Dying To Scam

How do scamming, fauxdying, and the 1992 off-the-wall comedy Death Becomes Her, find a commonality?

Perhaps only herein is it possible. Read on.

I received a lengthy offer from an alleged Mrs. Angelina Keith -- titled 'Check Delivery' -- who in the text of her missive also claimed to be a Mother of the convent sort, who'd lost her husband in a 1998 plane crash (everyone in Scamland is dying in plane crashes...where the f*** is the FAA?), was without a child during their previous 11 years of marriage (as a sister, wouldn't she BE without child, AND spouse?), and now was dying from some form of esophageal enlarged vaginitis or some such, and wanted me -- out of billions on the internet -- to see to the charitable distribution of her $9 Million USD estate. With, of course, the help of her barrister, to whom I was to direct all my correspondence, because she was "physical unable to much more correspond".

I'd post the whole original here, but I bore y'all enough ;-)

It'll be enough to simply bore you with what I did to help Mrs. Sister Widow Angelina Keith, by way of enhancing her missive, and sending it back to her and a few dozen of her peers:

From: MRS ANGELINA KEITH cd@countrydesigns.info

To: Sent: Monday, January 30, 2012 6:51 AM

Subject: CZECH DELIVERY
I am sure this mail would be coming to you as a surprise since we have never met before and you would also be asking why I have decided to deliver to you a real live Czech. I cannot say why I have chosen you but do not be worried for I certify that my Czechs come 100% litter box trained.
Before I move further, permit me to give you a little of my biography, I am Mother Angelina Lucy Keith, 134 Years old woman and the wife of Late Sir Abery Keith who died in a Plane crash on Monday the 7th of September 1888. See, they didn't have planes then, and the dumb f**k finally realized that what he was doing was impossible when he was 1,000 feet in the air. Eeeeeyowwww and *splat*, face plant right in a compost pile.
At least we didn't have to bury him; impact took care of that. But I digress.
After the death of my husband I became the Head of his invention firm and now that I am old and weak I have decided to spend the rest of my life in my Ranch, working on inventions like how to rebush my vagina with a hambone, and other rather peculiar sh** like that. I want to come up with one really f**king awesome invention before i finally leave the world, which should have happened a number of years ago, but formaldehyde and lots of plastic surgery keep me going somehow. My doctor says I'm better preserved than a jar of Schmuckers Jam.
I'm not sure if I should thank him or rub his nuts in honey and nail him by his penis to a fire ant hill.

Despite the agreement between my late husband and I to figure out the utility of a parachute AFTER he was 6 feet under the neighbor's compost pile, I wanted to get with you because I was told you like to have sex with wrinkled fossils, and am I ever that! Even the flies that buzz what's left of my crotch are petrified.
I am sorry to inform you that you will never have the chance to know me because I have just farted in my Depends, and nothing but dust came out, meaning that I just blew my dried out cheeks apart. Once these Depends wear out...they'll be picking up my crumbling crotch with a Dirt Devil. Being 134 years old ain't all it's cracked up to be.
See what I just did there? You probably didn't, though all the dust; I just farted again, and blew my anus off.
I was going to deposit some money in an account and allegedly leave it to you, but I haven't got any.
For your information, I have just farted again and my left breast exploded. Eh...it was all dried out and looked like a petrified gourd down around my tummy, anyway.
Anyway, I have left a Czech in your name. I don't remember why; I blew my nose and it exploded. I really need some moisturizer. I look worse than Michael Jackson in that South Park episode.
So contact my business associate: Mr. George Aitchison. He used to be Beulah Bondi, before lots of airplane glue sniffing and perverted experiments with 100 pounds of clay.Email Address: patriotdelievery@mail2london.comPhone: +44-702-402-9669
I'd write and tell you more, but as I tapped the 'shift' key, my right index finger disintegrated. I feel like an unwrapped mummy in an Indiana Jones movie.
Anyway, contact this dumb ass I listed, because he just sits all alone in a room here, trying to self-gratify himself with a flexible vacuum hose slathered in Vaseline. At least I know how to disintegrate.
Please, try to contact him before he gets the hose stuck half way up his intestine.
Be also notified that I will no longer be reading my emails or surfing the internet as I just sneezed again and blew my face off. When the dust settles, I'm sure it'll have left a mark. If you happen to find one of my teeth, please take a picture of it and send it to George. He doesn't believe I ever had any.
Write back before I fart again and blow my torso to hell.
Yours In parts,

Mrs. Angelina Keith

Of no great surprise, I got back no responses from her dozens of peers; some of them had, no doubt, lost any interest in hearing from me after what I dun to their respective missives.

But Mrs. Angelina Keith did deign to respond. Sort of. She replied back, but only with what I had sent her. No text. No doubt that she was left speechless by my masterful commonalitizing of scams, fauxdying, and the movie Death Becomes Her.

And/or perhaps her last finger fell off, landing on the 'Reply' button before she could lay on me some snappy retort. Hate when that happens...