Whacking Great Gibberish

An employee of the Royal Bank of Scotland has a deal for me.

Or so he says he is.

He sent me one of the longest emails I've ever received from a scammer, to (a) introduce himself (b) explain his scheme and (c) justify my role in it.

He claims that "banks all over the world do this without people knowing".

Perhaps so.

But Mr. Timothy Briggs didn't reckon on sending his bookish epistle of efraud to an e-diter of same.

I won't bore you with his lengthy scree; in the end, you know what it was gonna come down to.  Instead, I'm going to bore you with what I done to his scree, and shared with numerous persons of good and not so good antecedence:

Bloody good of you to respond, ol' bean.

I know this is an unconventional way of introducing a big and potentially bad load of haggis to you, but I however want you to take your time to read my letter carefully.  Once you do, you will understand the necessity for a thorough bowel cleanse.  Please try to do it without the mixture they

use to douche with.  Just saying.

 

 

I got your e mail address from the Ministry of Commerce Directory.  Here in Scotland, that's bloomin' etchings on a public restroom wall.  What the bloody else do we have to do in there until we're dunny?

My name is Timothy N Briggs.  Don't laugh; it's the name my handler gave me for this particular role.  Personally, I wanted to be Carlos Danger, but some bloody Yank running for mayor of NYC kiped that one, leaving me with either Timothy N. Briggs or Twiggy The Wonder Tampon.

 

 

You can see why I took the former.

 

 

I am contacting you concerning a deceased customer we have on ice in our cold deposit storage units in Nederland, CO.  It's also where we keep donated sperm samples for societal elites, endangered species, and for turkeys to keep their Thanksgiving supply in good repair.  Sometimes we send the wrong semen sample when an elite wants to test tube fertilize and egg; as a joke, we include stuffing, just in case we sent the wrong one.

 

 

Whacking great fun, wot?

 

 

I contacted you independently and no one is informed of this communication, not even the bleedin' NSA.  Bloody wankers think they can read and make some kind of sense of THIS? 

 

 

I would like to intimate you with certain facts that I believe would be of interest to you:

In 1874, a constipated mathematician figured out that he could work it out with a pencil.  Lo and behold, in 2013 that same mathematician is dead.  Would you conclude that working it out with a pencil killed the mathematician?  If you're a bloody low information democrat, that's what you'd come up with.

 

 

Bloody wanker.  The proper answer is, the pencil had nothing to do with the dead mathematician.  Chronology did...a grandfather clock fell on him.

 

 

You see why I told you to read this bloomin' email carefully.

 

 

Now...on 6000 traditional stocks and bond managers and 2000 managers of alternative investments, not one of these persons of dubious antecedence made a dime on buying and selling spoiled haggis.  But because they all have one thing in common -- vaginal transplants from ducks -- they all quack.

 

 

Are you discerning a pattern here? 

 

 

In mid 2006, a Chinese entremanure named Tai Kwan Duk discovered that if the speed of light and the speed of sound were juxtaposed, you'd have a third less speed than your regular sound.  Or was it the other way around?  We can't ask him, because during a martial arts demonstration, he was killed by the tree he was trying to levitate using The Force.

 

 

The tree generated more.  I told him not to use a fossilized sequoia.  Eh.  Bloomin' idiot took it for granite.

 

 

Bloomin' see what I just did there?

 

 

After 9/11, I tried to get a simple answer to the question:  2 or 20?  I can't ask the dead and constipated mathematician.  So I am asking you:  2 or 20?

 

 

I contacted my affiliate here in London and got a cockney on the phone by accident.  Does anyone bloody know what a cockney is saying half the bloody time?  Krikey!

 

 

I undertook all the processes and made sure I followed the instructions in the Cookbook of Cannibals, on how to baste a wombat penis for maximum flavor.

 

 

And it still tasted like chicken.

 

 

We were soon enough able to identify the body of an olive rapist in the south of France and determined that his cause of death was the pits.

 

 

Popeye had nuthin' to do widdit.  The Cartoon Network immediately launched an investigation into possible violations of animations, but all we could learn was that Jessica Rabbit really is drawn that way.

 

 

Did you know that primate banking clients, apart from not having any fiscal sense, stick their fingers in their bums, sniff their sh*t, and then faint?  I learned this at a Jay Carney press conference.  And it's the only bloody thing I learned.

 

 

My official capacity dictates that I rinse my mouth out, once a year, with camel urine.  It is known for it's ability to make you spew liquid 50 yards away.  It's even more effective when you're told what it is AFTER you've sucked up a mouthful.

 

 

The world of primate banking especially is fraught with huge coconut and banana fights for those who occupy certain branches in the right trees. 

 

 

By now -- and careful reading of the contents herein as I admonished you to -- you should have begun by now to put together the general direction of what I propose:  the removal of every penis from every Islamic man in the Middle East.  Then let the bastards try to dick with us.  Jolly good show, wot?

 

 

You may not know this but people like myself who have undergone operations to replace our human genitilia with that of piranha, experience a 100% increase in eating our dates.  Or at least giving them hickeys in hard-to-explain places.

 

 

I have evaluated the risks and the only risk I have here is from you refusing to work with me and alerting my wife that I've been poking her with a piranha penis since 2009.  Don't be a douche nozzle and tell on me.

 

 

Please observe this instruction religiously. Please, again, note I am a family man, I have a wife, children and a piranha penis. I send you this mail not without  a measure of fear as to what the consequences, but I know within me that nothing ventured is nothing gained and that when the chips are down the buffalo is probably empty.

 

 

This is the one truth I have learnt from my days of artificially inseminating door knobs:  no good turn goes unpolished.  Do not betray my confidence. If we can  be of one accord, fine; if we have to settle for a Hyundai, that's fine as long as it has cup holders.

Be a jolly good fellow and respond.  There's a good lad/lass.  No, you bloomin' fool, I wasn't pointing at you.

Mr Timothy

Email: timothybriggs20@gmail.com

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CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE: This e-mail communication and any attachments may once contained confidential and privileged information for the use of the designated recipients named above; but not any more.  So do with it whatever the f**k you want.  Print it and wipe your ass with it for all we bloody care.  You may copy, forward, or share it in any manner without the senders written permission. If you are not the intended recipient, you are hereby notified that the sender is a jackwagoned asshat and should have his internet peepee spanked and all of his goats stampeded through his vaginal ear implant.
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This message has been scanned for dolphins and spotted owls by PETA, and none were found eaten during the transmission of this email.  The pile of drumstick bones is under investigation, however, in case anyone lost a pterodactyl ranch. 

 

 

It's always a hoot when the bloke responds:

 

 

if u not interested y not just say so?

Because it was more fun this way.


Now I suppose he'll have to be Twiggy the Wonder Tampon in his next email, wot?