Dear Skunky -- IV
I suppose y'all are wondering why I would start a Dear Skunky post with the particular photos to the right?
First off, there's the uncanny resemblance between Yasir Arafat -- when his snake-like self was still wasting otherwise breathable air on this hyar planet -- and Achmed the Dead Terrorist, a laugh-worthy product of accomplished and hilarious ventriloquist Jeff Dunham, that's worth noting.
Second off, because Dear Skunky got an email plea for assistance (I solicit for your help!!!) from none other than the widow of Yasir Arafat herself, Madam Suha Arafat.
This letter is one for the ages:
I am MRS. SUHA ARAFAT, the wife of late YASSER ARAFAT, the Palestinian leader who died on November 11, 2004 in Paris. Since his death and even prior to the announcment, I have been thrown into a state of antagonism, confusion, humiliation, frustation and hopelessness (what, she's living in Californlornia?... but I digress and she goes on) by the present leadership of the Palestinian Liberation Organisation and the new Prime Minister. I have been subjected to physical and psychological torture (I thought that only happened at Club Gitmo, according to CNN?) as a widow so traumitized. I have lost confidence with everybody in the country and for this reason I and my only daughter have had to flee to Tunisia to live.
She goes on to whine about her sucky life in Tunisia, until this little snippet: But I am so glad for Libya's leader, Moammar Gadhafi who has came to my aid, providing me with a luxury $1.5 million dollar condo on the island of Malta. But this is not why I write to you with a heart full of pains and sorrow from my home in Valletta, Malta. I write to you to ask most merciful Allah for his help and support at this time.
While the sh...er...dung gets deeper, she gets to the dirty rat killing: I would want you to treat this email with high level of confidentiality without disclosing the content of this email to anyone (*Doh!*). I want you to realize that all eyes of the Palestinians officials are on me because of some undisclosed banks account an funds deposits of my late husband and all were made on my name (so, Yasir wasn't a river to his people, eh, and she goes on). I therefore wish to solicit your strictest confidence and consent to use you to retrieve all these deposits from the various deposit companies. I shall front you as my trustee and receivership beneficiary for all the deposits (sure you will).
The usual drivel about my needing to be physically present at the various deposit companies for document authentication and such -- all of which are located in Europe, primarily in the Netherlands -- followed, along with this little 'carrot': the values of these deposits are close to $800 millions. If you are willing to assist for our mutual benefit I shall give to you 40% of the funds for your help and this must be in written agreement enforceable in any court of law should in case of default by either of us.
"enforeable in any court of law"...LMAO. Finally, she finishes with an absolutely absurd flourish: I plead for your acceptance of my offer without minding the atrocities my husband has committed in the past during his lifetime. I want you to consider this a business deal between you and me, for the benefit of me and my economically suffering daughter, who cries at night because she is hungered. Please, I beg of you to help me in my most desperate hour of need for this.
I guess that $1.5 million dollar condo doesn't come with maid and food service, eh? How absolutely thoughtless of Moammar. Where are Walter Coppage and Sally Struthers when Mrs. Arafat's starving daughter needs 'em? Obviously off ignoring the true needy in the world, since Madam A is turning to me. Dear Skunky.
Well, since 40% of $800 million is the most I've ever been offered in exchange for giving me the business, Dear Skunky was not about to let this one go by unanswered. Actually, I sent her two answers: one from an alternate email account (the gist of which is not publishable here, since I replied at language minimums not usually employed on this blog), and the one you're about to read. If it's succor in the form of a sucker she seeks, I figger to give her some of what she sought, after giving her unbridled sh** from the other addy:
My Dear Mrs. Araflat and fauxsuffering waif:
First off, may I withhold my condolences on the death of your lower-than-snake-spit husband, who is probably burning in Hell and being chased through the fire by his 72 butt-kicking Virginians, 'cuz Yasir was too stupid to realize what he'd gotten hisself into when he chose 'terrorist' over 'banker or lawyer' on his high school career development test. Sucks to be him, but you already knew that hereto'04.
But as I read your ingenuine effort to give me the business -- and 40% of $800 dubious million is quite an effort -- I see through the heartache of having to live in exile on an island named loosely after a flavored dairy confection, in a luxury condo, and have your little waif suffer the pangs of indigestion from substandard cous-cous from Achmed's Bar and Grille. Moammar -- bless his play-both-sides-of-the-road reptilian self -- didn't provide in all that luxury some additional stipend for protection, maid service, and a chef?
How positively untoward of him. Personally, I think you should retain a good attorney -- Ramsey Clark, Bill Clinton or even Mike Nifong would be up your alley -- and sue Moammar for failure to properly provide all the luxuries you need to make ends meet on such an idyllic, pricey island as Malted. I mean, you are all in favor of "court enforceable contracts" now, right?
Of course you are.
Granted, Bill Clinton and Mike Nifong were both disbarred in this country; but that wouldn't matter in Malta, I'm sure. Both have the legal expertise you'd need with Moammar. But that's up to you.
In the shorter run, I do have some advice for you, Mrs. Widowed Araflat with the fauxsuffering waif. And unlike an attorney of dubious antecedence or vacuous word definitions about words like what "is" is, I offer this advice to you for the princely sum of absolutely free, because I so feel for your situation, and wish to give you back a portion of what you tried to give me.
1. After years of kissing a face that looked like the back end of a water buffalo, were I you, I'd get a plastic surgeon to do you an overhaul, so folks don't know you, and you can have those lips surgically removed, disinfected, replaced, and sewn back on. Make sure your attorney adds that to Moammar's bill.
2. Change your name to Happy Succor. Not only would the PLO have no idea who that is and thus leave you alone, a future James Bond movie might feature you as the female lead, long as you did #1 along with #2. That'd keep your daughter fed and exposed to a life like those lived by Britany Spears and Lindsay Lohan. Going to bed hungry would then be the least of her worries.
3. Instead of whining about your diminished lifestyle, take up a part-time job. With the aforementioned steps #1 and #2 firmly in place, I reckon your name will place high in the annals and urinals of the Malta Home Guard barracks. No boring Saturday nights for you.
4. Get rid of that ridiculous photo of you lip-locking with Hillary Clinton; besides having the surgical procedure remove that stigma, you have a reputation to rebuild.
5. And quit making frivolous references to a diety who'd one day require your daughter to strap on a satchel charge and go perform the ultimate blowjob amongst a passle of infidels. Take up Scientology, instead. South Park might dedicate an entire episode to you. Now THAT's entertainment.
So, Madam Araflat, this is the free advice that Dear Skunky offers you, to make your desperate housewidow life a much different situation entirely. You might even get a visit from Jessica Simpson. And I will be more than happy to be available to schedule any number of initial and follow-up visits and sessions for you, to keep you on the path to redemption.
Write me anytime, Madam. I promise you the same consideration as herein.
Member of the "Ding Dong, Yassir's Dead" Club
There's been no booking of any follow-up sessions by Madam Araflat or her representative as yet. Perhaps her bookings with the Home Guard are keeping her daughter's cous-cous ration up to snuff, yes?