Thursday, December 26, 2013

With A Name Like Tee Yung Hen, It's GOTTA Be Edited

Readers here know that I occasionally have really weird takes on things.

Three and a half concussions is my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

When I read the email heading on this amazing delivery from the bowels of scamdumb, I knowd that it was time to once again to indulge that weird parameter within:


With an email title like that, how could I not read on?  Especially when I learned that the emailer was none other than Tee Yung Hen.


Here's the opening salvo that made what follows unfortunately possible:

 Pardon me for not having the pleasure of knowing your mindset before making you this offer and it is utterly confidential and genuine by virtue of its nature. I cannot imagine the surprise this will bring to you, but please be rest assured is with good faith and intentions from a friend in dare need of your assistance.

I am a, staff of Private Banking Services at the Bank of China (BOC). I am contacting you concerning our customer and, an investment placed under our banks management 8 years ago. I would respectfully request that you keep the contents of this mail confidential and respect the integrity of the information you come by as a result of this mail. I contacted you independently of our investigation and no one is informed of this communication. I would like to intimate you with certain facts that I believe would be of interest to you.

In 2005, the subject matter; ref: bb/boc/bank/0012  came to our bank to engage in business discussions with our Private Banking Services Department. He informed us that he had a financial portfolio of 8.370 million United States Dollars, which he wished to have us turn over (invest) on his behalf.  

Now, after editing this between 3 and 5 am -- the time a friend of mine insists that my 'case of squirrels is most out of control' -- I came up with possibly the strangest edit I've done in the last day or so; I know it caused one friend who received a copy of it to berate me for not attaching a disclaimer about not drinking coffee while reading it:

Pardon me for not having the pleasure of knowing your mindset before making you this offer, but I just finished a very satisfying sexual encounter with a brussel sprout.  Yowza.  Heretofore I only did poke salad.  Poke....salad.  Uhhhh.
This that I am now de-aroused enough to have speaks with you about is utterly confidential and genuine by virtue of its eccentricities and multiple orifices. I cannot imagine the surprise this will bring to you, but please be rest assured that it will not rape your kitchen appliances or sodomize your Yugo, though it might try to seduce your vacuum cleaner if it's a Dirt Devil.

In 2005, I was subjected to excess groping by TSA agents and it got me thinking:  what if Nancy Pelosi were doing this to me right this minute?
It took me a week to clean up all the vomit.  But that's not why I'm writing.
I was the person assigned to determine if hamsters had karma and if so, why their wheels squeaked.  My first thought was that my superiors didn't think much of my acumen or other in-bred kin.  This of course was ridiculous to me, until my 987th thought was of the exact same thing, only with yaks in place of hamsters.  This suggested much bigger wheels, and caused me much time on the internet, only to find that every time I search engine 'yaks on running wheels' I came up with a photo montage of Miley Cyrus's tongue.
I made numerous suggestions in line with my oft-repeated dream of being chased by a platypus with a chain saw that was being ridden by Sponge Blob Squareplants, a carnivorous egg plant that once ate Deadtroit and now is eyeing Toledo for dessert.  Don't be too smug, might wind up the pre-entrée salad.  At any rate, just as I'm about to find out what dressing the egg plant prefers, I fart and my wife jackslaps me out of bed, so I never get to find out who married the fairy pit bull Soprano.
If someone knows, can you send me an email without spoiling the surprise?
In mid 2006, I sought Theraflu for this condition, and after six months of intensive treatments, I looked like something out of a Barney Frank dance recital.  At this point my therapist completely was, and he was forced to abdicate to Uranus, change his name and join a commune of leftover parts from a wayward alien probe built out of unexploded Ford Pintos.  He has since gotten back to me with a bill and no duck to pin it on.  This is most curious, though I suspect that things on Uranus aren't as they are here, though it is rumored to be similar to the place where Harry Reid has his head most of the time.
In January last year, we got a call from the a paraabnormal researcher who had been sleeptalking with the ghost of thanksgiving turkeys past, only to have the connection severed for having insufficient giblets stuffed in the right slots to maintain the astral bridging necessary for tellysavalas (mind melding with a bald parrot that speaks obscenities in 180 dialects).  While trying to re-establish contact, a 550 tiger named Kellogg punted him like a 50 yard field goal right through a pair of right ups, and a quick-thinking pixie tallied the score before a review could be red flagged.
Am I making sense here?  Damn I hope so...the hallucinagens in my meds are only generic.
This was an astounding position as far as I was concerned, given the fact that I managed the primates now running the DNC in Washington DC.  Four days later, information started to trickle in -- soeterodoesn'tcare sign ups -- but all that was learned was that a pet rock named Seymour, now ensconced in Arkansas, was learning to play The 1812 Overture on a banjo in d flat.  Good thing that the CMAs aren't being held there right now.  That might be more than Miley's tongue can waggle.
The bank of fog between my ears immediately launched an investigation into possible surviving the 1812 Overture in banjoed d flat, but it went down on a replica of the steam ship Umpaloompa somewhere in the Cape Hatteras inlet during a waxing gibbeous moon that needed to wear its pants higher to hide those really gnarly boxers with the Justin Bieber label on the butt.  If you are familiar with primate banking affairs -- strictly non sequitur to the last sentence -- those fool primates tend to throw things around rather than deposit them with an eye toward growth and interest.  A flurry of banana peels, a cloud of whatever it was and a hearty "oooga boooga" and we're left with a lot of unmade banana bread dough all over heckydarnpoo.
According to practice, we'll keep doing this email until we get it right.

The world of primate banking especially is fraught with huge banana fights and all sorts of vine-to-vine collisions.  The flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz were a myth.  Just sayin'.
My proposal;  marry my vegetable juicer, and I am prepared to place you in a position to take some of the most unusual photos ever shown since Miley Cyrus's tongue.  I am also prepared to share my intellectually-stunted pet ostrich, Olga, with you on a percentage basis, assuming that you can avoid having Olga peck the snarf out of you.  
Yes, I assure you that I have an intellectually-stunted pet ostrich named Olga.  
When you take all things herein this email together, along with a fifth of Ripple, all is done. The alternative would be for us to have to sign up for soeterodoesn'tcare as Azerbijani mutant ninja dung beetles.  This way there will be no need for you to think about having to file taxes in 2014.  You'd be dung with that.
We can fine-tune this orchestrated abomination with a kazoo, I think.  Just not a vuvuzela.  I am allergic to spit.

You may not know this but people like myself who have made up emails like this are douche nozzles. 

I send you this mail not without a measure of fear as to what the consequences, but I know within me that nothing I eat won't cause me volcanic flatulence that can stampede any animals in an elevator.  This is the one truth I have learned from my days as a turkey artificial inseminator.  Do not betray my confidence. If we can't be of one accord, please arrive to me in a Toyota.  Do NOT show up in a Chevy Volt, unless you want I should have Kelloggs play 'Punt The Greenie' thru the right ups. 
I am REALLY await your response to this jackwagon of a douche nozzle email.  Contact Email:

(my parents were doing meth when they named me) 
So far, Tee hasn't apparently (a) read what I dun to his email, Ma (b) been able to understand what I dun to his email, Ma (c) found a translation program that can tell him what I dun to his email, Ma or (d) figured out that further communication with me is going to get him more of the same only. 
Perhaps Tee is just hiding from a 550 pound tiger named Kelloggs that likes to punt things through right ups...

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Blogger Sandee said...

No he's got to get a translator to figure out what you said first. That's what I think.

Oh, you need to read about Roche the gay rock that went to Florida. Well, perhaps Seymour needs to catch up on his son.


Have a fabulous day. My best to Seymour. ☺

26 December, 2013 09:40  
Blogger Right Truth said...

Wow, Got "choosed" you, and then he shared your information, email, etc. with a scammer. God does work in mysterious ways.

Right Truth

26 December, 2013 16:09  

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