Feng Shui Meets Feng Scammui

*Blogger's note: this is a test of the feng shui interruptus network. Had this been an actual disruption to the flow of feng shui -- aka, feng ptui -- qi ers would have been instructed on where to 'aaa-uhmmmm' to reconnect with their qi. More or less. Probably less. We return you now to something less qi-able*

What is feng shui? Simply put, it is "an ancient Chinese system of aesthetics believed to use laws of Heaven and Earth to help one improve life by receiving positive qi (aka, energy flow)". When used by scammers, it tends to drift and weeble-wobble into something more obfuscational, which -- when expressed in the higher literary Mandarin Chinese dialect -- is closer to Feng Ptui, or "Nah shunar du wa na?".

English translation in a spell.

My online feng shui continues to be unabately interrupted and very unharmonious. My flatulence is probably part of that, but I digress.

Amongst my latest qi abusers was a dubious antecedic character going by the name of Ming Mui, and claiming to be a VP and Manager of the Bank of East Asia, located in NYC.

"NYC????" Das what he writ.

Mui wished to have speaks with me -- renowned the world over, apparently, as 'unclosed recipients' -- over a matter of one of his dead clients, $58 Million USD, and Mui's desire to have me help him "confidentially and 100% risk free", access this fund. I was, in my 'undisclosed recipient' guise, to become the qi of Mui's Feng Scammui.

*BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZER-san*

Instead, my 'undisclosed recipient' persona, operating on the parallel parking theory of feng ptui, undertook to throw a little ripple in Mui's qi field of 'give the business to the round eye'. So sawwy not-san.

His email, titled Did You Recieved My Earlier Notification?, ran about seven paragraphs. I simply replied to it with a "uh...I didn't receive your first email. Did it read like this one, in the manner of Nah shunar du wa na?"

And promptly rewrote significant passages of it for him, helping to achieve a qi comparable to that of a planet that was just hit by a moon-sized asteroid. How's that for Heavenly influence?

Here's what I sent back to Mui (mingmui111@yahoo.com), and renamed for my purposes, Feng Shui, and included to about a dozen of his peers and colleagues:

Mr. Feng Shui
Vaginal President
Stank of East Asia
Anal Street Main Debauche
202 Anal Street NYC, NY 10013

Internal would not have been the breast way to reach you without getting slapped but since this letter is highly contagious and the Interpol seems to be the most secord and fascist way of comingling. I derided to beach you by this means.

I am Mr. Feng Shui, Vaginal resident of the Stank of East Asia, where it all comes together. Kindly not that this massage is offal and penile and as such should be kept highly buttressed in vaseline, so I peed with you once at a pubic urinal to keep things in tuna with the ebb and flow of Eddie.

I am contracting you basely on a repent meeting held by the miasma of my stank which an account of the late Samuel Anderson-Okoronji (diseased with crotch crickets), who was prostrated by a candor (large carnivourous bird of the hamster family), and went to Florida to defoliate. I was his supplier of sexual trysts with farm animals and various fowl. Before his diseased sabbatical, he concealed to me a secret trollope account worth the sum of $58 Million USD in collectible urine samples.

The mismanagement of my stank has made serious efforts to locate any of the sample's hibiscus, but all efforts came to botanicus flopstemicus. That is why I have contracted you in lieu of a salad shooter. My stank in a short pile would deplore the accredited daschund, consecrated in Gaines Burgers, and the fund would be sent to the offices of Goat F***ers Anonymous, for the reprogramming of disseminators to prevent unwarted pregnancys or nellies, and even possibly natalies.

I will not let such happen because I know a good goat f*** when I feel one, and so do a few nancys, nellies and natalies I know. I will never forgive myself, nor forgoat the looks of unsatisfaction across the stockyards, of unrequited three-peckered goats who spent a life in a ewe convent.

Thus, I need you to act as benef***iary to bring this sordid tale of bestiality to the big screen in time for an Oscar nomination in 2013. Would ya couldya wouldya, and make all the other undisclosed recipients herein as happy as I would be to know that this matter has been handled in the manure that you know I am driven to contemplate before my chronic colitis collapses my colossal conglomerated mass of fecal mucus membranes, leeching their contents into my taste buds? Umm-ummm good golly, Miss Molly.

I have the honor to be, all that I can be, until then whenst I'm not cuz I can't,
Mr. Feng Shui

I didn't get a reply from Ming Mui, nor any of his peers. Prolly cuz -- at least in the case of Ming Mui -- the aforementioned phrase Nah shunar du wa na, was well understood by Mui. English translation: what is this bull you're handing me?

Feng ptui: never underestimate it. Oh-qi?

How To Apply For An Online Loan

...that you don't want.

Banker Cat -- aka in this case, Lee Yong of Global Loan Firm, Inc, an (ill) Fortuned 5 Million company -- didn't approve me, either.

So if you've been turned down for a loan, worry not...you're in good company. Unless you don't consider me 'good company', like Lee and some of his peers do.

Granted, I didn't exactly 'apply' in the manure that Lee hoped I woulda.

It started with a spam-diverted email to one of my less-targetted accounts. With a header like this -- 3% Interest Rate Loan** Apply Now** -- it begged for my further attention. And a little pre-response internet research, to see how many fraud entries had been already recorded for Global Loan Firm, Inc.

I didn't bother counting 'em; I just did what I've been doing a lot of lately. 'Massaging' the email a tad, and sending it back with a 'filled out' application. As well as forwarding it to all the current scammer email addresses I had on hand.

The gist of the original scam email was offering the recipient -- and here I was, wunst agin categorized as one of those pesky 'undisclosed recipients' -- a loan at between 2-3%, up to 10,000,000 UK pound sterling, for terms up to 25 years. All I'd have to do was fill out a quick and easy application, email it in, and loan approval would be within a day or so.

Guaranteed.

Of course, THEN, I'd have to pay fees for the loan and application process, as well as insurance fees for the transfer, all under the guise of a 'diplomatic courier delivery service'. Therein wuz the *TOING*.

But we didn't git that fer. Seems my re-write and application kinda took Lee Yong offen his game. More on that in a mo'. First, what I 'tweaked' and sent back to Lee and about a dozen of his peers:

Dear Esteemed Customer,

You are welcome to LEE LONG DONG DUNG GLOBAL LOAN FIRM INC. We are currently needing some venture capital so we are venturing to get into some of yours by way of offering to give out loans to any part of the world at 125% interest rate, compounded daily. If that didn't cause you immediate onset of cardio vaporlock, please contact Mr. Mason Scout with the email address bellow: leeyong50@gmail.com, before it does. We allege to give out loans between 5000 pounds and 10,000,000 pounds as the case may allege to be, at interest rates competitive with the best of any organized crime or loan shark operation. To any part of the world. With a duration of up to 25 years, cuz the way we work, we can say just about anything. If you believe an amoeba spit of it, we're in. Also, we only gives out loans to applicants between the ages of internet accesible and above. We have many satisfied customers to choose from, like Dr. Samuel Okoronji, who write, "you make my loan and I get all the f***able goats I can fornicate with in one week. Thank you, Global Loan Firm Inc!". And Barrister Stacy Miller, who write us that "thanks to your agreeable terms and conditions, I am totally f***ing destitute, and Dr. Samuel Okoronji got all my f***able goats Thanks loads!" To join our growing list of satisfied us customers, please fill out the application bellow and provide us with your informations and goat f***ing proposal:

(in the original, the application was titled 'Data Form', with the instructions that "essential fields are marked *", of which apparently every field was considered essential to screw with by moi).

*First Name: Jack N.

*Last Name: Ewehoff

*Prefix: Grand Exalted Poobah Emeritus Connundrum

*Age: Good thang ah ain't a woman...you'd git *bonked* fer askin' that

*Address: 161 Gregory Street Central City

*State: Jefferson (well it WUZ, once..briefly)

*Country: stolen many moons ago via wars of conquest and bad wampum trading

*Business name: Trysum Artificially Inseminated Earwig Farms

*Loan Amount Needed: $5,000,000 USD...don' need none of that pound sh**

*Purpose of Loan: To diversify farm to add artificially inseminated Smart Cars and f***able goats, which seems to have a growing market

*Duration: fer as long as I kin keep y'all funded me h'yar or 12/21/12 when the Mayan Calendar goes phfffffft, whichever happens first

*Date of Birth: 4/1/60

*Gender: I engenders many admirable traits I don' happen ta use

*Marital Status: depends on who's tryin' ta serve me what papers

*Next of Kin: me baby brudder, Beat N. Ewehoff

*Monthly Income: are we including the legal part?

*Phone: (used my good ol' fax machine to nowhere)

*Email: (my usual one for this kinda sh**)

All modes of Fund Reception will be Diplomatic Courier Delivery Service, with all fees, excise taxes, duties, tariffs, I shot the tariff but I diddunt shoot da deputy, kickbacks and government officials palm-greasings, the responsibility of the applicant. In acknowledgements of these detail, we shall send you our terms along with repayment schedule predicated on prevailing winds carrying lethal wildebeest methane across vast tracts of Newark, NJ. The rest is up to your honesty and diligence, and four dozen other acronyms not herein twittered. I am resolved to be, for I know none else who TO be or not,

Mr. Lee Long Dong Dung

Sent back to Yong and a chosen dozen of his scamming peers, I eagerly awaited anything.

All I got back was a reply from Yong: no text, just a blank reply that contained the aforementioned 'tweaked' application.

Danged if I didn't leave the wanker speechless.

Which I can understand: 125% interest rate? That'd take the starch out of most intestinal fortitudes, I reckon.

Rotsa Ruck On This One-San

"CATOOOOO...for to-niiiiight, I am cancelling the attack or-dair!", followed by an off-key trumpet blast.

In the movie, Cato didn't get the word. Nor did his stand-in on this blog.

Another flurry of email scams rained down upon my deliberately-targeted email address, in the past month. Included were an alleged Iraq War veteran with loot from the late Saddam Insane, an ATM card from Nigeria, two dying widows in Africa, a needed-foreigner in the Ivory Coast for an inheritance, a Chinese banker with contractor overcharges to skim, an oft-used job offer from the UK, and...another inheritance scam by an alleged Chinese barrister from a bank in Malaysia, with a Japanese email address.

*TOING*

It was time for email re-writing again. And, of course, I couldn't leave out the runners' up...they were all included in the 'new and improved' email from Barrister Fong Chong (barristerfongchongeconsultant@yahoo.co.jp), as recipients of his intended largess. I didn't want anyone to feel left out, like Sly and the Family Stone(d).

For the 'voice' and 'diction' of Mr. Fong Chong-san, my memory served me well, as I (sorta) channeled the famous French detective from the 1970s, Inspector...Chief Inspector...Jacques Clouseau of the Sharpai, or wherever it was he was from. And, of course, sent from my latest email address for cross-screwing with the online scamming community.

Here's what went back to Bannister Fong and his odious peers:

Attention Prease

I am Bannister Fong Chong, an attorney at raw. I discover your emair and informations through rooking on bathroom warrs in pubric restrooms during my business travers. But that not important now-san. What important now-san is that I assure you that this sounds rike a scam because a rot of activities going on internet. But I assure you that this is rear.

A diseased crient of mine, who herein after be refer to as party of dead part, die because of unknown-rerated condition on 11 January 2010. His condition -- decayed since then -- was due in rarge part to death of rest of party of dead part's famiry. This happen when prane they frying on not go from point A to point B rike it supposed to. It make 'oopsie daisy' in between points, farr down and go 'boom'.

I have contact you to assist in distributing money reft behind by party of dead part before it is decrared uncraimed by the bank where the deposit sit worth Ten Mirrion Six Hundred Thousand US Dorrars. This bank has issue a notice for dead to rise and craim money, or it be confiscated-san.

My proposition to you is to seek consent of you to ret me present you as the next of kin and beneficiary to party of dead part, so that you so totarry rike expect the proceeds of account can be paid to you. Then you can assume you get to keep 40% of this money-san, and I take rest, but that for rater when you find you get f***ed rike three peckered goat in ewe convent. Strange image I know, but some of you identify with goat-san image and for others I digress.

I require you honest cooperate to ret us see this transaction through. This executed under a regitimate arrangement-san that protect you from many breach of the raw, you sabe? I rike how that sound, I say again-san: I require you honest cooperate to ret us see this transaction through. This executed under a regitimate arrangement-san that protect you from many breach of the raw. Sound rike music to ears-san, yes no?

I think necessary now to say to you that if this business offer offend your morar varues, do accept my view that you need new morar varues. Get over it-san. I arso improre to exercise most indurgence to keep this matter secret-san, for purpose of not retting cat out of bag before derivered to restaurant.

Prease contact me at once to express your interest-san. I rike you to acknowredge the receipt of this message soonest at my secretary's emair (I used the address of another scammer, for sh**s and giggles) and treat with absorute secretness and sincerity-san. I rook forward to your quick repry. Arso incrude your direct terephone number when contact to make me have speaks with you.

Cato, the attack order for tonight is rescinded-san.

Of no great surprise, the other alleged Asian scammer didn't bother to repry..reply to this offer; nor did Bannister Fong Chong bother to thank me for enhancing his generous offer to deriver the business with egg rorr. Nor did most of the others. BUT...I did get one, how shall we say...confused response from Barrister Stacy Miller (barr_stacymiller@mygroupuser.com), who was supposed to be the contact for one of the dying widows in Africa:

what is this. have i communicate with you for this?

Oh, goodie. I git to have speaks at least wunst agin. Leaving behind Clouseau and Cato, I have a goat at this one:

Ah, Bannister Stacy Miller! You were the one I really wanted to have speaks with! I am sooo glad you replied! Let me introduce myself: I am Bannister Fong Chong. Just like you, I am a bannister. We bannisters need to stick together. With enough dirty hands using us daily, we can do this. But I digress.

I have a problem. You, my dear bannister Miller -- by mere locality of your business -- have the solution. Please hear me out.

I have a three-peckered goat. It is a freak of nature, but one that I, being a supporter of animal rights, wish to see satisfied. At any rate, the poor goat has been ensconced in a ewe convent for the past year. Talk about frustrated: a three-peckered goat in a ewe convent, where abstinence is absolute, and chastity doesn't blow goats? The goat is so frustrated, he's ready to mount a statue of Idi Amin, late of Uganda, if he knew where to find one. But I digress.

A Dr. Samuel Okoronji (dr.samuelokoronji@yahoo.com) has a herd of embraceable ewes, but won't share. I want you to impose upon him and get him to reconsider. I have an account in Switzerland that will make your efforts most lucrative. It contains USD 10.6 Million in unused thongs from the plus-sized Victoria's Rebushed Secrets catalogue. I'm sure that they have your size in stock. They goat to 5XL.

Can you help my poor goat out? His name is Goat...Goat Ferit.

What say you, Bannister Stacy Miller? We trade wampum?

It took a day, but the reply was not in keeping with further business discussions:

f*** off

With that affirmation in my pocket, I sent an email to all the other scammers, thanking Bannister Stacy Miller for accepting to act as goat-between with Dr. Samuel Okoronji and his embraceable ewes.

But no one wanted to play any more.

Goat figure.

Another One Rides Da Bus

I had a simple little errand to run into da big city. A place where you have no idea whether men are men, or whether you need to take out a mortgage for the parking fees, assuming you can find a place to park.

It was a Monday morning, and morning rush hour. My car was willing. My patience...was not.

Since I've been paying taxes for our local bus service -- aka, RTD, Regional Transit District -- I decided to leave the driving into the maelstrom of downtown on a Monday morning rush hour, to them. Granted, I was a re-constituted virgin, bus riding-wise; I hadn't used RTD since 1993, and then from the northern 'burbs of the Denver Metro. I ignored the strains of the Kingston Trio's MTA song I recalled from years ago, and expected I'd find my way back before the next rent payment was due.

Now, when I did this bus thing in '93, I didn't have internet to research the route, the fares, the time schedules, or the connections, if any. I had to call RTD and ask what, where and how. Now, I had all of that at my finger tips, via my home computer. Which I chose not to use; I'd wing it, instead.

This could leave a mark.

First, to the nearest RTD transportation 'hub' near me: a large park-n-ride at a major thruway on the west side of 'da Metro. As I followed the more experienced 'herd' toward the generously-termed 'gate' (a sign on a curb that marked where the bus picked up), I noted that they, almost without exception, were audibly equipped with the latest in distraction: ipods, blackberries and blue tooths. I drew a few odd stares, having none of the above, when I tried to fit in, and held my hand to my ear, simulating a spirited wireless conversation with my pet rock.

Suddenly, I had more space in the line than I had heretothen.

The bus arrives. The bus route's designator means nothing to me -- ES -- but it does indicate it's going downtown. Somewhere. I hope to the right 'where'. I board, pay my fee -- luckily, I had the exact change that Admiral Kirk and Capt. Spock lacked -- and I found me a seat. A moment later, the bus was off.

My first indicator that the ride would be less than epic, was that no where amongst the passengers, did I see Sandra Bullock. Next, I noted a list of bus-riding prohibitive signs on the bulkhead above the driver, discouraging a whole host of activities being brought on or done on the bus: no standing forward of the white line. No food or drink. No littering. No playing loud music. No firearms or weapons of mass destruction. No remotely-triggered bombs allowed on the bus, set to activate at 50 mph. No mooning cars on 6th Avenue.

Small wonder the ride into downtown was so quiet. In a mere 30 minutes, I was exiting the bus in a sub-ground terminal called Civic Center Station.

From there, I assumed me to be within walking distance of my destination. I just hadn't bothered to figure out which direction it was, from where I disembarked. So I wandered out to the nearest main arterial that ran east-west. That and 50 cents told me nothing.

Now, being a male, I am not supposed to be practical and stop to ask for directions. Not part of my gender's psychology. I mean, where would Lewis & Clark be today, had they stopped and asked directions? Same place they're buried, I reckon, and I digress.

So I picked a direction and started walking. I knew the place had to be close by. Within 2 blocks, I saw what I reckoned had to be the place: a line of folks stretched out the front doors, waiting. I entered, and went through the security check point. Three times. By the third -- stripped to my skivvies -- I quit triggering the danged metal detector. From there, I waddled over to the "Wherezits" sign, tryin' to hitch up me trousers, to find my destination. I didn't find it. Phffft.

I wandered down the hall to an office widda sign "Information". I waited in that line, and while doing so, literally watched Time flying by: the clock on the wall's minute and hour hand were moving at the speed of faster than seconds. The second hand...was dead. I ignored the clerk's five o'clock shadow growing before my eyes, and asked about my destination; with a primal *grunt*, he pointed at the wall and mumbled "next buildin' over". Afterwhich, I pointed out the wall clock; he turned -- audibly creaking as he did so -- and mumbled "yeah, we know".

So back to the door I'd originally entered -- 'cuz the wall he pointed at, didn't have one -- and onto the next building over. Another security check point, with a slightly more agreeable metal detector: I only hadda go through twice, and got to keep my pants on.

Finally, I made my destination. In one of the most shocking experiences of my adult life, the licensing process I was sent to do, took 15 minutes. Period. Let me say that again: I went to a city and county government building, to go through a license application process with governmental bureaucrats, and it only took 15 minutes. That was more surreal than the ticking crock.

So now it was time to go back to catch a bus. Which -- after wandering several blocks to reacquaint myself with a sense of direction -- I found the terminal. And discovered that the bus I needed wouldn't be returning there until mid afternoon.

WT-RTD-F?

But, I was told, I could wander out the door, walk over to the corner of the main east-west arterial, and catch a bus what would git me where I wanted to go, via every stop betwixt here and Timbuck-ptui. The person giving me those directions did NOT look like Dennis Hopper, so I reckoned I'd try it, just this once.

At the corner of east-west Mayhem, I was swept up by the suction of a throng boarding a bus; luckily, the very one that the un-Dennis Hopper directed me to. I had just spotted me a vacant seat, when the bus lunged forward like a bull leaving the gates at a rodeo; good thing the floor broke my fall. The bus riders were blissfully unawares of my momentary conversion from upright motoring to aisle crawler.

I managed to get into the seat, just as I heard the bus driver make an overhead announcement that was as clear as Ozzy Osbourne, followed instantaneously by the bus almost standing on its nose to halt. As I wondered what we'd managed to avoid hitting, the doors opened, and a soon-to-be familiar routine took place: people got off, and people got on. And with each cycle, people staying on the bus moved around, opting for better seating with better bracing.

But not me. I kept my ass anchored right where I'd belatedly managed to land it. The stops along the east-west arterial were so fast and furious, by the time mine eyes had seen the glory of a better seat, the opportunity for it had already passed.

Each accompanied by the bus driver's best imitation of Son of Cheeseburger on the overhead.

Never heard one recognizeable syllable. Gradually, the geography became more and more familiar, until -- with one nose-standing, 90 degree pirouette -- the bus slammed to a stop in the very place from whenst I'd begunst this odyssey, two hours prior. My car and I were never so glad to see each other.

But I might tempt more fate: maybe next time, I'll wander a bit further afield, and try the light rail train. Long as I'm not sharing it with Dennis Hopper and/or Steven Seagal.

Seymour 'Writes' Again

I thought, after my last experience with my pet rock Seymour's alleged literary *creativity* -- ie., where he parodies famous songs and tries to pass them off as his own creation ("do NOT!!) -- that we were done with that phase.

This morning, I find that I was wrong.

A pile of wadded up paper, with a rather smug-looking rock, barely able to see out of the pile, greeted me before that first, mirage-degrading cup of coffee.

Seymour: "I've done it!"

Me: "I wasn't about to blame Windy and Barry (the barometer) for the mess you're buried in.."

Seymour: "Phfffft. I have written a song, all on my own!"

Me: "Oh nuh-uh.."

Seymour: "Oh nuh-HUH!"

Me: "Who did you parody this time?"

Seymour: "Did NOT!!"

So when I asked to see the 'lyrics', Seymour was initially rather defensive. But sitting nearby, was my old Sony Walkman, with the headphones conveniently within Seymour's reach. So I put 'em on and after replacing the batteries -- 'cuz Seymour forgot to turn the silly thing off until the batteries died -- rewound the tape a wee bit, and...

Me: "Seymour, you parodied the Fab Four!"

Seymour: "Did NOT!"

Me: "Really? So...what tune did you write your lyrics to?"

Seymour: "Uh...nuthin' special...."

Me: "C'mon, Seymour...lyrics NEED a tune, and it's a Beatles tune that was last played on here.."

Seymour: "well, okay, so I let the Beatles write a tune that I could work from...but the lyrics are MINE! Really!"

Me: "Excuse me...you LET the Beatles write a tune?"

Seymour: "Uh-HUH!"

Me: "Really?"

Seymour: "Really really!"

Me: "Is it the tune I just happened to rewind to that you wrote your lyrics to fit?"

Seymour: "uh....well...mebbe.."

Oy vay.

See, Seymour's got a fauxcreative bug going. After visits with four budding/accomplished artists/writers since 2006 (Amy Chavez, Monica Newton-McCawley, Mayden aka Cora Runkle Blinsmon, and Janine Rusnak-Abbott), he's decided that he wants to be a writer, too. Of music. Problem is...despite the incredible array of accomplished talents Seymour's been exposed to, Seymour's about as creative as a mucus membrane ("am NOT...er, what's that??"). So after a little bit of negotiations -- I promised to order some Chinese delivery later, and share -- Seymour reluctantly let me see what he'd 'created'.

I sprayed coffee all over the lyrics. Seymour got pissed. Even moreso, when Windy and Barry joined in snickering. You be the judge as I present you Seymour's latest parody lyrics ("are NOT!!"):

Picture yourself in a boat on the ocean,

bailing as fast as the water pours nigh.

Somebody's calling, you take time to notice,

a girl with some platypus eyes.

Kapok life jackets of yellow and green,

billowing under your buns.

Look for the girl...with the platypus eyes,

and she dived.

(CHORUS accompanied by something thrice-BONKed)

Lucy's getting high...on door knobs,

Lucy's getting high...on door knobs,

Lucy's getting high...on door knobs,

O...MG..

Me: "You CAN'T be serious..."

Seymour: "am TOO!!...Keep going, it gets better!!"

No, it doesn't:

Follow her down to a bend in the river,

where lizard lipped people suck marshmallow flies.

Everyone vomits and gags at the odor,

that gets so disgustingly high.

Newspaper cartoons appear on the bank,

waiting to take you to Cleveland ("Cleveland?").

Board them with eyes closed and holding your nose,

and you're off.

(Chorus with something thrice-BONKed)

Lucy's getting high...on door knobs,

Lucy's getting high...on door knobs,

Lucy's getting high...on door knobs,

noooooo.....sh**....

Me: "SEYMOUR!!"

Seymour: "Oh, lighten up! The best part's next!"

No, it ain't:

Photo yourself on a horse in a station,

with porcupine porters and butt-cracking ties.

Suddenly someone is there passing methane,

the girl with the platypus eyes.

(CHORUS with something thrice-BONKed)

Lucy's getting high...on door knobs,

Lucy's getting high...on door knobs,

Lucy's getting high...on door knobs,

whooooa, dude...

Seymour: "Whaddaya think?? Think I can get the Beatles to record it???"

I'm going back to bed, and see if I can wake up from this particular nightmare...

Seymour: "Is NOT!!! And anyway, mine's better than William Shatners!!!"

Forgetting, for a moment, that Seymour just admitted it was a parody ("did NOT!!")...on that part, he's got a point...

They'd Like To Teach The World To...

..avoid sending me this stuff. Eventually, perhaps.

Personally, I like Coca Cola. Always have. Though, when they experimented about 30 years ago with their original formula, and got rid of it for a short time, I was none too pleased. Not long afterward -- after the PR black eye -- Coca Cola returned the original formula under the guise of Coca Cola Classic.

Eh...long as I could get the stuff I liked again, all was forgiven.

Now, they're screwing with me again.

Well, okay...it ain't Coke that's screwing with me. But someone wanted me to believe that my favorite soda pop maker was suddenly my bestest buddy, by awarding me a tidy sum of money. And expected that I'd take my wrath out on Coca Cola, when I *fell* for the ploy, as they hoped I would.

*BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZER*

Of course, I knowd right away that it was another AlGore AGW-like scam. But what to DO about it?

I did undertake to notify the company...and found they already knowd. Eh. That coulda been that.

But we know me...a *TOING* wouldn't let it go at 'that'.

So I did what I've been wont to do of late: (a) re-write the scam letter and (b) send it back to both the scammers what sent it, and a selection of other recent scammers who have come to really REALLY dislike hearin' from me. Especially when, after they apparently blocked my one email address, I opened up another one to hit them from.

I really REALLY don't play well with others.

The following is the second re-write of the Coca Cola/Canadian Lottery-Coca Cola Zero Promotion scam letter, that I sent to all involved; the first one I wrote was...uh...a bit more unfit for mixed company ;-) Toned down, I thought Coca Cola might just print and frame it*.

To the re-write:

From: Mrs. Rosemary Butthead

Coca-Cola zero Canada Lottery/Lotto Crap Promotional Draw

WINNING NOTIFICATION

The Coca-cola Company would like to have sponsored this lottery for the promotion of the new Coca-cola zero sugar in conjunction with Canada Lottery. The key operative term here is "would like to have". But they didn't. Why? More on that in a mo'.

MEANTIME, on with the scam...er..promotion: We happily announce to you that we have selected YOU to be screwed, blued, and tattooed, by our totally 100% fraudulent Special Global Promotional 'Pin The Mugu Label On The Doofus Who Replies' Draw, held on the Saturday 18th March 2011 in Essex United Kingdumb and Ontario Conninya. Your email address -- mined from numerous locations favored by goat-poking, scum-sucking email scammers of dubious antecedence and lacking in working knowledge of toilet paper -- was cut and pasted to Ticket Number (a bunch of letters and numbers) with Serial Number (more of the same sh**). That means snail dork, but when we throw in the winning numbers (six random numbers) with a bonus number 40 for Lotto Max under the choice of the lottery in the second category of bi-weekly, it means 'BS' in any language, but hopefully not one you are fluent in.

You have therefore been duped into believing we have approved you to claim a total sum of US $$128,764.50 in cash credited to file (more numbers and letters, meaning weasel piss) It is actually worth a discarded Taco Bell Burrito Supreme wrapper that one of us used as kleenex, but we digress.

This is from a totally made-up cash prize of US$ 514, 856 dollars, shared amongst the first four stupid people who responded to our completely BS email. Please note that your lucky winning number is totally bogus, and that we'll collect from as many stupid winners, so much more. If you so choose to become one of the stupid, our Afro Booklet representative office in Africa will contact you to help you stay and enhance your stupid reaction to something you should have deleted in a nanosecond.

Please rest assured that this is sponsored by Coca Cola, though that would be news to them, and we'd rather they not get that news, until we've milked this for all it's worth.

Your portion of US $515, 856, is every bit as real as a platypus singing the poetic music of Sid Vicious, late of the Sex Pistols and ever'thang else, on Broadway (we hope you won't take a moment to figger that one out).

You are advised to keep your winnings confidential, until we complete screwing you over. This is part of our precautionary measure to avoid you telling someone who has one more working brain cell than you, and figures out what's going on here. You're free to figure out you've been screwed AFTER we fleece you, not before. So don't say sh** about this to anyone until we can pay* you. Your gullibility is our income.

To file for your claim, please contact our South African agent immediately, so that we may process your claim before you wake up and smell the wildebeest dung that permeates this whole email. Send your claims to either africaclaimcentre@gmail.com or africaclaimcentre@live.co.za addressed to Ken Walters, and tell him the following (the usual name, address, etc).

Congratulations once more from all the members and staff of this program that has ensured that you are led to believe that you won something more than title of Stupidest Person on the Face of the Earth.

Yours sincerery, but not rearry,

Mrs. Rosemary Butthead

Copyright ? 2011 The Xanga web &SA National Lottery Inc, an ever-changing subsidiary of 419 Email Scams International, via fly-infested internet cafes, UnLtd. Remember: if it's too good to be true, bewieve it's twue...it's twue! Your money isn't yours, wunst it's ours! All Rights a friggin' joke. Booga booga.

None of the scammer recipients bothered to reply with thanks or any other colorful metaphors they occasionally employ; but the originating scammer -- Mrs. Rosemary Butt, who's name I tweaked a tad -- did, once:

my name not butthead. this contest real you prize is disqualfied. expect legal acton for defame of caracter.

Alright!!!! Who wants to represent me? LOL...the silence is deafening...

* *BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZER*

Don't Bank On It

In the March 28, 2011 post, you were introduced to some of the more brilliant of email scammers I've been blessed with lately. One -- Samuel Anderson -- took a very dim view of my re-write of his email scam offer, and the way I turned it around to have him plead with other email scammers, for goats for ol' Sam to sodomize.

Ol' Sam sended me a threat over that 'un. The threat was so convincing and effective, I decided to do it agin ;-)

So when a Dr. Morris Thompson (admin@mobaystores.com), purportedly of the Central Bank of Nigeria, wrote to offer up another effort to give me the business, I decided to tweak the good doctor's offer a baaahd, and return it not only to the good doctor, but to ol' Sam too, as well as another of his ill-humored compatriots, Dr. Samuel Okoronji, who didn't like me making fun of his goat friends, either.

The version posted h'yar has been sanitized just a tad:

CENTRAL F***ABLE GOAT BANK OF NIGERIA

Office of the F***nanical Comptroller

Protocol Departments FCT Abuja, Nigeria

P.M.B. 4324 Abuja

http://www.cbn.org/

Compliment of the season,

I am Dr. Morris Thompson, the Head Protocol, Office of the F***nancial Comptroller Central F***able Goat Bank of Nigeria (CFGBN). I have an urgent secret information which will be of vital help to two men I am asking you to be the goat-between for. I believe in equity and fair play, as I am sure you will see.

The former CFGBN Governor and some of his colleagues which are Bank Executives were assigned with the duty of releasing to two esteemed gentlemen -- Samuel Anderson of the UK, and Dr. Samuel Okoronji, of Ghana -- access to f***able goats which likely accrued from Lottery and/or contract/inheritance. The Governor conspired to divert access to these goats away from Anderson and Okoronji, and to his own secret cabal of goat f***ers. The strategy they employed was totally unethical and unfair. You can just imagine the chagrin of the aforementioned two esteemed gentlemen, at being denied their supply of f***able goats.

Now their f***able goat access is with my department, and I can assist them in making this transgression right. But I need your help, since CFGBN regulations restrict me from direct involvement in the transfer of access to f***able goats.

My department is in possession of the Foreign F***able Goats Deed disc which as soon as it's released to the telex department through the instruction from my office, they will perfect the modalities to make the dreams of Mr. Anderson and Dr. Okoronji come true. It needs only your help to make their dreams of many nights of total f***able goat love come true.

Please contact these two esteemed gentlemen -- I am given to understand that you have email addresses to do so -- and have them contact me at admin@mobaystores.com as quickly as possible, and I'll see to their assured access to this f***able goat herd, with expedience.

Please note: this email communication is confidential, and its not compulsory that you act on their behalf. If you want to torment them by denying them the f***able goat herd that they have wet-dreamed about for all of their lifetime, you can just disregard this email.

Looking forward to your immediate response, for I know that they have been without f***able goats for at least a week now.

While I have little doubt that any of the three recipients of this email were particularly pleased to hear from me -- under yet another new email guise -- only one of them, Dr. Samuel Okoronji, took the time to craft a response. And, wouldn't ya know it, a response with something less than appreciation:

u dont know who u f*** with. u will regret you jest

Dang...I will? Really? Let's see:

You just beat all, y'know? Here this Dr. Morris Thompson wants so much to help you f*** goats, and here you are, threatening the messenger, tasked with helping you f*** goats. I tell ya, good Samaritanism ain't appreciated the way it once wuz. No sireee. But to the crux of your reply, yes, I do know who I f*** with. I forwarded it to you, didn't I? I didn't forward it to your f***ing door knob, did I? Not that you'd know what a door knob is, but I digress. I await with eager anticipation, to learn just how I'll regret this. Personally, I think I'll be happier each and every day, having done all I could to hep ya git gratified, y'know?

The only regret I have is that they all quit corresponding with me. It goats to show you, no good deed goats unpunished...*ducking boos and throwd whatever's handy*

Psychic.C'mawn

You might argue that I should have seen this coming. 'Cept I'm not, nor have ever claimed to be, a psychic. Were I...I would have already had it marked on the calendar. And done one or two other things of some use.

Over 11 years, I've pretty much seen all of the popular scam ploys online. Some well-written, some crafted by persons of dubious antecedence and badly dumbed-down education. But it's been quite a while since I've seen something remotely 'new'. Until, that is, the recent flurry of emails.

And this one I should have foreseen...or not, as aforementioned:

Title: It is fortold

From: chuck martins (chuckmartins12@gmail.com)

dear friend

i realize you do not know me but i sincerely know you. i see all about you. let this not be of concern by you as you hear me out and see what i fortel for our mutual good.

i was born to proverty but i was born to a gift a gift inside i do not know about gift as a boy only as adult man do i come to learn of my gift that i have since to share with others.

i am born with gift of future see. i am a clarevoyent.

i know you are of doubt but remember that i know this is how you first feel as you read my word. hear me for why i contact you now and how i know that this contact make a good future for you.

i have friend here in Paraguay who has found a large sum of money left to him by his dead father but because of modality of bank and because his father was a politician not liked well by government, it is obstacle to him getting money. he came to me because he know i can see the path to success and my gift lead me to contact you because i know how it will work with your help. you are person who can make his realized his fund.

i know you will help i have seen you help and it is good. my friend okay me to say to you that when you help it will bring to you 40% of this fund which is $12.5 million usd in dollars.

i ask with confident that you reply soonest to the person of note here. he is my friends legal adviser mr. eddie williams. his email eddwilliams60@gmail.com is for you to use to start help my friend as i forsee you to do this.

please be assure i use my gift for good of humanty and will ask no risk of you to help. that is how i see that you will. contact eddie soonest.

Nuh-uh! A psychic scammer? Really?

Then again...what is/was Ms Cleo?

So I decide to test my so-called 'clarevoyent'...if he truly is, he'll already know I'm gonna, and have all the answers ready to sway me:

Dear Psychic Chuckie,

You must be some kinda clairvoyant, on accounta cuz you KNEW I'd reply to such an unusual email. And you furthered your bona fides to a degree, by knowing that I would be a bit skeptical as I read your most unexpected missive. Granted, a six year old would have had a moment of "nuh-UH!" to your email, but I digress.

So you will not be surprised -- in fact, I'm sure you foresaw this coming -- that I have a few questions for you. Questions that, once provided, will establish your bona fides to my complete satisfaction, whereupon I can get down to business with your friend's legal dude, Eddie (who also received this email).

Please answer the following questions which, if you're authentic, you are already putting into a return email (which I should have already received from you before sending them, but I'm willing to cut you a little credibility slack, as you already know) :

1. what kind of pet do I have?

2. what's my pet's name?

3. how tall am I when I fart?

4. what did I just hang off my left ear?

6. what just flew into my patio window?

7. who wins the US presidential election in 2012?

8. does the world end, according to the Mayan calendar, in December 2012?

9. what are the Mega Millions winning numbers for this coming Tuesday, March 29th?

10. what number did I skip and why?

Upon receipt from you of the correct answers and you will be soooo right as to my level of cooperation with Fast Eddie.

With the email sent, I shouldn't of had to wait so long for a response. If Chuck Martins were truly 'psychic' -- as I pointed out to him -- he should have anticipated my reply, and sent the answers before I emailed the questions. I mean, he did foretell of my cooperation, right?

Apparently, Eddie Williams wasn't psychic, and wanted no part of my response. But it wasn't really meant for him...it was meant for Chuck. And from Chuck, I did get a reply:

ours time is not to waste on small matter my gift is mean for serious business please follow my first instruction now

*BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZER* Jean Dixon FAIL:

Chuckie, Chuckie, Chuckie...clairvoyant FAIL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! For a true psychic, the only tough question I asked there was the one about my pet. The rest should have been a snap for you. You should have answered before I even sent the damned questions. Especially #9. THAT would have been good for my future, dude.

You get one do-over. But I don't grade on a curve, so you must get ALL the questions right. And I'll give you one hint on question 2: it's a guy name. On #9, amend your answer for the evening of Friday, April 1. Since you say that our time is not to waste...Ready....GO!

It's just after midnight on the morning of April 1, and I am still waiting.

Should I be? I mean...did I just prove that Chuckie isn't psychic? Or did he fail to respond because he suddenly foresaw that I wasn't going to buy it, because he 'saw' that I suspected that someone was just screwing with me, because of the date?

My mystical Eight Ball just said "try again later". It always sez that about the Lotto...FAIL.