Closet Tsunami

It can happen anywhere.

Not that I thought so before the early morning of March 20.

See, I live in an apartment. On the top floor. At an elevation of 6,000 feet. With no free-flowing water sources nearby, and no reservoirs technically 'upstream' of me to be a threat, now or 1,000,000 million years from now. Of all the natural disaster possibilities herebouts, a flood is just about the last on my list of worries.

But what Nature is incapable of providing -- save for another biblical 40 days and 40 nights of cow-pissing-on-a-flat-rock precipitational deluge -- leave it to Man to find an artificial way to make available.

In the early hours of the aforementioned day, I was doing what I usually do on a night off from work: staying up all night, tormenting email scammers. I had started the night with 10 pending emails to abuse; I ended it with 14. But I digress.

At about 0150 in the morning, I heard the funniest lil' sound: a muffled 'whoosh', followed by the indistinct but audible sound of running water. A quick gander outside indicated no significant precipitation in progress, though some had been predicted. Returning to my computer, I could again hear the gentle, indistinct sound of running water.

I stepped around the corner to the bathroom; nawp, nothing out of sorts there. But directly in front of me was the utility closet, containing the furnace/central air unit. And the water heater. *TOING*

I opened the closet, turned on the light and was greeted with a two sided tsunami, rolling off the top of the water heater, where in-bound and out-bound water lines fed and exited the tank. Both had blown their seals.

Whatever momentary ecstacy this caused the seals, I had another concern beyond finding them a cigarette to enjoy.

The overflow pan at the base of the tank was, for the moment, containing the flow...but I didn't reckon it would long. Though 0150am, I didn't see this as something that could keep until the time of the morning that normal folks turn to for regular jobs.

Like the property Maintenance troops.

Now, my experiences with the property management's after-hours answering service over the years had been the only weak spot in my overall contentment with this property. More than once, an after hours message I'd left never got delivered. Like the time in the dead of winter, 2010, when my furnace chose to crap out while outside temps were hovering at about 0 degrees. That morning's pre-work shower was unforgettable.

I'm not much for dramatic effect, but since I had the tools readily available to add emphasis and urgency to my call, I put my extensive sound library in my computer to work for me, and brought it to bear when I got the answering service on the line:

Operator: how can I help you?

Me: Well, hang on a sec...*away from the phone*...I told you, women and children in the boats first, dammit! Uh, I have a closet tsunami on my hands...

Operator: ah, a what? Sir, what IS that noise in the background?

*what he was hearing was a klaxon alarm from my audio archives*

Me: oh, that's the 'away all boats' alarm. I think my water heater was holed by a drifting ice berg...we're down by the head and sinking...

Operator: *I think he actually stifled a chuckle here*...uh, okay, I get it. I'll page the on call maintenance. Where are you at?

Me: Since I don't know my longitude and latitude stuff, I'm in this apt and this building...

Operator: Yeah, I don't think what you just said will help them...okay, I'm paging them now..

Me: They won't have trouble finding me...just tell them to follow the lifeboats...

Operator: *unstifled chuckle* okay, you should be hearing from them shortly...

Me: Tell them to bring shark repellent with them...

Operator: *chuckle*..okay, if you say so...

It truly is small wonder that people who don't know me think I'm a bit touched by an anvil or something. The blessings or curse of three concussions, I 'spose.

So while awaiting a call back from Maintenance, I checked my tsunami status, and found that the overflow pan was just starting to live up to its name, and overflow. Once this got started in an unchecked manner, the direction of the water -- after spreading as far and widely as it could in my abode -- would be that dictated by the laws of physics and gravitational pull. And water is notorious for finding a way down hill, through any crack or seam it finds.

If I hadn't been here -- say I'd been at work -- the two abodes beneath me might have found a bit of time savings in their morning routine. Getting their morning shower in bed, perhaps. But I don't reckon it would have made them appreciate me as an innovative or acceptable neighbor.
Especially the one on the first floor, with the already psycho cat, who'd suffered from the same problem from the unit below me, about six weeks ago.

So I did my own version of Curly, traced the water lines this way and that, and found what I reckoned was the water shut off valve. With a "Hail Mary full of grace, let's stop the waters from filling this place" -- with the theme music from Jaws playing on my computer -- I threw the valve in the direction it was willing to give.

The closet tsunami was checked, just short of the Jaws theme music's climax.

Which was a good thing: not only would Maintenance have far less of a clean up on their hands, but all those apartment dwellers in the other buildings, wouldn't wind up being awakened at 2am by the sound of lifeboats and oars, dragging across the parking lot.

Friggin' things are noisy.

A Dubious Anniverserary

I've only done one thing for 55 years. And that's breathe.

Eh.

My longevity in other pursuits and aspirations...eh. I've never lived in any one place for more than 13 years. I've never stayed with one employer for 15 years, thanks to things like corporate downsizing. I've never had a love relationship last more than 2.5 years (and in that one, the 'love' part died well before I was willing to admit that I was the Titanic and she was....well...y'know...). I've never stayed with any one hobby for more than 10 years, save for the very spotty opportunities for storm chasing. And one other.

Even with online stuff...my website lasted 8 years. My blog...so far, working on 7.

But I just hit an anniversary. No; not just an anniversary, but an anniverserary. One that I rightly referred to in the title of this post as 'dubious'.

You see, I have been at one particular hobby now for....13 years. And yes, it amazes even me.

For the rest of you, well...while a number of you find amusement in my doing it, none of you would care to join me in it. In fact, many a friend over the years have commented so regularly with one comment in particular -- referring to me and my hobby -- that I'm not convinced that they're not doing this via email and talking points.

That comment: "You need to get a life...".

The most heard by me comment, when they ask, "what's new?", and I respond, "still playing with email scammers".

"You need to get a life...".

Yes, on or about this day in 2000, I tackled my first online email scam. And in the 13 years since, I have insulted, annoyed, baited, and re-written thousands of scammer emails. In terms of net worth alone, I should be worth more than Jimmy and Warren Buffetts combined.

Granted, most of the scammers -- once they realize that I'm not falling for their odious machinations -- just stop emailing me. Not before a few have attempted to threaten me with legal action, always a "why shore...have your bannister call my bannister and let's git 'er dun"). . Or with death threats (what I consider a trophy). I've taken scammers away from friends and colleagues who've been contacted and got sucked in, without being sucked dry before I got involved. And over the years, I've had a few emails and 'thanks' comments on my blog, from folks who were about to be 'had' by a scam that I'd successfully baited, and they found my post in a web search.

Those always make my day.

As for what the scammers think about it, well...I've had a lots of scammers suggest that I should sexually self-gratify. I've had a few actually compliment me for the way I played and fooled them into thinking I was being had, only for them to find out that it was them being played.

And I have several start out with a death threat...and end the same email by asking me to enter into a partnership with them.

You don't need much imagination to guess how I responded to such offers.

At any rate, this blog -- which co-existed with my web site until '07 -- has been more populated with a few of my favorite long play scambaits, and shorter run "scam mail rewrites", which I'm always happy to share with the scammers.

They're rather stingy with critiques; but when I get one, it's never "thumbs up". It's usually the digit that signifies someone lost the argument, and is pissed about it.

Eh.

Anyway, what's the big deal about having a "life"? This is my life. Baiting email scammers. It gets me all kinds of mail. All kinds of offers. And no end of wishes that I sexually self gratify.

I didn't get that many offers for sex when I was younger, had a little money, and "had a life". Oh well.

Anyway, feel free to congratulate me on 13 years of scambaiting and annoying email scammers. And if you choose to throw in "you need to get a life...", I'll understand.

I won't likely get one, but I'll understand.

The Doritos Depression

*WARNING: Opinion upcoming*

Wiley Coyote knew a thing or two about deserts. And from his culinary quest to nail down a fowl of accelerated antecedence with the dietary equivalent of a sparrow, I reckon he knew a thing or two about food deserts.

Tom Vilsack and Kathleen Sebelius need to meet with him, before going to the press or Congress.

I know what the classical definition of a 'desert' is. Death Valley comes to mind. So does the Sahara. The Gobi. For a desert plus, there's the Qattara Depression in Egypt, which is one of the desertest of deserts, and not at all a friendly place for man nor beast. More on that in a bit.

I've driven through and stood in areas of Arizona, Califorlornia, New Mexico and Nevada, wherein the term 'desert' in the classical sense exists in abundance.

But now, we find that we have another desert in our midst. One that exists practically everywhere. Here we are, in the richest, most successful nation on the planet, and according to the Health and Human Services and Agriculture Departments, we are replete with food deserts.

W....T....F?

On a recent segment of the Michael Brown Show on 850 KOA in Denver, I learned for the first time of the wide swath of federally-declared food deserts in the good ol' US of A. Including right h'yar in my own state and even metro area.

Am I making this up? Nawp. I did a google soich on the subject and found a Death Valley Daze full of claims and counterclaims on the subject. Seems some activist sort from Chicago came up with the notion a few years back, and the Obama administration has latched onto it like yet another "why we need to control you to take care of you" scam.

Apparently, the ideer here is that the researchers and now the govmint sez there aren’t enough grocery stores selling healthy food in some places. Which might explain why they allow food stamp electronic debit cards to work in casinos and strip clubs. They have even come up with....*drum roll*....a food desert locator, so's they can convince us all of the hep they say we need.

Recently, there was one of those luverly congressional hearing thingees on the subject, whereat one of the administration's new drumbeaters on the subject -- HHS Secretary Kathleen Sebelius -- was having the definition and the notion questioned by one of those evil, mean-spirited Republican elected officials, one Jack Kingston of Georgia. And therein, the administration’s definition of a “food desert” – an urban area where a significant share of the population lives more than one mile from a grocery store – got a once over.

In an apparent challenge to the administration's claim about what constitutes a 'food desert', the congressman suggested that it was quite likely that most of those present at the hearing lived a mile from their nearest grocery store, and that the definition was over the top.

I would have said that it was full of sh**, but I digress.

A snippet of their exchange went kinda like this:

Kingston: “Do you think that definition should be revisited, because one of the things is, if you are in an urban area a mile away from a grocery store you’re in a food desert – which I would think in so many cases is ridiculous. Have you thought of – have you looked at their definition?”
Sebelius: “Ah, we have sir”.
Kingston: “And you think it’s a good one?”
Sebelius: “Well, I think it’s very difficult for a family buying groceries – if they have to walk a mile with bags of groceries, it may be too far to get healthier food”.
Kingston: “You really think that?”
Sebelius: “I do”.
Kingston: "Madam Secretary, are you a moron by birth or choice?"
Sebelius: "Do I get a life line option to help me answer that?"
Kingston: "Never mind....you just answered it".
Sebelius: "Oh goodie...what did I win?"

So, in an age where the command and control nannyists on the Left, in and out of the administration, are eager to see gasoline reach $9-10 a gallon to control our consumption, calling carbonated beverages 'racist', making a NC student not eat a home-packed meal because it isn't school-served chicken nuggets, and having Ag Department sturmtruppen pour bleach on the fare of a community picnic -- because the fare was "organic" -- now it's worse than ever. We are told that living a mile or more from a grocery store puts us living in a 'food desert'.

If in 2012 we are plagued with 'food deserts', how did we survive the 17th, 18th, 19th, and 20th Centuries in this country, before the advent of chain grocery stores, convenience stores, grocery stores open 24 hours, grocery chain stores providing delivery services, and welfare debit cards working in casinos and strip clubs? Let alone, how did we survive the first 11 years of this one?

Yeah, I know: they're only thinking of those who are mobility-impaired. Understood. Got that. And in many of these so-called 'food desert' zones, there are things like "home delivery", "meals on wheels", public transportation, and other assorted programs available to help in such cases.
But in an election year, *BUZZZZZZZZZZER*, suddenly that ain't good enough. Time to further fuel the dependency cycle to assure votes.

Then again...maybe I'm not seeing this clearly. I can think of at least three grocery stores that are what I would consider not that far away. One is several miles away; one is about a mile away; and the last is about .7 of a mile away. The first two apparently put me in a 'food desert'. The third technically doesn't...until you consider the fact that to get to it, it's all downhill from here. Which makes the return trip with healthy food all uphill...*TOING*. That would probably negate the geographical fact that it's .3 of a mile too close...

*AHOOOOGA....WARNING...WARNING...WARNING...YOU ARE IN A FOOD DESERT*.

Perhaps a shovel ready jobs bill will now include positions for persons to start immediately posting necessary signage in every 'food desert' across America, letting folks know how imperiled they are.

I contend that a shovel ready job has been readily available for quite some time now; shoveling up the increasing amount of inert compost emanating from this administration.

Meantime, I'm going to dub my local food desert the Doritos Depression. I hope that won't stop the chinese restaurant, 3.5 miles away from me, from delivering. I don't think they'll have to switch from car to camel...

Mooned After 100 Years

Vindication after 100 years? For whom?

Just short of the 100th anniversary of the sinking of the RMS Titanic -- popularized by Hollyweird and on Broadway within the past 20 years -- yet another theory about how the "unsinkable" ship...got sunk.

Back in 1912, it was blamed on an iceberg and a complacent captain.

In the late 1960s, blame was momentarily shifted directly onto the captain, after he was pointedly warned by two time travelers that appeared unexpectedly on his ship, and he chose to lock them up rather than believe their pending story of woe. Unfortunately for him, it was the first episode of the show, and he obviously missed the previews. The ship refused to woa, went onto hit the iceberg, the captain went down with the ship and 1,516 other souls, and the two time travelers went onto bounce through variations of history and credibility for two complete seasons.

In the late 1970s, Weekly World News came out with an exclusive that 'proved' the RMS Titanic was actually sunk by an alien U-boat.

When that didn't net the Weekly World News a Pulitzer, speculation drifted back to a rogue 'berg and an experienced captain who failed to take precautions, believing that his ship was, as oft-reported, "unsinkable".

Then came a Broadway version, whereon everyone sang and danced, before much of the cast choreographically drowned along with the AFLAC duck. Still, it was the captain's fault, but there might have been a Tony or two extra for survivors to cling to. That is, if a Tony is buoyant.

I know the duck didn't get to shower afterwards with his female choreographettes.

And of course, in '97, there was Leonardo DeCaprio, running things up the mast with Kate Winslett, before she got to help row the lifeboat ashore, while he went down with the captain and 1,515 others.

A few of them managed to survive by hanging on to their Oscars.

But now, within a life preserver of the 100th anniversary of the sinking, comes a new culprit in the RMS Titanic disaster. No, it's not the captain. No, it's not unconvincing time travelers. No, it's not the alien U-boat. And in this scenario, even the iceberg is viewed less as the villain, and more as a victim.

Bob Seeger once opined, "ohhhhhhh, blame it on midnight...oooooo, shame on the Moon".

Researchers now agree with him: in a Reuters story datelined San Antonio (TX), there comes this news item from Yahoo News on March 7, 2012:
"A century after the Titanic disaster, scientists have found an unexpected culprit of the crash: the moon". As a Texas State University physicist and his team would deduce, "the lunar connection may explain how an unusually large number of icebergs got into the path of the Titanic". They claimed that the kind of iceberg that used an underwater can opener on the White Star Line "unsinkable", tended to get "stuck" in the waters off Newfoundland and Labrador, and were unable to make their way into shipping lanes further south until they melted enough to clear the shallows.

Since the 'bergs were typically unable to make it south so soon, how did Ice the Ripper manage to get where Captain Smith and his merry band of Unsinkables were sailing carefree through waters that they figured had little more than ice cubes about?

Research that the Texas State University team used apparently included a theory by a late oceanographer, identified as Fergus Wood, suggesting an unusually close approach by the moon in January 1912 may have caused higher than average tides, allowing more ill-prepared icebergs (aka, not shrunk enough, and still armed with underwater can openers) loose to drift south into shipping lanes sooner.

In other words, the iceberg -- long maligned in the Titanic saga -- really didn't mean it. The Moon made it do it. And for 100 years, the Moon has gotten a pass from science, the media...and the legal community.

As you ponder the Moon on it's next full cycle, take a good look at the Man in the Moon: is he smiling or remorseful? Is it too late for an apology now? With PETAns suing to represent whales as people, and environmentalists arguing that sand has rights, how long before Gloria Allred leads the legal team intent on suing the unrepentant Man in the Moon, and demanding "pain and suffering" punitive and compensatory damages for the descendants of the iceberg? Especially if any of the iceberg's descendants are females?

I'll bet the Weekly World News will be all over it.

March Just Got A Little Madder

For those of you who've read this blog for any length of time, you know that basketball is not amongst my interests or abilities. In fact, in one post on the subject a few years ago, I postulated that the best thing about March Madness was when it was over.

Well...I still feel that way. But that didn't stop me from taking my serious disinterest and applying it to an online brackets challenge by a local radio station.

I did this last year, too. Of great surprise, I came very near to doing better than I thought I would. I didn't place in the top 80%. I sincerely thought I wouldn't place in the top 99%.

Perhaps I'll do even better this year. Or not.

My methodology for picking teams involves (a) math (b) probability (c) randomosity (d) confoundity and (e) input from the pet rock, Seymour. If Seymour said "go with THAT one!", I picked opposite.

"PHFFFFT!!"

For example, here's one of many of the exchanges between me and my pet rock on bracket selection:

Me: "I'll take this one".

Seymour: "W..wh...why?"

Me: "Better record, tougher conference, better probability of advancing. Silly stuff like that".

Seymour: "Oh phhffffffffft on that. I like the other team's name!"

Me: "You can't pronounce their name!"

Seymour: "Can too!! It's (and he goes on to slaughter it a few times)...did NOT!!"

Seymour got so incensed at my methodology of bracket selection, he insisted that I let him fill out a bracket. So I did. I gave him a completely blank bracket, and told him to knock himself out.

"Will NOT!!!"

The next day, Seymour sits on the coffee table, beaming.

Me: "Get your brackets done?"

Seymour: "Bet your assatopsis I did! And mine are WAY gooder than yours!"

As I peruse Seymour's "WAY gooder" picks, I immediately note a pattern:

Me: "Ah, Seymour...how did you pick your brackets?"

Seymour: "I picked the teams I like the sounds of!"

Me: "Seymour...William & Mary is/are not in the tournament.."

Seymour: "They are TOO! I put them in!"

Me: "And neither is UCLA..."

Seymour: "They are NOW!"

Me: "By the way, Seymour, UCLA are not Trojans.."

Seymour: "Are TOO! They're from California! They believe in contraption!"

Me: "Oy..."

As I gander further:

Me: "Seymour, these guys CAN'T be in the tournament..."

Seymour: "Why?"

Me: "Because they weren't invited, and they're from the National Football League!"

Seymour: "Phhffft. They're in. I think Green Bay will make the Final Four..".

Me: "Maybe next January..."

Seymour: "The tournament lasts THAT long?"

Seymour wants to bet me on whose bracket picks will do better. I am sorely tempted to take him up on this, even as badly as I tend to pick, what with my dislike of the sport of basketball.

After all, for all of Seymour's geologic acumen, I have this gut instinct that, despite my own failings in picking NCAA tournament winners, Seymour's ultimate brackets winner -- Michael Jordan's Warner Brothers team -- will not be there in April.

"Will TOO!!! PHFFFFT!!!"

Yep...March just got a little madder...

UPDATE: After Day #1 of March Madness, my brackets were 100% intact. Yeah, shocked me, too. After Day #2...my brackets look worse than silk curtains after a cat went apecrap. My Final Four is already half-gone. Guess I won't quit my day (night) job...but at least I still have a better chance of picking the ultimate winner, than Seymour does.

"Do NOT!!!"

And Taxes Too

Yeah, I know. The book for understanding the tax code is almost as big. But I digress in that direction.

It's about a month or so before that anticipated day, whenst the prepared have already finished in advance of, and the procrastinators are still awaiting the 11th hour to start getting things ready to do their taxes and get them submitted on the 59th second of the 59th minute of that 11th hour.

I usually never have to pay extra, so I normally associate with the former category. This year -- thanks to an unplanned-on employment status change at the beginning of 2011, and the downgrade of standard of living that the new employment imposed -- I wound up closer to the latter category.

But instead of awaiting the "11th hour", I sat down and did* the crap this weekend.

Like with much of current day technology, I am still contentedly mired in the 20th Century: I do my taxes myself for the most part. On paper. With a pen. And a scratch pad (no calculator). And after copying the completed forms, I mail them. Snail mail. This year, with payments reluctantly enclosed.

I'm not thrilled about having to pay for a lot of what I consider frivolous nonsense that our current government insists I pay for, such as for contraception for promiscuous college students, but that's life. If a new administration takes over next January, I may be forced to pay for a greeting committee that's preparing to greet intergalactic visitors, or a psychological study of how asparagus views photosynthesis and if it wants its contraception paid for, too.

Anyway, due to a couple things that led off 2011 and put paid to my prior level of economic status -- resulting in a reduction therefrom -- I was unable to use my normal 1040EZ form this year**. So I had to get me the longer form, 1040.

Perhaps I could have made use of the shorter longer form, 1040A. I didn't know. I didn't care. As I started out to read the "What's New" section of the instruction booklet, and the irs-ese of their numeric code system of communication, it made me wish I'd been a codebreaker in my previous life during World War II, instead of the latrine digger I probably was, when a near-sighted kamikaze pilot saw my ditch and mistook it for the deck of an aircraft carrier. I'll bet I hated days like that. Eh.

I mean, what the numeric f**k: what is WITH all these numbered forms that are rattled off in the 1040 'howz to' booklet? Just on Page 6 -- the aforementioned "What's New" section -- were mentioned Forms 8949, 1099-B, 5405, 8853, 8889, 8938 and 8910, along with Schedules D, L, M and SE. For example: Health Savings Accounts (HSAs) and Archer MSAs. The additional tax on distributions from HSAs and Archer MSAs not used for qualified medical expenses has been redirected to covering Georgetown University student free contraception via the Pelosi Rule of Botox & Entitled Progression Ad Horkenum as appended '12, with a fecal load of howsomevers and other legalized cruciverbalisms not fathomed by even attorneys. More information may be obfuscated via Form 8889 or 8853. If preparing your own taxes, undoubtedly you'll use the wrong one, or you can call our help line and we'll guarantee it.

Further, I found three charts -- alphabetized as A, B and C -- that explained if I had to file a return or not. And two pages explaining all the W2s, 1097s, 1098s, and the fifteen versions of 1099s that must be included in the filings, which included additional references to Forms 4835, 2441, 6781, 4681, 6251, 8903, along with Publications 525, 225, 544, and references to Schedules C, A, D, F, E.

It was about here that I developed an involuntary eye cramp. I think I have to use Form 9999 to report that on Schedule FU, if deducted as a medical expense under taxological stress disorder, which requires the use of Form 9997A, Schedule WTF, appended 2013, which isn't available yet.

And won't be, if the Mayans are right.

If that wasn't enough -- and in irs-think, it surely wasn't, whether or not any of them are called Shirley -- on Page 95 of the booklet, I found something else the IRS felt necessary to research and include in their 'how to' 1040 filing instructions: a chart for...*drum roll*...Estimated Average Taxpayer Burden for Individuals by Activity, followed by an *eye roll*, once the eye cramps let up.

They really felt in necessary to include this? Yes, they did. Obviously someone in the IRS bureaucracy got paid big bucks to find something to do, and this is what they came up with, further inflaming my eye cramps. But enough on that...let's hit the salient parts: the average 1040 form taxpayer constitutes 68% of the total of taxpayers filing; those taxpayers spend an average of 22 hours, burdened with filing his/her/its taxes, as apportioned thus:

-10 hours in records keeping

-3 hours in tax planning (aka, how to claim the bowling team and fantasy football pool crowd as additional dependents, since you lose money to them regularly)

-4 hours for form completion

-1 hour for form submission (aka, hand cramps as you stand at the mail box or over the Turbo Tax 'send' button, "do I, don't I")...

-and 3 hours on what they consider to be "all other", which may or may not include poking ones self in the eye with a sharp stick, to see if it really was better or worse than doing the taxes.

They even threw in an average cost of this 22 hours of burden, IRS calculated to be $290. Which the filer canNOT deduct, dammit.

It was noted that their total time estimate of 22 hours, didn't add up to their breakdown of those hours. It's the government...go figure (pun intended).

It was also noted that they did not include how much this time and cost is skewed by an audit, in which case the sharp stick in the eye starts looking better and better.

At any rate, with all these numerics, Forms, Schedules and other related taxological obfuscatorialities to sort through, I proceeded to fill out my Form 1040 in the most convoluted manner available to me: I gave it to my pet rock, Seymour***. And the rock appeared to beat all of the time and cost estimates, as associated with the compiling and filing of my 1040.

If it's wrong, IRS, audit the rock, not me.

"Oh nuh-UH!!!"

* see the end of this post of my definition of "did"...

** dammit

*** yes, IRS, I did sign it. No, IRS, I did not list Seymour as a dependent geologic of credibility suspension...("did T...uh..why NOT??")

A Bit Of A Stretch

Wahl, whaddaya know...I found me a scammer who is gonna turn me in for what I dun to her scam mail.

*Snerx snort chortle guffaw giggle ROAR*

And all it took was stretching her email a tad, with an allusion to stretching something else. First, her email:
Good Day Sir/Madam,

My Name is Mrs. Sabah Halif i need your urgent assistant. From Mrs.Sabah Halif Private Nurse

Reply to Mrs Sabah Halif Private Email: mrs.sabahhalif@yahoo.com.tw

I have to admit to enjoying these short shots, because they leave a little room for creative disgustibility. Like that which I electively indulged in:
From: Karina Motato kmotato@farmacia.udea.edu.co

To: Sent: Monday, February 27, 2012 10:46 AM

Subject: From Mrs.Sabah Halif Primate Nurse

Good Day Sir/Madam,

My Name is Mrs. Sabah Halif i need your assistant. If you don't have one, then f**king hire one and send them to me. A gorilla snatched my vagina, and I need that bastard caught, before he stretches it all out of shape and beyond what will fit in my crotch void. I f**king HATE vagina-snatching gorillas.

Anyway, I need all the assistants I can get to chase down and get my vagina back from that gorilla. And whatever your assistants do, do NOT get involved in a tug of war between you and the gorilla; that's my f**king vagina the two of you are pulling on, and if that gawddamned thing snaps, I will be soooooooooooo pissed at the lot of you.
From Mrs.Sabah Halif Primate Nurse

Reply to Mrs Sabah Halif Primate Email: mrs.sabahhalif@yahoo.com.tw

It took a day, but an email back from the original sender brought me to the conclusion that I made her mad:

you are digusted person and i am report your email to authority

Far from being concerned, I am appreciative:

It's about gawddamn time SOMEONE reported me to authoritah. I'm proud of you. By the way...did you get your vagina back from that gorilla yet, and does it still fit in you?

So far, no response from her or her authoritah. I hope it ain't Eric Cartman. Being authoritah-ed by an animation might be a hard one to 'splain...

Support Your Wayward Asteroid AND State

Could there be synonymous-ity with these two pictures?

Read on to find out.

It hasn't necessarily been a slow news cycle, but leave it to me to find significance in the fact that on the same day, these two stories would share attention with things quite likely more important to the 'now'.

First: news reports tell us that yet another space body of dubious antecedence with cosmic geological tendencies, may prove a pending threat to Earth. Asteroid 2011-AG5. First discovered by astronomers in 2011. A space rock that's about 459-460 feet wide. A space rock that will "be visible" from Earth in the 2013-2016 time frame (if you dismiss the Mayans and their calendar). A space rock that will return with a near pass of Earth in 2023: and if, in this near pass, it negotiates a "62 mile keyhole", it will be placed on a collision course with Earth in the year 2040.

Don't you hate when that happens?

Now, I could quote all the technical data I read about this h'yar space rock and dubious cousin of my pet rock Seymour ("is NOT!!!"), but much of it is calculus-ized and physics-ized, and made as much sense to me as Jay Carney claiming that Nobama's recent speech to UAW workers was "not a campaign speech". But there are a couple things that I was better able to assimilate:

- 2011-AG5 has a 1 in 625 chance of hitting the Earth in 2040

- if it does, the impact of 2011-AG5 will be the equivalent of 102 megatons of TNT

Which means, in essence, that it will suck for the locale it hits, and the immediate area therebouts. And if it hits Guam, that means that a rather stupid Georgia legislator will have been proven right, after all: Guam could, indeed, capsize.

In any event, we don't have to worry about 2011-AG5. 'Cuz the UN is on it. Yep. The UN's Science and Technology subcommittee, acronymed COPUOS (Committee on Peaceful Uses of Space), is talking about this. And I'm sure that before the year 2040, they will have come up with a whole plethora of ways to blame a potential collision with 2011-AG5 on George Dubya Bush.

Meantime -- and closer to home h'yarbouts -- the state house of Wyoming just defeated a bill before them by a vote of 30-27. A bill that was meant to forward a study of what the state of Wyoming should do to prepare, in case the United States of America is bankrupted or seriously upheavalled by Nature, space, foreign threats or Nobama's unchecked spending spree.

The bill -- House Bill 85 I am given to understand -- was, in and of itself, meant to take some reasonably sound looks at what to do to help the state of Wyoming ride out potentially hazardous times, both defensively and economically. I think any state is rational to have disaster plans in place for any number of eventualities.

But the bill apparently had some 'add ons' attached that likely led to its defeat by one vote. One element that might have had something to do with it: an add on to the bill that would have had the state look into funding to provide themselves with an aircraft carrier.

Pick up your teeth out of your soup if they're false and just fell out.

Now, on first blush, I had something of a Warner Brothers/Looney Toons 'shake up' sound reaction when I read that, too. What would Wyoming do with an aircraft carrier? Where would they put it?

The unmistakeable photo up top answers that question.

Of course, if the disaster that Wyoming was preparing for was natural, and everything west of Jackson's Hole, or even Laramie, became part of the Pacific Ocean, THEN Wyoming would be lauded for their presentiment thinking and preparation in preparing to project their fledgling naval power beyond what's left of the Rockies.

Then again, what if 2011-AG5 turns out to be THE disaster that befalls Earth...and it hits Wyoming, right in its aircraft carrier?

Alas, we could have had to wait only 28 years to find out the answer. But Wyoming voted it down, 30-27. Had the vote been 31-28, we might have had a chance to find out. But not now.

This isn't only a loss for the Wyoming Navy Department; think of the tourist attraction billboards that Wyoming could have put up along I-80 or I-25, advertising their aircraft carrier. I think that would have put the giant prairie dog in Kansas, or the giant popcorn ball in Iowa, to shame...

They Can Transplant THAT?

From the look on the face of this scammer, it appears that they CAN transplant just about anything. At least in email.

'Specially when I'm doing the rewrit 'transplant'.

What began as a simple email online lottery scam, purportedly from Nokia, would be transformed beyond the email scammer's wildest nightmares.

But first, the scam as it was received:

Dear Sir/Madam,

Your e-mail was attached to the Nokia Ticket Number:1110008342 And You Have Won Ј1,000,000.00 One Million Great British Pounds you are to send your full details which is

1. full Name:

2. Address:

3. Nationality:

4. Date of Birth:

5.Occupation:

6. Phone:

7. Mobile:

8. Fax:

9. State of Origin:

10.Country:

11.Sex:

to your claims agent Email: nokiamb12@hotmail.com

Thank you for being part of this promotional email lottery program.

Regards,

Mr.Terry Steven

Tel: +44-704-575-4118

NOKIA!2012 Lottery Program

Ain't that nice? Well, what I dun widdit wasn't:

From: Nokia UK Promo info@nokia.co.uk

To:

Sent: Monday, February 27, 2012 3:58 AM

Subject: Dear Sir/Madam/doorknob

Dear Sir/Madam/doorknob

I am Mr. Terry Steven, formerly Mrs. Terry Steven, now in the process of changing my sex by having a baby elephant truck surgically attached to my vagina, to turn me into a man of dubious antecedence with a loud trumpeting faux penis. It'll be strong enough to blow my pants off, or my money back.
I have writed to you today because I needs money to finish this delicate surgical procedure, and I just f**king ran out of it. I still need ё1,000,000.00 One Million Great British Pounds. If you and 999,999 other schleps will each send me one measly f**king GBP each, I can finish this and start my Las Vegas appearances at the Bellagio as Terrance The Big and His Magnificent Trumpeting Penis. And it'll be able to catch nuts thrown by the audience at the same time, too.
Shows are sold out into 2015. Bet your ass they are.
Get me your pound and your full details which is

1. full Name:
2. Address:
3. Nationality:
4. Date of Birth:

5. What/Where You Last Occupied, You Smelly, Lazy Anarchist:
6. Phone:
7. Mobile:
8. Fax:
9. State of Origin:
10.Country:
11.Last Time You Tried To Have Sex With An Eel If You Could Get The F**king Thing To Hold Still:

Send me this sh** to Email: nokiamb12@hotmail.com

Thank you for being part of helping me get my trumpeting elephant trunk penis so I can start my run in 'Vegas. Of course, I expect to see you there!

Regards,

Mr.Terry Steven

Tel: +44-704-575-4118

Terrance The Big and His Magnificent Trumpeting Penis,
coming soon to the Bellagio in Las Vegas*

*DISCLAIMER: The Bellagio doesn't know about this just yet, so don't tell them. If during a performance my trumpeting elephant trunk penis blows so hard that it falls off, I will institute a no-refund policy while I superglue the damned thing back in place. If I don't get the seal just right, it might make my trumpeting elephant trunk penis sound a bit like Tim Conway, not to mention it might spray in unexpected directions. Just sayin'....

So far, I have received nothing back from the scammer or any of his/her peers. I am, however, reliably informed that I will be receiving a protest letter from the group People Against The Genital Treatment of Elephant Trunks (PATGTET), by way of their legal arm, the American Genital Liberties Union (AGLU). Everything has rights these days; even genitalized elephant trunks.

It should make for an interesting read...