.
So I carefully perused the Esquire's triplicated email scam. And decided that I could make amends, of sorts, by re-writing and improving it for him.
Bad Skunk. Baaaaaaaaaad Skunk:
My esteemed and alleged-to-be-withering Dennis Brown, Esquire,
No, tomorrow is Thursday. And I'm the wrong sex to worry about getting knocked up. Game, set, match.
But, you're right about one thing: we common folk shouldn't belittle people with titles. It's bad for their self-esteem. So tell you what, Dennis Brown, Esquire, dying with a pregnant prostate: I am going to do you a favor. Really. I am going to rewrite and considerably enhance your scam letter for you. Free of charge. Not because it will fool no one but gullible persons with bleeding hearts; but also because it will let the rest of the people remember you as a cheeky, kinda funny dude.
Here's your new and improved letter; feel free to send it far and wide:
This letter won't come to you as any surprise; cheap scam letters online, especially in Yahoo! Mail accounts, are a dime a dozen. But you may rest assured that I am not like that, having some special ancestral ties to things like royalty, tree stumps and rodents. This makes both me, and my missive, worthy of your undivided attention.
My name is Dennis Brown, Esquire, a fauxmerchant in London, and faking taking treatment in France for made-up prostate and hangnail cancer. I want you to believe that this fate has befallen me due to lack of caring for my health; fact is, I'm fat, dumb and happy, sitting on my fat ass next to a luxury pool, and being attended to by a dozen blonde bimbos with big bouncy chests and absolutely no intellectual ability whatsoever. What they can do is giggle, have sex like pigs, and keep me needing my Viagra, as long as I give them a little cash and bling bling every so often.
And that's where you come in, but we'll get to that later.
I have only a few months to live, according to medical experts who got their degrees from the School of Veterinary Medicine and Burka Weaving in Mosul, Iraq. I have particularly lived my life really well, but for the purposes of this email, I need you to believe otherwise, so that I can win your naive sympathies. Though I am very rich, I was never generous, except with my blonde bimbos. Now, I wish -- in order to suck you into a web of deceit and to get you to send me money -- for you to believe that I wish to change in the twilight of my life, which really isn't in twilight, but if you believe it, it works for me.
Recently, I use to say to myself if God shold give me a second chance, I would have lived my life differently than how I lived it before. God would strike me down with lightning for this blasphemous lie, but He couldn't reach me inside my underground, well-appointed bunker with my bevy of airheaded babes. So I'm saying it in this email, so that you'll be fooled into believing that I wish a second chance, and seek for you to be the conduit for my faux salvation.
Granted, it's a second chance for me to make yet another million dollars from stupid friggin' mugus like you, but since you'll believe that I am sincere -- when I am anything but -- you'll buy into my plea just like you buy into Al Gore's carbon-credits/global warming scam.
God how I love dumbed-down education in America.
At any rate, I need you now to believe that you're getting me in good with Him, while I secretly grow more prosperous whilst you go impoverished and economically destroyed. I need you to believe that you are receiving my money, so that you can invest it for the benefit of widows, orphans, and an end to poverty and the downtrodden. In actuality, you will be sending processing fees to my designated fund attorney -- one of my big jugged blondes -- while believing you are doing something noble for the good of people I couldn't give a crap about.
I need you to think that I have distributed money to some charity organizations in the UAE, London, Ireland and the UN. And now that my health is deteriorating so badly, that I need you to complete my redemptive work, all of which is bullcrap.
But if you believe it, it gets my bimbos all excited, and that makes for wild sex for me at poolside.
You just wish you could be me, don't you?
So anyway, here's the deal: believe in my scam plea, and send me the processing fees that I need to maintain my decadent but enviable sex life with models who look like Paris Hilton, and have the intellect of...er...Paris Hilton. I will flatter you with thoughts that you are helping a dying, repentant old man to do the right thing for thousands of needy and destitute waifs. I will encourage you to buy into this, while I loot your savings, your children's college funds and piggy banks, and while I pee in their Cheerios and steal their lollypops. All because you're a gullible dupe and stupid bleeding heart who thinks that all pleas from the Third World are genuine, and that your greedy, mean-spirited country is the reason for all the suffering there.
Again, God how I love dumbed down education and bleeding hearts.
So while you believe I am writing this from my laptop on my deathbed, I can assure you I'm writing it from poolside, with one of my mindless Paris Hiltons planted on my lap, playing hide the bleeney with my light saber. But I wish you to ignore this, and just be a gullible mugu who falls for assisting me with a good, bleeding heart.
Don't let me down; my intellectually vacuous Paris is looking at me with that duck-hit-over-the-head look that means "You're my Daddy!".
Thank you, nimrod.
What's more, Dennis Brown, Esquire, agreed with this tart reply:
"You tink you funny. You big jerk. You laugh now but life for you no good, you see".
I could have left well enough alone, but what's the point when you're working being a baaaaad skunk?
Well, Dennis me boy, life is sometimes no good, shore 'nuff. Meantime, you right: I laugh now. At you. Esquire that.
Guess Dennis lowered hisself as far as he intended to, chatting widda commoner. And a baaaaad skunk one, at that.