New Year, Same Baaaaad Skunk

Yawp...that's me.

It's 2009, and I'm still dealing with a few of my endless retinue of scammers from 2008. But here's how another couple of "cull downs" went, proving that in '09, I'm still a baaaaaad Skunk.

First, the photographs: the bikini-clad one is "Olga Bessanova", a Russian woman from Perm, Russia (so she says), who wrote to me (and gawd knows how many others), and decided that I -- aka, Jerome "Curly" Howard -- was the man of her dreams.

All her dreams are of $100 bills jumping a fence and landing in her purse/wallet, I reckon.

The other gal -- also purportedly a Russian named "Sveta", who had a shorter run with U. R. Phulovit in the "send me money, honey" game -- is here for reasons more anatomical. Which will be 'splained here in a mo'.

The usual routine: "Olga" sends out her email(s), and plays the beautiful-but-frustrated unmarried Russian woman, who seeks a husband who isn't like all Russian men: "always to be drunk and abuse the woman physically". Her wish is perfectly understandable. No woman should want to be with an abusive, drunk Russian doof. Or any abusive, drunk doof, period.

At any rate, one of those emails winds up in one of ol' Skunk's email boxes. From which, it got forwarded to his "dead Curly" box for response. And Olga latches on to "Curly" like a fly to a fresh meadow muffin. After a total of almost 100 emails -- 35 of which were my replies -- Olga is totally "in the love of" Curly, and has been in touch with a Russian "travel agency" to arrange for her trip to the USA, to marry Curly.

Let's forget he's a dead and buried comedian for a sec; it's the principle of the thing. She says she wants to come and marry Curly, and live a dream life in the USA. But what she really intends, is to get "Curly" to send her $900 to complete her needed funds for a "visa and airline ticket", which is actually meant to go to her and/or her handlers, whatever particular scam ring she's working for. And once she has that, she's done with poor ol' Curly.

If she's even a real "she".

Well, as I demonstrated in a prior episode -- How To Cull A Mocking Herd -- there's more than one way to shed a GUDD*. One is, tell her she's been trying to romance a corpse. Another is the "rodeo sex" ploy. Still another, tell her "I ain't got no money, honey", and watch her disappear faster than sheep from an Islamofascist "Martyr's Favorite Virgins" convention.

And then, there's taking a page from a woman's own playbook: How To Totally Freak Out A Guy. One of the worst questions a guy can ever be confronted with by the love of his life is one that Eve first dropped on Adam, shortly after the snake thang turned domestic bliss absolutely wonky: "Is my butt getting fat?". A guy has a better chance of running blindfolded into a minefield and surviving, than he has of coming up with the right answer to that 'un.

So I...er..."Curly", took that page, and re-writ it a tad. First, Olga's last email to Curly:

My love Jerome, I am very strong on you I miss. I wait from you for your letter that confirmed to me the money I need to come on you! All my ideas are only about you! I impatient to wait!

So now Curly makes use of that re-writ page from the playbook, and the two photographs above:

Dear Olga,

It is sometimes difficult to write a letter like this, and say to someone like you some potentially unpleasant things. But I owe you the same degree of honesty that you've given me all this time.

I have met someone new. Her name is Irina. She is like you, from Russia. But she is here, on a six month visa or mastercard, I forget which. You, however, aren't here. You're there. In Russia. See what I just did there?

Irina is here. You aren't. Irina works where I do. You don't. And Irina has fallen for me. Okay, so you did, too, and first.

Well, I fell for you, and first. But now, I fall for Irina. She's here. You're not. Do you see a commonality developing here? No? Well, there's more. The most important part.

Irina is young; and so are you. Irina is beautiful, and so are you. Irina is unmarried, and so are you. But now, we come to two key differences: Irina is here, and you're not. The other difference is -- and this is critical, Olga, very critical in the final analysis -- Irina's butt is only a third as big as yours. See the comparative photos I attached to this email? Undeniable. You have a bigger butt than Irina.

Why is this critical, Olga? Because over here, women ask men a potentially volatile question at some point(s) in a relationship: "is my butt getting fat?". Olga, yours already is. Irina's isn't. If she asked me that question tomorrow, I could answer it honestly with no fear of retribution or having my manhood whacked off. But with you...there's no waiting for it. You're already at the "uh...yes" stage.

So sorry to break it to you this way even when I'm really not sorry at all. But I am sure you can find another man who prefers a big fat ass like yours, and will no doubt be happy to buy you a nice, fashionable back-up alarm for it, like OSHA over here requires.

It's been nice meeting and falling in love with you, Olga. But Irina wins, because she's here and you're not. And her butt isn't near as big as yours.

Insincerely,

Curly

After receiving the average of a couple emails a day from Olga, this brought the communications to an abrupt halt, with a one sentence reply from what I reckon is a thoroughly-pissed Olga:

you i wish no more to write from to me.

I know it was the "butt" thing. Baaaaaaaad Skunk.

* Geographically UnDesirable Dame

---------------------------------------------------

And now for the other "cull": Anastasia Tretiakova. She, too, was corresponding with Curly, after her heart was broken by Jack N. Ewehoff (though, while using the very same photos and first name with Jack, her last name was Melatakova). She finally arrived at the moment where she was hot and ready to travel to spend the rest of her life with Curly -- her "one and only truest love" -- but she was short the money for her travel visa and airline tickets. Yawpski. About $900 USD short. Yawpski. But Anastasia was sure that Curly would come through for his truest love.

Instead, Curly shot her the following email on December 17:

Anastasia! Sh**!!! My wife found our correspondence!!! Damn damn damn!!! You must not write to me anymore at my email address. Write to me instead at (I gave her an alternate I use for scammers), and I will try to get this taken care of quickly! Love, Curly

Apparently, Anastasia -- or his/her handlers -- read that, and pulled the plug, as I got no more emails from Anastasia.

So I decided to take a stick and prod the bear, on Christmas Eve:

Anastasia! Darling! Great news that has nothing to do with Geico! My wife is gone! We can again make to bring you here, so we can start our wonderful life in America! I write to the travel agency for instructions! Soon, darling! I love you, Curly

On the morning of December 26, I find this terse reply from Anastasia:

You not tell me of married to wife. I am hurt very too much to this learn. How am I believe you now that you no longer have wife? I want much you, but there is doubt. How I believe you? Money is needed to get back to my trust, Jerome. This will tell me of your sincerity to me.

Trying to make herself sound properly "aggrieved", while hoping to retrieve the game...and the $900. Doncha just love "true" love?

So here's how I aim to "get back to her trust"; by telling her how Jerome "Curly" got rid of his wife:

Darling, you must trust me on this. She is gone. And it was so easy, really. For the longest time, she is wanting me to move piano from upstairs spare bedroom down to the family room. I procrastinated, because piano is very heavy and awkward. But when she find our emails, she is very, very mad, and so I wait a couple days and, to make peace, I tell her that I will move the piano. This somewhat mollifies her. So we move piano from spare bedroom to master bedroom, and out onto 3rd level patio deck. From there, I rig up a block and tackle pulley thing, to lower piano to ground. I have her go to ground to "guide" piano, while I "lower" it. Right when she grabbed ahold of the rope, I "accidentally" let go of my rope -- because I get "stung" by bee, I tell police -- and she and the piano met at second level.

Tragic, yes, but I never like piano, anyway.

So now you can come, and we can be together! I'll even buy you a new piano! Love, Jerome

Not another woid since ;-)

New Year.... Same Baaaaaad Skunk.