Harry Potter And ... The Final Chapter?

*From my '07 archives, widda bit of '09 updating*

Perhaps.

In an interview sometime back, Harry Potter creator J. K. Rowling affirmed that there wouldn't be an eighth Harry Potter book. Yet, at the end of the interview, she coyly left open the possibility of "changing her mind".

Just like a woman, but I digress.

Let me be up front: I am not a Harry Potter junkie. I have not read one book of the series, nor seen any of the movie adaptations. Spending a youth growing up on a diet of Tom Swift, Johnny Quest and The Three Stooges, my adult mind wasn't snared by the magic and mysticism that defined Harry Potter. I mean, riding brooms might be fanciful for some -- rumored to be Hillary's mode of travel -- but it didn't tweak my thrice-concussed imagination.

Granted, having the sorcering ability to turn some muckraking, disagreeable human into a lesser life form -- ferrets, toads, rats, slugs, or Keith Olbermann -- did provide me a moment to reconsider. But just not enough to draw me into the Harry Potter orbit.

Until now, that is.

As a fellow writer -- albeit, a very untalented and unaccomplished one, compared to Rowling -- I found myself having a moment of almost compassion for her. It's got to be tough to create a multi-book series that can keep the pace of a best-selling series. Recall what happened when it was tried with Rocky, Police Academy and The Gong Show.

But Rowling pulled it off. And now, is walking away. Ya gotta wonder...is it Potter fatigue?

So, perhaps having a fresh set of eyes and unfettered mind to the project, I pondered long (about 15 minutes) what a Book 8 could look like, not only for Rowling, but for her legions of fans. To add realism and some minor degree of continuity to the project, I did a quick-study of the current books in the Harry Potter series, and used them to imagine the as-yet incomplete #7; based on that, I have drafted the denied and not yet determined to be eighth and truly final Harry Potter book, and sent it along to Rowling's agent for her comments and blessing, just in case Rowling does "change her mind".

Now I know you're dying to ask me all about it; alas, you know that I am ethically obligated to not leak aspects of this eighth and truly final chapter, in case Rowling jumps all over this marvelous and unique idea.

Then again, on the chance she royally pans it and threatens to sue the snarf outta me (which I estimate to be a 99,999 chance in 100,000), maybe I can afford to give y'all just a wee precis:

In the gripping truly final chapter, Harry and Hermione -- having watched friends and enemas turn each other into road apples and worse on their mystic journey into...well into...puberty -- have wisely opted to move onto the world of collegiate education, having come to the realization that, like Jackie Paper, "painted wings and other things, make way for other toys". And since those other toys cost moola, they are drawn to capitalist pursuits in the mainstream of capitalist society. Not as fun as turning evil cheeseballs into useless Keith Olbermanns, but much better at obtaining material items like DVDs, playstations and BMWs. Thus, they apply to the University of Colorado at Boulder, gaining immediate acceptance by using affirmative action -- listing themselves as bona fide minorities, deserving of special dispensation (aka, Wiccan offshoots with celtic-pagan proclivities and nose hairs).

Once in, Harry and Hermione can no longer deny the biological obvious, and in a spellbinding barlight scene during what they didn't realize was a football recruiting party, they wind up exploring the bounds of barley hops, Nature and a pirated Debbie Does Dallas video, dancing the horizontal mambo on a foosball table, while a pre-law intern hands out condoms and her employer's law office business cards, in anticipation of future sexual harassment opportunities (one of many plot twists that are rather non sequitur, but follow me on this).

Not wanting to give away too much of the complex, politically correct twists, turns, pelvic gyrations and leaks of grand jury testimony, let me just say that Harry goes on to beat the rap and graduates summa cum latte from the CU School of Liberal FauxJournalism; he parts ways with Hermione, whose exposure to the Women's Studies curriculum at CU, converts her into an ardent feminist and gender segregationist, seeking to forcibly relocate all non-gay American men to Mongolia, or legislatively/surgically change them into harmless gerbils through unread House bills that are longer than War and Peace and as comprehensible as a rendition of Hamlet by Ozzy Osbourne.

Meantime, Harry begins a brilliantly mundane career as a tabloid journalist for the Weakly World News, winning a prestigious PullMyFinger Award for his investigative series, The Al Qaida-Uranus Connection: A Justification For Endless UN Dialogue Leading To Another South Park Movie With Celebrity Marionettes. A series that prompts President Lynn Cheney to accidentally on purpose launch a controversial pre-emptive war on Neptune, because intelligence provided to her was no better than that of pre-war Iraq in '03, thanks to the reinstitution of the Gorelick lack-of-intelligence-sharing philosophy by the previous one-term administration of Barack Hussein Obama.

After the fallout of congressional hearings on how spells contributed nothing to sell the global warming scam, Harry is eventually released from a re-education gulag in Califorlornia, and drifts into a lurid affair with Rita Skeeter (played by what's left of Lindsay Lohan, portraying what's left of Courtney Love, portraying what's left of Peewee Herman, in the future movie version), spending his waning days pondering various and sundry questions:

-- what Hermione did with Hedwig, stuffing and mounting him after perpetual molting and unspeakable sexual acts with rodents;

-- whatever happened to Jimmy Hoffa, the Iraq WMDs, ethics in the Democratic Party, and why they bothered to make a 9th Indiana Jones movie with a wax figurine of Harrison Ford;

-- would Republican Arnold Schwarzenegger III -- a clone of the original, rumor has it, but 100% American (lab) made -- defeat President Sarah Palin Bush Reagan II (also a clone from a rival genetics lab) in the presidential primary of 2048;

-- and why Harry and friends, while at their mystic pinnacle, were never able to crack the biggest mysteries in one and a half centuries: the IRS Tax Code, and just what the hell Barney Fwank was saying about half the time. The answer to the latter lay with a linguistics study of Elmer Fudd, but I digwess.

And I'm sure you can't wait to hear the title of this sure-to-be-a-smash final chapter in the Harry Potter saga, right? Well, I really shouldn't...but what the horsefeathers: Harry Potter And The Final Straw: The Uranus Quidditch Of Byte Me.

Yeah, I know...there's really no need to thank me. Or throw things. Especially the latter.

Too Stressed To Learn?

*A re-post from 2007, but as relevant today as then*

Life's tough. Perhaps a little too tough.

So says a letter to the Editor in the February 8, 2007 edition of The Denver Post. Two classes of sixth graders, in a "joint, in-class writing project" and mentored/guided by their teachers, wrote a letter espousing how "stressed" they are in this day and age.

Here's the letter:

It's time to change the definition of winning.

It's tough being a kid these days. Even before we are born, our parents, teachers, coaches and counselors are stressing about us. Our parents are choosing to work two jobs to have enough money to get us into the right play groups, the right schools, and onto the right teams so we can all be winners.

At school we have to start earlier, stay later, we get no recess and more homework to do better on CSAPs (state standarized tests to measure achievement and performance) so we can all be winners. Our coaches schedule more practices, make us play year-round, and tell us not to play any other sports so we all can be winners.

But here's the problem: we can't all be winners because there aren't enough games, so we feel like we're letting everyone down. Then everyone wonders why we're so stressed out - and that's where the counselors come in.

What's the solution? Maybe we should change the definition of a winner. Right now, winners are those who have the most things - like money, trophies and fame. We think the real winners should be those who love, who are loved, and who are happy. And turning us into objects is not the way to get there.

Mrs. Frisch/Mrs. Sinn's sixth grade classes

Hill Middle School, Denver CO

Finally, there's a note from the Editor: this letter is a product of a joint, in-class writing project. With the stress of CSAPs drawing near, students sounded off on the pressure and expectations they face, and how it's taking away from "just being a kid".

Let's have a collective "awwwwwwwwwww".

Yep. Sure sounds like life is tougher for sixth graders today than it was in 1968, when I was a sixth grader. After all, we didn't have parents, teachers, coaches and counselors pushing us.

Oops; yes, we did.

Well, we didn't have to go to school from early morning until mid-afternoon.

Oops; yes, we did.

We didn't get recess.

Oops; yes, we did.

We did, because we didn't have parents, teachers, coaches, counselors, layers of school administrators, bureaucrats AND lawyers who fretted about students being "traumatized" on the playground in competitive games of dodgeball, tetherball, kickball, softball, etc.; nor were they worried about us participating in competitive sports where scores were kept and there were winners and losers.

In fact, one of my elementary physical education instructors taught us that "losing a game inspired one to work harder to win the next time". He was right.

As for focusing on one sport at the expense of all others, none -- not one -- of my coaches and physical ed instructors, from elementary through high school, ever encouraged me to limit myself to one sport and one only; the more sports and activities, the better and more well-rounded an athlete and physically fit I'd become. Perhaps 21st Century coaches at Hills Middle School just forgot about that during Political Correctness 101.

Homework; we didn't have that to cope with.

Oops; yes, we did.

And there's those pesky, stress-inducing CSAP tests; we didn't have those back in 1968.

Oops; yes, we did.

They were called the Iowa Basic Skills Test. We took them annually. Preparing for them was like preparing for any test in any class we took. In fact, studying for our individual classes prepared us for the Iowa Basic Skills Test. A test I reckon was every bit as demanding as the current CSAP, if not moreso.

I did overlook something here: my parents didn't have to work two jobs to put five kids through school.

Oops; yes, they did. They worked two jobs and were active in state level politics.

Guess I musta been too stressed to "just be a kid", eh?

Oops; no, I wasn't. At least I didn't have any of my teachers back then telling me how "stressed" I should be.

As for the letter, I don't put any blame or shame on the students of these two classes. They're sixth grade kids. I put the blame for the whiny, pathetic tone of this letter and much of what it conveys on the teachers, the educrats of Hills Middle School, AND the teachers union that fosters such whiny pablum.

It must be hard for some who choose teaching as a profession to actually teach students to learn, to strive, to achieve, and to excel. Especially when it isn't fair that not all will. So some of the aforementioned sixth graders at Hill Middle School should be held back, told how "stressed" they are, and made to feel guilty about trying to 'win', achieve, excel and advance. This will better level the playing field for all. After all, it isn't about winning in life; it's about equal outcome for everyone, right?

Oops; not in real life beyond school, it ain't.

And what about 'winning': should the definition be changed in the same way that Bill Clinton tried to change the definition of 'is'? Isn't a winner defined as anyone who works hard, does their best, gets up when they fall down, and views a loss as a learning experience? Is a winner really and strictly defined, at least according to this letter, by awards, trophies and "objects" that a winner collects?

If that's how a winner is viewed by these two classes, then I ask you: what are these two teachers really teaching these kids? This letter makes me wonder. For the parents of these students, they should be wondering as well.

Now I'll grant you that probably not every teacher at Hills Middle School adheres to the "life's too tough" approach in their teaching philosophy. And even among those who bow three times to the union image in the school restroom daily, not all believe that winning, achievement and excellence are a bad thing for kids to strive for.

But this letter from sixth graders at Hills Middle School does tell me one thing: I'm glad I don't have kids attending that school. Not because the students are just "too stressed"; because apparently, the teachers of those two classes are too stressed to do their students a real service in life and learning.

Life's tough. It's tougher if your kid's teachers are too stressed to do right by your kids.

The FBI and Me

*From my '07 and Bruno Weka archives, and my first of a dozen or so brushes widda "Feds"...snort*

*Note: Bruno, you can do better than this*

Er...no, he can't. More proof of Forrest Gump's "stupid is, as stupid does".

Even after dealing with Bruno Weka and his odious ATM scam involving a bank alleged to be in Houston, Texas (see a recent re-post), I wasn't through tweaking the poor yutz. For the next half-dozen or so scammers who wrote me, I referred them all to my "bidness partner", Bruno Weka at his email address, and even gave out the Houston phone number Bruno had referred me to (disconnected not long after I began directing scammers to call me there between 1 and 4am), as one which two other scammers needed to call "to get full cooperation for their giving me the business".

Apparently, this didn't set well with Bruno, or someone in his group.

On Wednesday, May 2, 2007, I was emailed by Themselves. Themselves as in, The FBI. Under the email heading of FBI....Stop Order, I received this notice from Themselves:

Attn.: Sir,

This is to inform you that it has come to the notice board of the Federal Bureau Investigation (FBI), That your inheritance funds *TOING* has been stopped here in United State of America, That is why we have decided to contact you directly to acquire the proper verifications and proof from you to show that you are the rightful person to receive this fund, because the above mentioned amount is a huge amount of money, that is why we want to make sure is a clear and legal money you are about to receive.

And no, those typos aren't mine... the above paragraph is verbatim from the letter.

Are you seeing a problem here? Are you seeing a real BIG problem here? By the middle of the first paragraph, I had gone from "WTF?" to "LMAO!!!". To badly paraphrase General Patton, "Bruno....you pathetic bastard, I read your EMAIL!".

The letter went on to demand that I provide to Themselves, the FBI, "Identification documents and Certificate of Ownership", to "satify to us that the money you are about to receive is real money". It further went on to point out that "under The United States Department of Justice Order 556-73 established rules and regulations for the subject of an FBI Identification Record to obtain a copy of his or her own Record for review. The FBI's Criminal Justice Information Services Division processes these requests".

BWHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHA.

Finally, the letter concludes as follows: note: we have asked for the above documents to make available the most complete and up-to date records possible for non criminal justice purposes. If you fail to provide the Documents to us, we will charge you with the FBI and take our proper action against you for not proofing to us the legitimate of the fund you are about to receive.

It concluded with a homey touch, signed "Faithfully Yours, Robert S. Mueller III, FBI Director".

*stop it, stop it, yer killin' my h'yar*

When I stopped snorting enough to not sound like a bull in heat on the telephone, I first asked my local FBI office if they'd like a copy of the email; the special agent-ette I spoke with, declined interest in it with a chuckle; she then said -- somewhat to my surprise -- that I could "tell them (the emailers) to get hosed" in a reply. Usually, law enforcement has discouraged us civilian types from having anything to do with these clowns. But, what the skunkfeathers...who am I to argue with the real FBI?

So my reply to Themselves -- the email FBI -- was next on the list:

Dear FBI/ettes:

Thank you for your stop order email. I was most intrigued by it. I was especially intrigued by how semi-illiterate it was, for something generated by the FBI. Then again, since it came from the Washington DC field office, you're all a bunch of progressive "outcome-based" educateds there anyway, so that explains why bills coming out of Congress aren't written worth a sh**, either, and I digress.

Y'know, I used to watch The FBI on TV back in the 1960s, with Ephrem Zimbalist, Jr. and company. Great show. You guys/gals always crushed crime, protected and served, and never once made fun of J. Edgar Hoover's feather boa fetish. Guess you didn't do that because he was still alive then, and might have done unspeakable things anally to your pets, eh?

As to the subject you wrote me about, I will refer you to Dr. John Word of the referenced bank in Houston, Texas; you may call and interrogate him at (the disconnected Houston phone). He can dodge and obfuscate your questions there. You can also email his partner in giving me this business, Bruno Weka at (a disconnected email addy), who can also dodge and obfuscate for you there. However, know that when you write to Bruno, he is terribly inept at using the spellcheck, and very touchy about the subject. For example, he spells "fraud" as "farud", and it takes him forever to correct it. He's a really stupid person of dubious antecedence and worse grammar; I bet his real grammar slept with guinea pigs and faruded with the worst of them, too.

On the other hand, since he writes sorta like y'all did in your stop order, perhaps you'll understand him just fine.

If you find there is anything else I can do for you on this issue, please feel free to write it up in more of your progressive, outcome-based educational prose; then print it on a legal 8 1/2x14 piece of paper, fold it once, and shove it up your ass sideways.

Respectfully, of course.

'Skunk'

To be fair, of course, I did cc a copy of this to Bruno; he might really want to look me up when this is over...

*2009 update: still no Bruno Wekas or FBIers knocking on my door...dang*

Text This

Anyone who thinks they know me, at least knows that I am something of a technosaurus. Sure, I have a computer. Widdit, I can email (how else do I torment email scammers?). And I can Facebook (when it isn't in meltdown mode).

But that's about the extent of my technosavvy.

Question is, does this lack of technosavvy make me rude?

You'll shortly get to be the judge of that.

I once had a cell phone; after two unsatisfactory years of it, I cancelled the account and donated the phone. It wasn't much of a phone, I'll grant you; it was a phone, it was capable of being a calculator, and it had a 'brick-Pong' type game on it, and that was all. Not like today's cell phones that can apparently do everything include send a ship's doctor psychotically into the past, where he totally screwed the pooch on the future, so a ship's captain and his pointy-earred first officer had to go back and undo what the good doctor dun, further wrecking the captain's alleged love life in the process.

Okay, so he didn't really do that with a cell phone. But it's what he looks like he's doing here, that had me use this picture: it looks like he's texting.

I'm not quite sure when texting became available; perhaps 3-5 years ago. But I know that in the past two years, it's become the national, even world, rage. Many of my friends text. Most of my coworkers text. I see it in the store; at the gym; in the can. Anywhere a cell signal can in and egress, someone is texting from there.

It's like for some, "how DID the human race survive, pre-texting?".

My answer is "just fine", but I digress, and am apparently wrong, in so far as at least some of the texting crowd are concerned, because I didn't text that answer (and email apparently doesn't count).

Not long ago, in a place not far away -- at my place of employment, specifically -- I was involved in a conversation with a coworker. More on that in a mo'.

Now, I am neither the most articulate or glib person I know; far from it. Nor am I the funniest or most passionate speaker I've ever heard. I can even be boring, both intentionally and accidentally. With me thinking thus, it would perhaps be reasonable to assume that when I've encountered having a conversation with someone -- a conversation they solicited in the first place -- who suddenly whips out their cell phone, and begins to text in mid-conversation, I can ponder what's more contributory to this occurence: am I more boring, or are they more ill-mannered?

As this conversation went, it wasn't really all that important in so far as solving national or world problems; but suddenly, I am talking to someone who is texting, and appears thoroughly uninterested in what I had to say, when a moment before, they were soliciting me for chat. So I shut up, until she completed the texting process. When she finished -- I assumed -- she glanced up at me with a "what?" look, and then asked me to remind her what I was saying.

Internally nonplussed, I didn't skip a beat externally, and resumed my thought audibly. For a few seconds, that is: then her eyes dropped to her phone, and she began receiving a text message. And replying to it.

Not interested in competing with something I refer to as a darn fool piece of apparatus, I shut up again. And remained so, once she'd finished being lost in textation.

After closing up her phone, I received another almost-annoyed "what?" look from her, followed by a casual "now, where were we?".

*TOING* The next is from memory:

Me: Apparently nowhere important.
Her: C'mon...you were saying?
Me: Nothing...don't want you to miss a text message.
Her: What's that supposed to mean?
Me: Don't let me interrupt your texting...
Her: You're being rude...(and she looks down at her phone again)

As she began to text again, I repressed a smirk and walked off, conversation incompleted.

I was rude?

There was a time that I would have taken exception to that comment. But, as I said, I am a technosaurus. Perhaps in this day and age, I reckon I am rude. Damn my ambivalence to texting etiquette. Someone whup me into shape here.

Just don't do it via text message. I might display further rudeness in reply from this Jurassic desktop ;-)

Coping With Death

*From my '05 archives, but something all of us will have to cope with, sooner or later*

..of a cherished member of the family.

My computer.

It isn't like the loss of a loved one or a pet; it is, after all, nothing more than an electronic device. A modern telecommunication, data sending/receiving device. A wonder of technology thirty years ago, and now as common as the cold in American households.

In short, it's a darn fool piece of apparatus.

Until it dies.

I just finished reading a fellow writer's epic fight to resusitate her computer from a potentially fatal disease (aka, reloading a malfunctioning program). She spent hours on the phone with Gateway, Microsoft, Comcast and the Vatican, much of it with the issue in doubt, while paramedic-like support techs took her through all of their pre-programmed and scripted steps at diagnosing and fixing the problem. If they could.

Short of congressional intervention to determine if resusitation was warranted or not (to be followed by years of congressional committees and useless studies and blue ribbon commissions to determine environmental impacts and other less-than-useless nonsense, ad nauseum), the patient began to breathe on its' own again. Three Hail Marys and a reluctant nod to Bill Gates from my acquaintance.

The ACLU was not amused.

It reminded me of two members of my own cyberfamily who had passed on to the great salvage heap of electronicsdom. In one case, it was no more than replacing a modem that had died from Dialing Dysfunction Syndrome. But in the other case, it was truly traumatic.

The hard drive vaporlocked. Massive cybercoronary. No ER could save it; all the King's horses and all the King's men, couldn't make the stupid piece of apparatus boot up again. In the words of a EResque help desk tech, "It's dead, Jim...".

My name isn't Jim, but it was no less traumatic for the knowledge. The throes of mourning were devastating: I needed counselling (I didn't get it); I suffered sleep deprivation; my karma was torn asunder; I had lost my way (the curds I didn't care about); my life's path had been washed out. I stood on the precipice of an abysmal void, shorn of map and compass to show me the way clear.

So I did what any 30-something (at the time) pseudonerd would have done: I sought succor with wings and beer at a nearby Hooters. And took additional solace in that the night before, I had remembered to do my monthly back up of irreplaceable files on the hard drive.

With eyes a misting and a fresh mug of beer, I nodded to my ample waitress and imparted this benediction to my dearly departed darn fool piece of apparatus:

Here lies the carcass of my IBM PC
never again to syntax error at a quarter to 3;
for three years running, it served admirably
before it up and died with a motherboard-felt, "just byte me!".

*sniff*...it was quite moving. Until I tried to wipe my eyes on her t-shirt...

Homework eCON 101..a

Yeah, what HE said yonder...

Perusing the 'Net the other (very early) morning, I came across this headline on Yahoo News: In US, Some Students Buy -- Not Try -- To Excel At School by Karin Zeitvogel.

In summary, the article notes how some US students seek shortcuts to homework. By going online and buying it, pre-done.

Joshingly, sarcastically, seriously....WTF???

But by gawd, the article has links to sites where students, for a modest fee, and actually buy pre-prepared homework.

What a CONnnntree (see what I just did there?)!

For example, one can go to acceptedpapers.com, where students can have term papers written for them when "unable to be creative for an essay". And there is perfecttermpapers.com that advertises "non-plagiarized research papers and term papers, written by qualified American writers".

You hearing this, Veep Joey B?

And there are many, many more, apparently: according to the article, by merely googling "buy term paper", one comes across practically unlimited resources for avoiding doing the work oneself, and letting someone else do ones' learning for them. Perhaps this is some of our stimulus money at work, creating jobs for "qualified American writers"?

Put the nose to the grindstone? Do research? Spend an afternoon or evening at the library? Psssshaw! At the cost of a pitcher or two of beer -- they just need to hit their friends up to recoup the cost -- a student can now grease through his essays and term papers, and move onto higher ed with ease, knowing absolutely...how to be lazy, dishonest, unethical, and expedient. All qualities in great demand today in some lower-than-snakespit corners.

I knew the Congress, by doing all of the above, and voting on unread bills, was teaching the youth of today something.

I know, I know...some folks will argue, this is the real world. Get over it.

I kinda question if this is the kind of real world that our Founding Fathers envisioned, and generations of American men and women fought and died to defend and hand down to their kin.

Though, perhaps another way to look at this is that this is an entremanurial opportunity I'm making fun of? In a down economy, maybe I should become one of these "qualified American writers", eh?

Sure..if I allow myself to become as ethically challenged as Bela Pelosi.

I think not.

Guinea Pig II

Wednesday, September 9, and Monday, September 14, 2009. Dates that will live in dental hygienist school..er..lore. Or somethin'.

Them was the two days that my friend, the budding dental hygienist, took one of the single biggest risks in her early pre-career: she brought me into the school, into the presence of her peers and instructors.

I'm many things, including off-the-wall and flatulent, but I'll have you know that I never once brought up Tim Conway in the total of 7 or so hours I was there.

But I think I made her (and others) suspect I'd brought a tad of that kind of spirit with me.

The first day began simply enough; after some routine paperwork (as routine as it could be, asking ME questions and expecting straight answers, though she did have the trump card of equipment capable of drilling and waterboarding the answers out of me, if necessary), it was time for x-rays.

I knowd I was in trouble straight away. I told her to disregard the void between my ears. Which was one of those "goes without saying", 'cuz she's known me all these years. Still, with a grin, sigh, and those patented *roll of the eyes*, she said she'd be shooting a bit lower, and then gleefully planted me in the chair, and threw a lead truss across me to make sure I stayed there, using the excuse that it was just to protect my thyroids from x-rays. Before I could make an anatomical remark about thyroids belonging in the thighs, there began a trend that would continue, on and off, for much of those two days. She had me shut up. Sort of.

It really wasn't hard for her to accomplish, what with the metal/plastic/rubber/tungsten-platinum-plus/et al device she used to shoot x-rays of every conceivable angle of my chops. It kinda looked like a cross between a slide rule and a fabric stretcher for a couch, and it had that effect in my yap. My best response to when she asked "how are you doing with this?", was a heart-felt "mufhgjoairourmphf".

Once that was done, I sat immobilized by the lead restraining thingee, listening to snippets of one of her instructors explaining aspects of the x-rays. I didn't catch most of it -- they were just around the corner from the x-ray machine -- but I was certain I heard more than one "you're kidding, right?" I wasn't sure they hadn't caught a glimpse of the "big valley" betwixt my ears. I didn't ask.

Once released from the bondage of the truss, I was off to be "charted". Which again allowed my friend considerable latitude to keep me reasonably docile, other than when I would try to swallow one or more of her dental implements, or when I'd let my eyes describe a 360 degree circle during a suction, and have the mini-mee wet vac miss a tad. All in the spirit of fun, I assure you.

During the "charting process", I got to learn a plethora of new words. Most of which I can't remember now. But they sounded so intriguingly clinical, like "diacanineilcornicomatosis", "bicuspidal incisoramification", "orthodauntya" and "occlutional premolaresque pitui". And one of my favorites, "fractardinationally periodontasaurus", which I was convinced had been extinct since the Jurassic Era.

And there was a clinical term applied to me, though I found it strangely familiar: "goof ball".

I plan to use these words (perhaps even the last one) as seminal in my pick up lines at the next dental hygienist bar I go to ("hey, babe, can I get periodontal with your plaque rating?"). Not that I expect it to work...all her peers saw me and the word is out, but I digress.

Then came Monday, and it was time for "it": the cleaning, after two of her instructors came in to look over my x-rays and settle a bet they had after the "you're kidding, right" episode. I, of course, was the epitome of...me, like when one instructor made note of a "depression" in my teeth, I assured her that my teeth were happy and well-adjusted.

I didn't know they had Nerf hammers for patient "maintenance of order". Now I do, along with learning the fact that *bonk* is actually in the dental dictionary.

One personally uncomfortable moment arose, when during some discussion as my tongue became the focus of terminology beyond my personal syntax, a reference to "shorter than normal" was overheard by my very astute ears.

I was pleased that it was this part of my anatomy that was being discussed, and breathed a sigh of relief, being careful not to swallow a dental implement, lest I had to go back and get lead trussed so they could look for it.

Now my friend -- done up like a surgeon -- deftly alternated an ultrasonic cleaner, an irrigator, a suction hose, a mirror and a probe in my mug, and would gleefully ask me questions like "if a molar falls on the floor, and nobody see it, will the Tooth Fairy pay you for it?", leaving me to answer, in my most articulate dental patientese, "wkeighoaofupppfhtttpf".

Her two sisters, and a host of friends and acquaintances, were envying her right about now. Except for when I'd slobber.

At one moment in the proceedings, a little bit of Tim Conway did creep in, as a momentary shift in my tongular angle created the effect of an aquatic water park fountain, spraying forth from my implement-infested yap. I was going to ask if this wouldn't cause a flap in Congress over "waterboarding", but all that came out was "mfgipadprjjfpwth", and water.

Fortunately, the tongular misdirection was corrected before the "Away All Boats" alarm could be sounded, and my exceptionally patient friend was able to resume, without having to dog paddle.

Finally, with the threat of rising seas and congressional investigations behind us, my teeth were done, and shortly thereafter, passed muster with flying mandibulars, or something in the ballpark.

When it comes to going to the dentist, I am a self-professed weenie. But for my friend and her career change, it was worth it. Helpin' a friend always is. Besides, my teeth were clean. My friend was pleased. Her instructors were pleased. Her peers at the dental hygienist bar were warned.

Everybody won.

Except the poor dental transcriptionist, who might know what a "lingualism abscess of the square root of canal hydroxinator" is, but will never be able to translate "mwomdpahffitheodack!".

Breakin' The Rules IV

It's Thursday, and good ol' Franky has apparently been stewing about the progress of things overnight, cuz he starts out Thursday with a burr up his bung:

HELLO TODAY IS THE 3RD DAY AND YOU ARE TELLING ME THE SAME STORY ABOUT YOU SENDING MONEY IF I DONT HEAR FROM YOU I WILL REPORT TO THE AUTHORITIES, HOW CAN YOU SEND MONEY IN WESTERN UNION AND THEY DONT GIVE YOU MTCN...TELL THAT LADY TO GIVE YOU THE MTCN NUMBER, WILL CONTACT AUTHORITIES AND MY BANK IF YOU GIVE ME SAME EXCUSE I WILL REPORT TO THE BANK AND THE POLICE, UNLESS THE NICE LADY TAKE YOUR MONEY AND LYING TO YOU GO TO THE LADY AND TELL HER TO GIVE YOU MTCN OF THE MONEY YOU GIVE HER TO SEND...I AM A SERIOUS MAN AND I DONT PLAY WITH MY WORDS

you gonna start today yell at me again and i wont not go!

MONK, GO DOWN TO MTCN AND GET THE INFORMATION, MY MOVERS ARE WAITING FOR THESE INFORMATION, UNLESS YOU ARE PLAYING WITH ME KINDLY GO DOWN QUICKLY

i will only if you stop yell at me...i dont not like it ok.

PLEASE GO DOWN TO WESTERN UNION AND GET THE MTCN IT IS IMPORTANT I DONT LIKE THE MOVERS COMPLAINING

ok ok...i go now ok.

OK I AM SORRY I YELL AT YOU, PLEASE GO BACK TO WESTERN UNION AND TELL THE NICE LADY THAT SHE PLEASE GIVE YOU MTCN SO THAT THE PEOPLE YOU SEND MONEY TOO CAN PICK THE MONEY...PLEASE MAKE SURE THAT THEY GIVE YOU THE MTCN TODAY...COMPLAIN TO THEM THAT YOU MISPLACED IT AND YOU NEED TO GET IT, IF THEY WANT MONEY FROM YOU TELL THEM THAT THEY SHOULD WITHDRAW FROM THE MONEY THAT YOU SEND IN WESTERN UNION

(time to ratchet up the screwing with Franky)

the lady at western union was not nice today. she get mad at me and tell me she already check that money was sign for after she sended it and i am wasting her time and to go home. i tell her i say this to you, and you yell at me and say movers didnt not get money, and she say that she has computer and you are stupid as i am to argue. she say she will call police if i come back about it. why does everyone want police? so franky, i do what you say, and this is what she say. what else can i do?

(Franky's composure is threadbare, me thinks)

LISSEN YOU STUPID IDIOT...I HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR GAMES. I WILL FIX YOU FOR THIS DO YOU UNDERSTAND??? I WILL FIX YOU FOR THIS JUST YOU WAIT
(so let's make it moreso)

what do you mean, fix me? i not broke.

MONK, YOU HAVE TO PAY THAT MONEY TO THE MOVER..IF NOT I WILL REPORT THESE CASE TO THE BANK THAT YOU PLAY FRAUD ON ME AND YOU KNOW THE POLICE WILL COME GET YOU GET THE MONEY FOR THE MOVERS IF NOT

i wont listen to you anymore. you mean. lady at western union say you lie. you mean and you make mean statements to me. you threaten to fix me when i not broke. i no listen to you any more. i send your mover money. i find another buyer for desk. phfffft. i have box of powder donuts i share with police when they come. police like donuts. i make friends with them. phffffft.

MONK YOU STOP THESE STUPID EMAILS NOW IF YOU SEND BACK MY MONEY FOR THE DESK I WONT CALL THE POLICE BUT IF YOU STOP THIS STUPID NONSENSE OR I WILL MAKE YOU PAY AND THE POLICE WILL BE THE LEAST OF YOUR WORRY OK?? GET THE MONEY BACK OR ELSE.

phffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft. i go to western union now to send you back 300. i do all you ask and you ack like jerk. you not scar me! i send you back 300 and we done. phffffffffffffffffffffffffffft!

(after about an hour to let Franky stew some more)

hear is yore 300 dollurs. we even now. phffffffffffffft.

(Monk sent Franky a copy of an old, irrelevant faux Western Union receipt, resized to the point that it's totally illegible).

TYPE THE INFORMATION YOU HAVE IN THE FORM.

you dont not tell me what to do! i wire your money. i send you receep. you cash it and leave me alone you mean man.

i can not see any thing on the paper please look at the paper and write out the money transfer control number please i beg you thank you

(LOL...now he's practically grovelling...gotta love how this is playing out)

you yell at me, you threaten me, you mean to me! i do what you say and still you mean! i send you money AND i send you receep. you take to western union and get your money. phfffffffffft.
ok I am sorry I just check the reciept and i cant read it well there are some numbers on the top right corner they are 10 in number please send me the nuber agin i am sorry for yelling at you.

no you arent not! you do it more than one. you threaten me with BFI and police! you apologize then you make threats again. you not sawry. you call me names. i do what you tell me. i do my best. you dont not apprecate me. i send you money back. you go western union and get it.

yes i would go but i need you to office but monk i honestly am sorry and i need you to send me the number on the top right corner of the reciept thats all i need pleeeeeassssssssssss...

i dont not beleeve you. you call me names and threaten me. if you sinsere, you not do that. you not sinsere. you have what you need from me. you go western union.

hey i am sorry ok!! give me the number on the top corner of the reciept now

see??? i knowd you arent not sawry. you have receep. it what you say you need. now go cash it.

and send me another and bolder version of the reciept

i not have to do no more. what is a bolder version? what does a big rock have to do? this makes no sence.

monk, i can not read it the reciept is no clear from here send again.

it is what i copy. it what my computer scan in. you yell at my computer now?

send me the number

what number?

(Franky finally gets mad again)

ALL THE INFORMATION IN THE PAPER YOU SENT TO ME IN COMPUTER I CAN NOT READ ANY WRITE OUT EVERYTHING YOU SEE ON PAPER TYPE IT IN YOUR COMPUTER AND SEND TO ME

no. you say something about numbers. what numbers? i not copy hole receep.

IN THE RECIEPT YOU SEND ME THERE IS A NUMBER THERE TYPE THE NUMBER IN YOUR COMPUTER AND SEND ME AND HOW MUCH YOU SEND TO MY MOVER.

there are all kind of number on the sheet. what number you mean? how hard is this to explain?

OK MONK...WRITE EVERYTHING YOU SEE IN THE PAPER TO ME..WRITE EVERYTHING YOU SEE IN THE PAPER TO ME...WRITE EVERYTHING YOU SEE IN THE PAPER TO ME...WRITE EVERYTHING YOU SEE IN THE PAPER TO ME..

no. you make fun of me. you use receep i send you. phfffffffffft.

Monk...write the security number to pick up money.

what is this number? wear is number?

it is the number they gave to you it is called the money transfer security code

wear is this number on the paper?

when you pay they gave you 2 papers, 1 a reciept 2 a plain paper printed from computer did they give you these papers?

i send you copy of the paper! wear is number on paper?

it is writen after the amount sent

there are ten number. whih one you want?

can you scan the paper again because i can not see any thing on paper it is not clear on my computer here

i already scan it. whih number you need?

write out the ten let me see them, and hw much you send

i write 10...i send 300.

write out the ten numbers you say you see..

1..2..3..4..5..6..7..8..9..0..those are numbers i see

yes, write the 10 out

ok..ten

do you see other numbers there apart from this one you write and you surpose to send $1200 not 300 i send 1500 and your desk 300 so 1200 should remain

gee wiz..i already tell you! i send 1125 to you mover that the lady at western union say was picked up. i send you the 300 for the desk you wont not send movers to pick up. dont you not read what i write?

go on yahoo messenger so we can chat and i explain better to you.

i undersand ok. what number you want. i write you ten. is that all?

no that is not number the number is like this 9673471235 this is the kind of number because when you go to western union you will fill form and put the number in the form

i didnt not put that number on the form. they did. and that wasnt the number, that was a bunch of numbers. whih do you want?

the bunch of numbers they gave you is what i want for the 300 and for the 1125 the numbers they gave you

i dont not know that numbers for the 1125 the lady told me that money collected so i dont not have that numbers. i have the numbers for the 300. whih one you want?

let me have the number for the 300 they give you

whih one. there is 10 of them.

yes, let me have them all of them

well..there are three 1s, two 0s, a 5, two 3s, a 7 and a 9. i guess that all of them.

(now he thinks he's making progress)

who is the name is it of my mover Denise mcalhaney you send money to?

no..i send the collected money to that Jon with the funny last name and he pick it up. the 300 i send to you. who is denise? (Denise is the second mover he sent for Monk to use)

you say your name as sende monk bey?

that is dumb thing you say...what name else would i use?

is this the number they give you 1110053379 at western union for the 300?

those numbers in there, yes. not in that order, but yes.

sorry because i check with the number you give me on western union website and it say no money there

where it go? is this a problem with western union? it make me not want to use it.

what order were they help me please i see you are tell me the truth sorry for yelling send me in the correct order

the correct order was i tell them to send you 300. did they lose it too?

can you give me the number the way it is written on the paper for the 300 please

oh..ok

can you please give me the number the way it writen on the paper please?

oh..ok

Monk, can you please give me the number as it is written on the paper?

oh..ok

so will you write it well for me now monk?

oh ok. first i have to pee.

common monk i need the information before somebody pick the money again like they pick the 1125

ok...could someone pick up your money without you?

(now I think I'm wearing him down...)

monk were are you from asia? or america?

wear is asia? is that a planet or an iland?

if you do not give me the information on time some one will pick it up like they pick up the 1125 so send me the number in the correct order

but isnt not someone soupose to pick it up? i confuse.

are you a real monk? or is that just ur name?

huh...my parents call me monk. it short for monkton. i like monk.

monk, get me number in the right order

do numbers have odor to them? i didnt not know that.

(and Franky finally *snaps* with Monk..)

look i am trying to help you out of a problem here my bank called me and asked if i authorised any payment and i have not replied them. if i say i havent authorised any payment your bank would call you and ask you to pay back that money and if i my mover doesn't pick up the money i would ask my bank to reufnd the total amount of 1500 which you would pay if you dont give me the mtcn number cus it looks like you are playing games with me i give you a simple instrucion and you are asking me foolish questions like does money have odor. if i may ask how old are you? get me that mtcn number or i will call my bank monkton bey or whatever you call your self cus you look like you want to get your self into trouble

i not look for trouble, franky. i am happy go lucky person. i tried to help you and you dont not do what you should to have. that not my problem you can go back to threaten me if you want. your money is wear western union send it to and who ever collected it. you can talk tough to me, but i not care. i do right thing and you have to except this. phffffft. i say that when i not impress with you making threat. phffffft. call your bank. call my bank. call every bank. bank bank bank bank bank.

(yep...Franky's had enough of Monk)

ok i would do just that but dont mail me asking to call them back cus you are just about to start your troubles...monkton my asssssss

oh, you threaten me some more? kewl. i cant not wait for you to make trouble for me, franky. i not feard of you. i laugh at you. hahahahaha you silly, silly man.

Franky would respond no more, so I look forward to what Franky thinks will be trouble for me, since his check was verified as fraudulent by Corporate Security at the bank on which it was allegedly drawn. Yup...oughta be interestin, I reckon.

Anyway, Franky's originally intended victim is happy. I'm happy. I hope you're happy. I know Franky isn't. Especially since I've been sending him "phfffffffffffffffffft" emails ever since we finished (about 3 dozen up to now) ;-)

Breakin' The Rules III

This was three days of absurdity, folks. I loved every minute of it.

Because the number of email exchanges that took place in three days exceeded my most amused expectations -- over 100 -- I will forego some of my more wisebackside analysis, and just go with the to 'n fro, as it actually happened. I'll start with my first email to Franky Drake on Monday, Labor Day. Franky's emails will be in bold; Monk's responses, in italics:

Deer Mr. Franky i am pleesed to have speeks with you. my friend you bye desk frum is happy four yore check, but we didnt not expect so much money frum you to pay. i have desk in my garage which is why my friend have you send check hear. i have never use this western union thing befour to send money, but i will cash check tuesday and will ask bank how to do this four you.

Good to know your payment was delivered to you today via courier services. please I want you to have the moving funds wired to my mover today as soon as you have the check cashed so that they will be able to facilitate the pick up arrangement. You're to deduct the Western union sending fee from the remaining fund you will be sending to my mover after you have deducted the money for the item plus the extra $50 for taking the ad down (the rest was instructions for where the wire transfer was to go).

Mr. Franky, thanks to you four this informations. pleese to know that i cannot cash the check today it is holidey and my bank is not open. but tuesday i will get to works on this.

Ok, That's good by me kindly do that immediately so that the movers could come in immediately.

(now, we jump to the morning of Tuesday, September 8, when the fun truly begins)

Mr. Franky, i have done what you have asked of me. since you know wear i live, pleese to tell your mover how to find me to give him desk.

Please could i have the mtcn information and senders name including senders address to that i may send it to the mover to facilitate the pick up of the desk.

Mr. Franky, but you have my name and wear i live. i send money as you tell me. tell yore mover to come get desk now.

GIVE ME ALL THE INFORMATION THAT WESTERN UNION GAVE TO YOU SO THAT I CAN GIVE THE MOVER THE INFORMATION BECAUSE HE WOULD NOT COME IF HE HAS NOT SEEN THE MONEY. PLEASE SEND ME YOUR PHONE NUMBER SO THAT I WILL CALL YOU. PLEASE SEND THE INFORMATION WESTERN UNION GAVE TO YOU.

Mr. Franky, what informations? i give them money and they send money like i ask. what information are you asking me for? i sent the money as you say to send!

HELLO, DID YOU GO TO WESTERN UNION LIKE I TOLD YOU, IF YES THEN DID THEY GIVE YOU A RECIEPT...IF SO CHECK THE RECIEPT AND SEND ME THE MTCN NUMBER; THE SENDERS NAME AND SENDERS ADDRESS, PLEASE SEND ME YOUR PHONE NUMBER SO THAT I CAN CALL YOU WITHOUT THESE INFORMATION MY MOVER CANNOT COME SO PLEASE GET BACK TO ME.

Franky, i go to western union like you say, and i send the money like you say. i ask the nice lady there if after she take money and give me paper, am i done now, and she say yes, so i leave. i did not keep paper she give me. i thought i was done so i throw it away. did i need that?

HELLO MONK...PLEASE GO BACK TO WESTERN UNION AND GET THE PAPER INFORMATION WITHOUT THAT INFORMATION THE MOVER CANNOT PICK UP THE MONEY GO BACK TO THE WOMAN AND GET THE INFORMATION NOW SO THAT THE MOVER CAN COME QUICKLY AND PICK UP THE MONEY. YOU NEEDED THAT PAPER....

Franky, i needed that paper? i'm sawry!!! i will go right now back to western union and see the lady i saw. she was very nice lady. i sure she help me!

GO NOW AND PICK THE INFORMATION PLEASE SO THAT MY MOVER CAN PICK THE MONEY....HURRY!!!

Franky, i'm sawry!!! the nice lady i work with was not there and the other clerk there, he was not very nice at all, he call me stupid and tell me i need papers so now he tell me come back Wednesday to see the lady who work with me because he say he too busy to help a stupid person??? i sawry i mess up...i fix it tomorrow!

ITS QUITE SAD THAT THIS HAS HAPPENED LOOK FOR WERE YOU THREW THE PAPER TAKE YOUR TIME AND LOOK FOR WERE YOU THREW IT...I AM SURPRISED.

Franky, i did not think of what you say! i will go see if i can find it right now!

YOU BETTER DO AND STOP PLAYING WITH ME MONK, I DONT LIKE THESE THINGS YOU TELLING ME. LET ME HAVE YOUR PHONE NUMBER.

i am not give you my phone number. you want to yell at me. i say i sawry. i going to look for papers now.

MONK YOU GO AHEAD AND LOOK FOR THE PAPERS PLS

...and then from Franky...

Any luck with finding the paper? get back to me with the situation report.

Franky, i'm sawry but i couldnt not find the paper. the trash can i throw it in was full but i could not find the paper in there. i will have to go back to western union wedesnday to see the lady clerk who helped me. i will go when they open in the morning. i promise i will.

Plese do that first thing in the morning and lets hope for the best ok. I am sorry for sounding harsh but you have to understand my position I would be watiing for the information as soon as you get it.

And so ended Tuesday. Wednesday, it begins with an email from Franky, changing up the mover to send the Western Union to; instead of one in Littleton, CO, he switches it to a mover in Ft. Myers, Florida. Hmmmmmmmm. Anyway, he instructs Monk to take those instructions with him to Western Union. We resume:

Franky, can i do that? can she send the money to someone new, when she already sended it to someone else? i didnt not know she could do this. kewl. i will take this instrukt with me to give to the lady at western union.

ANY NEWS YET, DO YOU HAVE THE INFORMATION?

Franky, the nice lady was there that hepl me yesterday and i tell her my mistake. she very understanding and she take care of everything so it is all good now. she tell me money is delivered to your mover, so i am going to wait for them to come to pick up the desk now.

TELL THE NICE LADY TO GIVE YOU THE MTCN NUMBER SO THAT MY MOVER CAN PICK THE MONEY, THE MOVER WENT TO WESTERN UNION AND THEY REQUEST THE MTCN NUMBER WITHOUT THAT NUMBER MY MOVER CANNOT COME I TELL YOU SO MANY TIMES MY MOVER CANNOT PICK UP THE MONEY WITHOUT THAT MTCN NUMBER TELL HER YOUR MISPLACED THE PAPER AND SHE SHOULD HELP YOU GET THE MTCN FOR MY MOVER TO PICK UP THE MONEY...IF YOU DON'T DO THESE I TAKE IT THAT YOU ARE LYING TO ME...

and then, Franky follows with:

I AM BEGINING TO LOOK AT IT THAT YOU ARE LYING TO ME, YOU TOLD ME THAT YOU SEND THE MONEY AND YOU DO NOT HAVE MTCN NUMBER FOR MY MOVER. NOW I WILL MAKE THINGS EASY FOR YOU GO TO WWW.WESTERNUNION.COM AND CLICK TRACKING YOU WILL KNOW THAT I NEED THE MTCN NUMBER FOR MY MOVERS TO TRACK MONEY. IF YOU DONT GET BACK TO ME IMMEDIATELY WITH THAT INFOMRATION I WILL TO SEE IT THAT YOU STEAL MY MONEY AND I WOULD INFORM THE AUTHORITIES OF WHAT YOU ARE DOING.

Franky, i dont not like it when you yell at me. i did what you say and the nice lady was very friendly and understanding. she check and say that the money i had sent had been signed for by, she assume, the mover you told me to send it to the first time. so i came home to wait for the mover to show up but he dont not show and you send me mean email. i unhappy now. i do what you tell me, but you mean to me.

MONK I AM BEGINING TO GET REALLY UPSET WITH YOU AND IF YOU DONT SEND ME THAT MTCN NUMBER I WOULD HAVE TO REPORT YOU TO THE FBI AS A FRAUDULENT PERSON. I GAVE YOU A SIMPLE INSTRUCTION WOTHOUT THE MTCN NUMBER THE MONEY CAN NOT BE PICKED UP. GET THAT MTCN NUMBER AND GET BACK TO ME SOON AS YOU HAVE DON THESE.

you stop yelling at me. i do what i told, and the lady at western union say the money i send yesterday was picked up. it was the mover you told me the first time. i did what i was told. dont you not call the police on me!

go to your yahoo messenger lets chat i would buzz you.

no...you yell at me. you apologize for yell at me. i log off until you apologize.

AS OF NOW I AM GOING TO FOWARD YOUR ADDRESS TO THE POLICE IF YOU DO NOT GIVE ME THAT MTCN NUMBER CUS THERE IS NO REASON WHY THE MONEY SHOULD HAVE BEEN PICKED UP

you a mean man...the western union lady say money is picked up. you have no right to call police.

now i am going to ask me bank to withdrew th efunds and your bank would have to call you to pay back the money if you do not give me the required information in the next six hours. i think you are a scammer.

(there was only one answer for that)

phffffffffffffffffffffft!!!

MR MONK, WHAT I NEED IS THE THAT CODE NUMBER CALLED MTCN NUMBER FOR MY MOVER TO PICK THE MONEY...PLEASE TELL THE LADY TO GIVE IT TO YOU.

you mean to me...why should i go back and ask her anything? she tell me the money was claimed. i send it to your first mover. i think you are trying to take advant of me. why you so mean?

I told you again my mover can not pick up the money without the MTCN number, so go back and collect the number from the nice lady...please.

if you not mean to me in the morning, i will go ask her. but she already tell me money picked up, so i dont not understand.

my mover told me he as not pick up the money so what are you saying monk...please go back and as the nice lady that i said she should verify the money again and give you the code that is MTCN NUMBER FOR MY MOVER TO PICK UP THE MONEY OK

only if you be nicer to me. i no like mean peoples. you be nice, i go ask her in morning.

OK MONK I WILL BE NICE TO YOU PLEASE JUST MAKE SURE YOU COLLECT THE NUMBER FOR ME TO GIVE MY MOVER TO PICK UP THE MONEY TOMORROW OK.
i go at eigt oclock to western union to talke with lady again. i hope she wont not yell at me.

And if you thought this was absolutely absurd, wait until Thursday... and Part IV.

I Haven't Forgotten...

Have you?

Breakin' the Rules II

So, let's review some factoids heah:

A friend on Facebook was trying to sell a computer roll top desk on Craigslist. Asking price was $300. In a short time, she received an offer from a Franky Drake, who offered to courier her a check for the item.

My friend -- from the verbiage of Franky's email -- smelled a rat. And in smelling a rat, she sought a good counter: a skunk.

She forwarded everything to me I needed. And I decided to break one of those cardinal rules of scambait engagement: I told her to give Franky my mailing address to have the check couriered to, and have it made out to "Monk" (and a variation on my last name).

Later the day she did this, Franky acknowledged receipt, and indicated the check would be couriered within 48 hours. And sure enough, upon my arrival home from work two days later, neatly tucked under my door mat, was a FedEx.

And inside...a check for five times the agreed to price.

The game was so on.

I told my friend to notify Franky that "Monk" wouldn't be available until later on Monday, September 7, but was confused by the size of the check and the lack of instructions on what to do with it. Franky was quick to send "Monk" instructions on what to do with it.

Now, a quick review (there'll be a pop quiz, later): a roll top desk for $300. A buyer named Franky, with dubious email grammatical skills, who sends a check without confirming shipping instructions. A FedEx package from a different named person in Robesonia, Pennsylvania. A check from a bank in Cherry Hill, NJ. A check from a business account in Long Island City, NY. And a check for five times the agreed-to price.

And to top it off, Franky wants the overage (his secretary's mistake, of course) Western Unioned to his mover in Littleton, CO.

Got all that? Good.

Now, a little quick research by yours truly, determined that (A) the named person who allegedly sent the FedEx package from the address in Robesonia, PA, doesn't reside there (no surprise), and wasn't named Franky Drake.

(B) The company the check is accredited to -- ViaNY, Inc, in Long Island City, NY -- is "a shipping and maritime services supplier" from....*drum roll*....Nigeria. And the company's web link is....*drum roll*....broken.

(C) The bank where the checking account is, does exist; but not the listed branch on the check, in Cherry Hill, NJ. And the corporate security official I spoke with verified in about 5 seconds the authenticity of the check's fraudulence ;)

So them's the bona fides. Next up in Breakin' The Rules III...it's Monk vs Franky.

A Tale of Two Catmonsters

From the website archives...


It is the best of tales, it is the worst of tales.

When you think of cats, do you conjure up something purring and cuddly, or insta-maniacal? Speaking for me, my image of a cat is a feline mix of arrogance and tazmanian devil, with elements of an ex-girlfriend or two. An animal capable of turning on the charm in one instant, and the harm seconds later. A creature whose Prozac-needing personality demands to be the center of attention, only to shift to "leave me alone before I gouge your eyes out", in a hummingbird heartbeat.

Such as been my experience with cats and girlfriends down the years, but I digress on the latter.
A younger brother has excelled at acquiring maniacal cats in his home. One had a peculiar love of being spun around in a revolving chair until so dizzy, the cat would fall to the floor, flop a spell, then jump up and wait impatiently for another ride. But that was mild in contrast to his late cat, a Siamese/kamikaze mix he named Meiko. Meiko, my brother tells me, is Japanese for 'witch'.

Meiko apparently grasped this early on, and lived up to it in full. Just ask my brother's neighborhood. It is recommended you do so from another area code.

And yet another 'catmonster' has come to my attention: somewhere in the idyllic 'burbs of Austin, TX, resides a cyberacquaintance of mine. She loves animals. She has at least five. Three big, labrador-type dogs. One cowardly, often-sullen cat, annoyed at having to share the domicile with three of the latter "lower" life forms. And last but not least, her other cat, one she freely refers to as her "catmonster".

This "catmonster" is named Phoenix Orangello Clifton Maxwell Chaos IV, or "Jello" for short. Jello is a mixed Siamese/mutt cat. At 15 pounds, a big cat. One that can announce his entry into a room by the advanced vibration of his footfall, like a t-rex. A cat that thinks he's a dog, when it's of benefit to him to think so. The real dogs aren't inclined to argue.

To hear her tell it, Jello is far from an ordinary cat. Ordinary cats deem a hanging role of toilet paper to be fair game; Jello prefers and specializes in mauling fax paper. Ordinary cats usually provide the dogs with exercise in the form of "chase me"; in this house, it's Jello who does the chasing, at his convenience. Ordinary cats distain chasing tennis balls; Jello is annoyed because he can only retrieve one at a time. Ordinary cats know their place in the universe: at the center of it.

Jello believes the universe is there ONLY through his marginal forebearance.

On an infamous day in domicilic dystranquility, Jello had apparently found a new entrant to his universe: a rather large millar of Mothra dimensions (or so my acquaintance, in drama-queen style, described it). With no thought to potential consequences -- rank heresy for a cat of Jello's stature -- Jello brought his new 'plaything' into the house for a little millar time 'catch and release'. Mothra apparently entertained another option, and managed a daring aerial escape to a seemingly secure perch on top of the drapes in the living room, to my acquaintance's horror.

Jello took it as merely a minor obstacle to be overcome.

While my friend pondered what to do about a 'thing' with an F-16 wing span, Jello began a thoroughly-focused ascent. Starting with the stereo cabinet, Jello maneuvered his 15 lb bulk into position, and then made for his next point of approach: a nearby wall clock. With a deft and agile move, he negotiated the distance between cabinet and clock with the skill of a mountain goat.

Jello was now poised to retrieve the suddenly not-so-smug Mothra.

My acquaintance was slow to notice the route chosen by Jello, more afraid of the oversized millar that was fanning the curtains and anything else within wing shot; but seeing where Jello was now positioned, she grasped the significance more quickly than the Mothra-focused cat. Jello -- all 15 lbs of him -- was atop the wall clock now, seeking position from which to leap into Mothra's world. Jello -- a cat of the universe -- was not, however, a cat of physics. He quite failed to appreciate load stresses on a single nail, and the laws of gravity. And just as Jello made one minor adjustment before making that Mothra-retrieval leap, undeniable laws of Nature dared to insert themselves into the equation.

The nail gave way.

Thoroughly familiar with Jello's reckless abandon, my acquaintance had managed to position herself to, just barely, save the clock from an untimely end at the hands of the floor. It was the fate of the floor, having no place to go, and no options available, to have to absorb the impact of Jello. Mothra chose the moment of supreme commotion to make good an escape that led directly back to the great out-of-doors, with a tale to tell it's off-spring, about another very "off"sprung.

Personally, I'm pleased that I was able to hear of this anecdote from afar. I am just as pleased that there were no casualties as a result, other than an overstressed nail and my frazzled acquaintance.

But it did occur to me, the serious potential for CATastrophe, if Jello and Meiko had ever joined forces back then. More than just Mothra would have been wise to give what'd be left of that neighborhood a pass.

Breakin' The Rules

A blogging acquaintance and FB friend sent me an email that she believed she had a scammer nibbling at her over a Craigslist ad.

After reading the email she forwarded me, I tended to agree.

I could have just recommended she delete the email, or write back and tell the party to go procreate himself via the art of self-gratification.

Instead, I broke a couple rules of scambaiting...I told her to have the party send his "payment" via courier, to my personal address.

Yeah, I know....but I chase tornadoes, too.

But since tornado season is pretty much over here...if the payment arrives, I'll let you know how "the rest of the story" plays ;-)

Bear Necessities

Three recent stories that seem to be colliding in an ever-increasing lack of coincidence:

1. Massive forest fires in Califorlornia and other western states, including Colorado, with loads of smoke from those fires, wafting ever eastward.

2. The recent discovery of massive "pot" farms, hidden under the tree canopies of national forests, again in the west, and again to include in Colorado.

3. Lots of reports of hungry bears, stumbling into Colorado mountain communities, seeking junk food...

*TOING*

Among the bear "home invasion" reports that have recently surfaced, is one I can't independently verify, but can't bear to pass on *ducking boos and throwd empty drink cups*:

A bear was observed to somersault down a hill onto Main Street; it sat there for a moment, made a "shake-up" sound, then it staggered into a 7-11, ordering an extra large Slurpee, 12 packs of Twinkees, and a bag of malted milk balls. Then it parked itself on the front stoop, completely oblivious to the commotion around it, noshing on the junk food. Once satisfied, the bear belched, made a "peace sign" with it's front right paw, and skipped back toward the smoky woods, humming "One Toke Over The Line"...*

Just sayin'...

* the last might be sorta made up...maybe...

70 Years Ago Today...

At approximately 0445 on September 1, 1939, the world changed forever. A change that continues to reverberate even now.

Years of blind, blissful, indifferent apathy, inept diplomacy, wasted chances and useless appeasement, saw the beginning of what would become 6 years of a world at war, the bloodiest war in human history, even 64 years after the fact. Over 50,000,000 men, women and children, world-wide, would perish before it was over.

It began as German forces invaded neighboring Poland, with Soviet Russia's complicity, and despite warnings from England and France. On September 3, Britain and France declared themselves at war with Germany.

From there, it would grow to a world conflagration.

It was a war that, in 1939, didn't include America. A good thing it was, too: in 1939, America wasn't ready. The regular American Army stood at 200,000 men. The American Air Force was part of the Army, and wasn't much of a force at all, hopelessly outdated and unready for war, against more experienced German and Japanese aggressors. The American Navy was also outdated and outnumbered.

American public sentiment was largely "it doesn't concern us" when it came to war in Europe and Asia; some politicians were more concerned with the possibilities and the threat posed to this constitutional republic by the forces of national socialist fascism and Japanese imperialism; but most of the politicians were largely in tune with the American public.

A little over two years later, a decision by a foreign government, and the indisputable "day of infamy" that their decision resulted in, changed America's world, too. That change would result in a nation shocked, outraged, and united in a common cause, and a just crusade.

A crusade that, when it was over, would cost over 400,000 American lives, in almost 4 years.

By 1945, it would result in America having about 16,000,000 men and women in uniform, and the largest air and naval forces the Earth had ever born witness to, and would never see in such incredible and formidable multitudes again. It would also result in the advent of the Atomic Age, and a decision to employ the new age to end a brutal, bloody conflict in the Pacific.

At the same time, that use provided a possible preview of -- if Man's wisdom didn't catch up to technology -- a tightrope walk toward, perhaps, a future Armageddon. A tightrope the world has narrowly, gingerly walked ever since, and probably will beyond my lifetime.

As the Greatest Generation passes beyond us, the memories of what they did, and what they sacrificed, cannot and must not depart with them, even as the lessons they so painfully learned, seem to have to be relearned by generations not interested or educated in the words of Santayana: those who do not remember the past are condemned to relive it.

And those words proved prophetic, a little less than five years after the end of World War II, as the United States would be forced to relearn painful lessons all over again, after a "bring the boys home" rush to forget, meets a need to remember, in a foreign land called Korea.