To Cull A Mocking Herd

Easy come, even easier go. And all it took was one email.

It took about 21 exchanges that went from getting acquainted, to an accepted proposal of marriage, between the scamstress depicted to the right (aka, Irina, Katya, Olga, et al), and me, to get to where one email brought it to a screeching halt.

With me, again as Jerome, "Curly" Howard, of the former Three Stooges (in complete Curly form in the smaller photo to the right).

It began with an unsolicited email from a "Beulah Fordice" to an account I don't use, asking in very rudimentary English " that we maybe can commune to me in email for to make a relationship?", and included a different email address than the one it was allegedly sent from. Typical opening gambit from a Russian bride scamstress.

So I..er..Curly replied with a simple "You have awakened my interest in furthering this discussion, seeing as how you've dug me up via this means. Please tell me more and enlighten me with a photo".

The photo above is the first of about a dozen she sent me, as "Irina". From Gorky, Russia. 26 years old. Single, never married, no kids. Lives with her parents, brother and sister in a four room flat. Works in the health care industry. Communicates via an internet cafe. Finds Russian men are rude, rough, frequently drunk, and treat their women like "bad dogs" (her words). Irina wants a better life, and knows she can have one, in America. She knows this because her girl friend Nataliya met a nice American man on the internet, and now "they are happy to be joined in married matamony in Florida". And thus, she has written to me, hoping to "begin a start to new life with dream man".

*cracking knuckles*...I..er..Curly is so there, and with all of my favorite "dead" puns, used to excess.

Of course, the photo of "Irina" -- and all those that followed -- had previously come to me as Katya, Olga, Ekat, and at least one other that's slipping my mind just now (a few blog entries back, when as Jack N. Ewehoff, I was "her Jack") over the past year or so.

And as most of you know well, the real "Curly" is buried at the Home of Peace Memorial Park in Los Angeles, California, and has been so for the past 56 years. But that doesn't stop "Curly" from cultivating a very amiable -- and quickly, a very passionate -- relationship, that after 20 email exchanges, results in "Curly" asking "Irina" to marry him, and "Irina" gleefully agreeing.

Provided, of course, that "Curly" will send "Irina" money enough to bring her over to the USA -- via Gorky to Moscow, and onward -- and include in there money for her papers, etc.

About $2200 US dollars, in total.

*TOING*

At this time, "Curly" is also fencing with "Anastasia" and "Olga" (using different sets of photos, but both sets I have received and seen before, from and with other scammers), while "Jack" is fencing with "Anastasiya" and "Yuliya" on another email address. And this doesn't count another scam project that was underway during some of this (earlier noted in a joint effort with Bob McCarty Writes), along with yet another scambait project I'm working on.

In short, it was getting high time to cull down the herd a bit. And Irina won the first cull.

So after "Irina" sent "Curly" instructions on where he was to send the $2200 US dollars via Western Union (to an address purported to be in Moscow, and a Vladimir Potempkin, purported to be a travel agent), and "Curly" didn't respond within 48 hours, a worried "Irina" sent this:

Hello my Curly! I did not recieve news from you! the travel agent get no news from you! you are perfectly in order? With you happens nothing? I anxious to wait your letter my man kitten (what is this with the pet nickname, "man kitten"?; she's about the sixth or so that's dubbed me that). I love to you, Irina.

I reckoned that this was as good a place and time to get with the culling. And here, in one email, is one pretty guaranteed way a guy can go from a head-over-heels love relationship, to absolute squat*:

My darling Irina,

I get caught up in the moment sometimes, and forget about the science of my reality. Love can do that in this realm, just as it does in yours, as I still remember. Truth is, I sent your travel agent the money. And the transfer 'bounced' back. It was then that I realized the hurdle that we face in our life together.

And as currently constituted, we can't have one, unless it is an affair of interdimensional emails. Kinda like Eleanor Roosevelt and Hillary Clinton via a medium (or in Hillary's case, a large...nyuk nyuk).

I attach, for your edification, a picture of my current residential address here in Los Angeles, CA (it's a picture of Curly's gravestone). This is where I "live", so to speak. Or at least, where what's left of my corpse reposes.

You see, I'm biologically expired. In the Ozarks part of the USA -- a rather rustic, laid back kinda place -- that means "ah'm daid as a cain o' corned beef". Irina, I died in January of 1952. And each morning since, my spirit arises here, in this realm. But my corpse refuses to, and is less likely to by each passing decade. There's a technical term for it: some folks call "death, rot and decay". A bit of a nuisance, but as in any untoward situation, as one door closes, others open. Opportunity knows no dead-ends -- sorry for the pun, which I intended, nyuk nyuk -- and in my case, a "door into summer" opportunity opened. And here, on the Third Astral Plane, on the dimension of Marduk, life IS perpetual summer, and I am as I was, in my prime back in your reality.

Just the rest of me remains where remains usually do, once buried, of corpse. *rimshot*

Now I'm sure you're asking yourself, "WTFski?" Let me 'splain it. You emailed me. Somehow, a psychic connection was established, and your karma was led across the astral bridge to mine, where your email arrived to me at the TimeStream Lab, here on the Third Astral Plane. It is here that the best crossed-over brains in the spirit world labor to promote and expand instrumental transcommunication, allowing the spirit world to communicate with the physical realm of Earth. It's pretty technical, but I can tell you that I don't understand one f***ing bit of it. I just know you found me. And we struck up an interdimensional love. One we can't consummate.

Unless you want to travel to Los Angeles, dig up my bones, and go for it there. And I don't think either of us will get much pleasure from that. Especially you, on some of my bone spurs. Ewww.

But don't despair, my eternal love. Whenever your time comes, and you cross over -- if you don't go by way of Satan's Big BBQ Pit And Suds Saloon, one helluva place, I'm told -- we'll be able to tie the knot here on Marduk, and live happily ever after, except when these friggin' wings do their annual molt. Kinda like your time of the month now, but just once a year, thankfully. The cramps keep one clouded (the physical realm equivalent of grounded).

But if you're as open-minded as I reckon you could be, perhaps, we can stay in touch, yes?

You eternal love, Curly

It took one day, and "Curly" was left with no doubt as to the viability of his last question:

You sick person! Waste my time with big story! Leave to me never write again you sick assperson!

Of course, my ex-fiancee knew it was this easy for me to lose a 'love', just as I know it was as easy for her to sink the Titanic in passing *wink*. But I digress...

* I'm sure there are lots of other ways as well, like one I've heard of called 'rodeo sex': once atop her, tell her that "you're almost as good as your sister", and then try to stay on for 8 seconds. No sister, you say? Then use her best friend, her mom...whatever...