Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
In Blogland, They MIGHT Hear You Scream
And one of my ex-scammers is.
I have proof that in Blogland, they CAN hear you scream. Especially when (a) I'm the cause and (b) I publish it.
Perhaps some of you remember my good scamming friend*, Bruno Weka. Bruno and I had a short run of correspondence, until he told me in no uncertain terms that "I no like this joke" (see He No Like This Joke).
Well ever since then, I have used his name and email address with a goodly number of more recent scammers, along with making good use of the Houston information and phone number he tried to foist off on me. More than a few scammers have written and asked me -- after trying to call U. R. Phulovit on that phone number -- "why are you rude to me on phone?".
Boids of a feathah don't always flock so well togethah, it seems, especially when stepping on each others' assumed turf. Better still, when they're hepped in that by yours truly.
Now, many of these scammers use an email address until it no longer serves them a useful purpose, then they shut it down or just abandon it; it eventually fills up and starts rejecting further email messages. I have quite a few email addresses I recently culled from my scammer collection for this reason.
So far, that hadn't been the case with good ol' Bruno, though I expected it to, any day.
At any rate, I got yet another scam offer from Wilson Lamar, for an inheritance of some dead relative of his via Sierra Leone (no relation to the Italian spagetti western movie guru); I sent him off a quick, "shoo fly shoo" reply, which I also copied to good ol' Bruno:
Dear Hedy Lamar,
Or is that Hedley? Never mind...Harvey Korman got to it, first.
No, Hedy, I'm not the least bit surprised to hear from you. Bruno Weka (and his email address) advised me that you might be contacting me shortly, and asked that I cooperate not with you at all. He says you're a degenerate doorknob sucker of dubious antecedence and that you screw gophers.
So unless Bruno Weka advises me otherwise, I will not cooperate with you.
U. R. Phulovit 1-713-***-**** (the Houston phone number that Bruno tried to scam me with)
Perhaps I'd get feedback from Hedy...er...Hedley, or perhaps not. Meantime and instead, I got an unexpected bonus: this anguished and totally pissed off email from hisself, Bruno Weka:
WHY HAVE YOU CHOSEN NOT TO LET ME BE....IT IS A CRIME TO KNOW WHO YOU ARE....PLEASE GIVE ME A BREAK!!!! STOP WITH ME!!!! I WARN YOU NEVER AGAIN!!!!
Do you detect a certain degree of upset hyar? I am sure that the soothing reply I sent him....wasn't:
Nope. You started it. I'm going to finish it, on my time and my terms. Your fellow scammers will not think much of you when I am done. Granted, they probably didn't think about you at all beforehand...but you made the choice to change all that. I'm just helping it along. Mwhahahahaha.
U. R. Phulovit
Within the hour, came yet another email scam letter, this one from Issa Mohammed (firstname.lastname@example.org), offering to give me the business over some 'lost treasure' located in a South African bank ("X" marks the mugu). So just to show Bruno there were no hard feelings or anything akin, I chose to take a mild, conciliatory approach to involving him with Issa Mohammed:
Dear Youssa Mohammineggs,
I am soooooo sorry, but I cannot help you give me the business. You see, my business associate, Bruno Weka (his email addy inserted hyar) says he knows you, and knows you are a goat-poking, egg-sucking elephant butt, who molests hamsters and has illicit sex with flea-infested duckbilled platypi.
I watered that down so's not to offend you too much, because Bruno was much more brutal in his assessment of you, Youssa. He says he's travelling to your neck of the woods next month, and doubts you'll want to meet him, since he called you a skank-assed, yellow-striped, Islamic fundamentalist turd ball of dubious antecedence and camel drool.
Bottom line here, Youssa Mohammineggs, Bruno Weka says you're a really baaaaaaaaaad person, and I should have nothing to do with anyone as infidelish and lowlife as you.
Again, I cleaned that up from what he REALLY SAID. He doesn't like you much.
So I don't, neither. Neener neener boo-boo.
U. R. Phulovit
Of no surprise, I got no reply from Youssa Mohammineggs. But if I look waaaaaaaaaaaay off to the east-southeast, beyond the horizon and much of the 'Pond'...I think I can see steam rising from good ol' Bruno. This email supports that (cleaned up a little from it's original content):
U MOTHERF***ER I WARN YOU TO STOP!
I know, I know...sticks and stones. Eh:
Keep your mother off the streets, and I won't have that problem.
I can only hope that caused him to vaporlock***.
Whaddaya think, readers? Does Bruno deserve to have me "give him a break"?
To vote now, call 1-800-YesBrno for yes, cut him a break; to vote no, call 1-800-NoChanc.**
* I suspect I'm kidding hyar
** I really am kidding hyar....vote in comments if you wanna, but Gawd knows who you'll be calling on those made-up numbers...
*** it may have; his email went phfffft not long after this, and not another one in almost three years since.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Seymour Writes Agin
Labels: Hee Haw, humor, Jessica Simpson's dental inacumen, Nantucket, off-color poetry, parody, Phfft Song, Rick Springfield, Seymour the pet rock, The Dental Maven blog, The Irish Rovers, The Unicorn
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Into the Jaws of the Unknown Problem
Thursday, March 18, 2010
What...We've Got Hyar Is...Part II
With me. Or so she says/scams.
According to the stuff she conveyed to me, Ms. Balentina lived in some small little village in central Russia, about 900 miles E/SE of Moscow (or so she says). And that the one great hurdle in her coming to meet me here, was getting from that small village in central Russia, to Moscow (or so she says).
Well, after my last slightly snide reply -- again, with a total lack of comprehension of what I said therein -- it becomes evident that she has apparently cleared that hurdle with comparative ease, as she replies to me again. From Moscow (or so she says):
Hello my darling (awwww, shucks...now I'm darling....*eye roll*)!!!
It is me again. I cannot believe I am in Moscow already (neither do I, but I digress and she goes on). It was a wonderful flight for me and everything go well. You know even though Moscow is capital of our big country, it is just like some country (uh, what she said). Different people, like and the prices are very very high. People are very rude and angry (sounds more like Newark, NJ, to me). When I get off plane and was wait for baggage a policeman come up me and ask me to show passport. They are all crazy here because of terrorism. It humiliating to me. Then I take bus from airport for over 1 hour, but I see many good places in Moscow this way.
She rambles on about how big, expensive and crowded Moscow is, then gets to her accommodations: I found a place to stay. I rent a room from an old woman. She is about 70 years. She say her husband die 2 years ago and she has two grown up children but they already married and don't come to visit much so she is alone and she give me cheap rent to stay with her which make me happy. She is very nice woman!! She say I must be careful about travel and with you, but I say to her I know you are nice man, and my cellmate (I think she meant soulmate, or perhaps a Freudian slip thang, but eh...). She say I should still be careful when I meet you, but if you are what I am sure, she think it be okay for me (thanks, Granny...may a weasel pee in your borsch).
After a bit more of that hokum-ski, she gets down to the nitty-borschski: now, I need for you to tell me which airport I fly to meet you. I wish to come soon, because I am becoming to feel very love about about you (time for a panic *TOING*), and I must have to be with you to feel and make this love come true. I know you are my man that I have dream of (a few ex-girl friends are gagging just now, and she goes on) and I cannot wait to start with making you happy I am coming (I will resist a really tacky comment there).
Then comes that seminal moment, that point in these deals that John Wayne's character in True Grit described as "getting down to the rat killing", and the moment I've known was coming at some point in this bullshevik: I do need to ask for you some help. I am not with enough money to have all I need for ticket to USA. If I tell you where to send, would you make my love yours with money to complete my ticket? I need only $300 to make you mine (*TOING TOING TOING TOING*). I am so near to make you now, please don't disapoint me.
She goes on to tell me how to send it, using something I've never heard of -- e-gold -- and finishes with darling, don't let me down and tell me again your airport I fly to! With loves and kisses soon!!!
I said it afore, and I'll say it agin: bullshevik. Like another scamstress of Boris 'n Natashaville, it's the old "$300 ploy". At any rate, it's time to do some more English comprehension testing with MissDancy54:
Conditionally Dearest Balentina of dubious antecedence and geographical locality,
You know, that old woman you're renting from is probably rather smart about ways of the world, even if she screws small animals using implements and visual aids. You need to be cautious, a small town babe in a big, bad city, where sheep roundups aren't much different than cattle calls at the Chicken Ranch. I'm so glad you think I'm a good man; I rather think I play one on TV, even though I really don't, because I don't have an agent. As for you making me your dream, this I can do as well, long as your dream is being eaten by a T-rex in a cheap B movie. If I were you, I'd have to get smaller shoes and I'd kind of set the bar a bit higher. But that's only if I were you, and obviously I'm not, because I'm here responding to your effort to give me the business-ski, Moscow-style.
Granted, you really don't know if I'm just an ogre that flatulates, eats weed rats, and has the kind of breath that peels bark off of trees. But you don't care since you love me, and as we all know, love conquers all, especially when you have the baddest divorce attorney in town! Badda boom badda bing, fuggetabouit! Fact of the matter is, I am really nothing more than a rather horny leech, and you gonna be one fine notch on my bedpost upon arrival, babycakes. Yowza and hooha! Don't worry, I'll teach you the meaning of both of those, mama-babuska.
Now, as to the money...all I need to send you is a measly $300? Well shucks, Ma'am, if I'd knowd I could get had for such a paltry sum, I coulda quit wasting time and just go ahaid and got it done. I've gotten laid for much more, spent over a longer period of time! I have that much left over from my Monopoly game, I'm sure. I mean, I am your dream of dreams, right?
I never heard of this e-gold stuff, but what's a little unfamiliarity, what with all the unfamiliarity we're operating on already, my Steppes Muffin? So the sooner I git 'er done, the sooner you'll be in my body odor radius, and that's when we'll get down to the pokin' and the proddin', my little gulag blossom!
Lemme see what I can work up hyar, so's you can git to givin' me this hyar business of yours.
Of course, nuthin' got sent via e-gold or whatever it was. And perhaps it was that what got the scales to start falling from her eyes. OR, mayhaps I think I finally managed to say a thing or two that caused her to leave the script just a tad, and start to wonder about my sincerity:I not understood your word. What is divorce you talk? Why you make fun of me and say gulag? My darling, I need from you money to make dream come. Do you still want me come? Please to don't make fun of me. My feelings are sensitive yes? These things you say make me concern. Please send money soon so we can continue to my meet you. This is must for me to have.
Okay, it appears I finally kind of got her attention, but didn't as yet dissuade her from her objective of $300. So now, I decide to REALLY get her attention with what is probably an international violation of..er...something or other. Then again, with all the international violations taking place from Nigeria and elsewhere, what's one more between a scammer and her baiter:
Comrade Balentina Manyiowa:
I am Colonel Ivanov Vishinsky Absolut, of the State Secret Police, Moscow District. I have been monitoring your ILLEGAL COMMUNICATIONS with a suspected agent of the Western intelligence organization, U.N.C.L.E. You will CEASE AT ONCE ALL FURTHER COMMUNICATION WITH THIS PERSON, or you will FACE ARREST BY THE STATE! This is NON-NEGOTIABLE!
Colonel Ivanov Vishinsky Absolut,
State Secret Police
"Book Em, Danofski!"
Now, do I really think that she believed that last email? Nawp, shore don't. But what I do believe is, she -- or her 'handler' -- figured out she wasn't going to get her $300. And I reckon that based on her silence, which has lasted now nearly a month.
Too bad, too. I was looking forward to her coming. Really.
Well okay...I would have settled for her breathing hard. Really. At my age, you take what you can git.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
What...We've Got Hyar Is...
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Take Me Out Of The Ballgame..
Another blogger I visit -- Hale McKay -- sometime back posted some jokes about baseball. The very first one resonated immediately: about how little Billy raced home and told his mom that he'd helped score the winning run in the ballgame that afternoon. And how had he done that, she asked?
"I dropped the ball". DOH!
Sounds like me.
Baseball was never my sport. As a kid that got signed up for Little League, I didn't last one season of it. Among other inabilities (eye-hand coordination, ball-bat coordination, throw-aim coordination, flyball-glove coordination), I had this inexplicable fear of a baseball, zeroing right in on my head.
A couple of times of which, it did.
In elementary/jr high/high school softball, I gradually rounded into a manageably inept player who learned to improve eye-hand, bat-ball and flyball-glove coordination. The throw-aim coordination wasn't following along at the same pace, but showed some sign of promise that I could deliver the ball to within feet of the target.
The fear of the ball coming at the head remained. Which I can't explain, since hitting me in the head -- as three concussions have proven -- doesn't amount to much. Common sense doesn't manage to penetrate there at times either, but I digress.
Anyway, the Billy story brought back an old softball memory, one that I can now laugh about, since the other party to the story has, I am comfortably certain, no idea where I am anymore.
Into adulthood, I found myself getting roped into playing rec-league slow-pitch softball. Eh. I'd finally managed to find enough assorted levels of coordination to manage this, and found a fielding position that thoroughly fit me: right field. It was an easy choice, since no one else on the team wanted it ("too boring", I was told). But for me, it was perfect: a grounder that got past the infield was no problem; a fly ball, if hit deep enough, gave me time enough to work out the coordinates, windage, elevation, projected rate of drift, deceleration and drop, for me to make a half-dozen adjustments to same, and make a catch, while the crowd took bets on whether I would or not.
My teammates told me that the odds were running 8-5 against. Wiseasses.
One thing I had developed over the years -- and can't explain why -- was a cannon-arm for throwing the ball back in. But the throw-aim coordination was a tad bit dubious as yet.
At a corporate job during the latter 1980s, I was part of a group that challenged a mixed team of sheriff's deputies from our local county, to a slow-pitch softball game. On the night of the big event, the two teams appeared to be pretty evenly-matched, and the score went to and fro.
Up to then, I'd had a good night: not one ball that left the infield had done so to right field. I was pretty complacent, having had a good 3-for-4 at the plate, with 3 runs scored and 3 RBI. Then, late in the 6th inning, the deputies managed to tie us up, and with two outs, the hitter punched a ball into, until then, virgin right field.
While trying to compute the longitude and latitude of the inbounder, I recognized that it was going to drop in front of me for a base hit; so did the baserunner, who poured on the coals in a bid for a double. When I got to the ball, he was about 2/3s of the way to second base; I came up quickly and fired a rocket from about 60 feet away to the second baseman.
With that cannon-arm of mine, I threw the baserunner out. Literally. With a badly-timed revisitation of that dubious throw-aim coordination of mine, I put the ball squarely behind the baserunner's right ear, dumping him to the dirt short of second base. Fell like a sack of wet compost, he did.
For the next few minutes, the very shaky, white-faced baserunner kept insisting that one finger was three. He was helped off, and a pinch runner substituted for him. One that went onto score the winning run.
All because I threw the wrong kind of "out".
Yep...me and Billy got something in common. We won a game. For the opposing team.
Come July, it'll have been 21 years since that "argument for Alzheimers" game. I don't play softball any more. And I don't worry about being pulled over by that particular deputy, one dark and sinister night in a rural part of the county any more. I trust to the rocket I delivered, to have provided him just enough memory lapse ;-)