A Dictator's Atturkey Wants Paid

The picture will make some sorta sense soon.

Moreso than the email my character got from the late Muammar Gaddafi's personal lawyer.

Uh huh.

Read it h'yar:


I am Honourable Barrister Ahmed Salam. the personal resident Attorney  here in Burkina Faso to Late Mr. Muammar  Muhammad Abu Minyar  al-Gaddafi of Libya c. 1942 – 20 October 2011. Late Mr. Muammar
Muhammad Abu Minyar al-Gaddafi  c. 1942 – 20 October 2011, commonly  known as Colonel Gaddafi, was a Libyan former head of state,  revolutionary and a  politician, who died on 20 October 2011, was my
client here in Burkina Faso Africa.

My client Late Mr. Muammar Muhammad Abu Minyar al-Gaddafi c. 1942 – 20
October 2011, was having a deposit sum of  {thirty million four
Hundred thousand united state dollars} only ($30.4M USD) with a
security finance firm affiliated with African development bank here in
Burkina Faso.

With the above explanation’s I want to move this money from Burkina
Faso to your country, affidavit on your name,  but note that this is a
deal between me and you and should not be related to anybody until the
deal is over for security reasons, please if interested reply as soon
as possible.

Thanks,
Barrister Ahmed Salam.  


Are you convinced?  Neither was I.  Nor was my pet rock, Seymour.  Nor was my character.

We flipped a coin for it...Seymour swiped the coin and I drew the edit.

"Did NOT!!!  PHFFFFFFFFFFFFFT!!!"

Okay, so while I frisk my pet rock for the coin, here's the edit that our aggrieved Atturkey received (and kinda sorta helps explain the picture above):

From: Barr.Ahmed Salam< barrister.ahmedsalam@gmail.com>
Sent: Tuesday, November 14, 2017 1:07 AM
Subject: SALAD SHOOTERS KILLED MY DEATH STAR

 

Attn: Sir/Madam/Gender Choice Not Therein Mentioned

I am Honourable Bannister Achmed Salamionrye.   It's not easy being me.

I was the personal resident Atturkey here in Burkina Fatso to Mr. Muammar 

Muhammad Abu Gesundheit al-Gaddafi, the dicktater of Libya c. 1942 – 20

October 2011.  The now Late Mr. Muammar Muhammad Abu Gesundheit al-

Gaddafi  c. 1942 – 20 October 2011, commonly known as Colonel Douche

Camel, was a Libyan former head of state, who is of late sans head and

all that went widdit, and he was my client here in Burkina Fatso Africa.

My client Late because he's headless Mr. Muammar Muhammad Abu

Gesundheit al-Gaddafi, never paid me for my services after having hisself

shortened by a head.

Bad form, that.  My services cost money, headless or not.  With what

he owed me and the late fees I've applied to his bill, it now comes to

the sum of  {thirty million four Hundred thousand united state dollars}.

It has been pointed out to me that since he's dead, I am not going to 

collect my money from him.

But you're not dead...you can pay for his services.  I was told that you'd

help me out with this because you owe reparations anyway, what with

your white privilege and all that popular political correctness sh*t that's

the rage at your Democrapic National Committee.

So pony up.  Shed some of that white guilt you carry.  Do that and I'll

tell Antifa not to molest your trash can with one of their abjectly

stupid signs.

Hurry, deals like this won't last.  
Thanks,
Bannister Achmed Salamionrye.  

 

I really didn't expect a response from the originating scammer on this one, but I got one:

 

WHAT ARE YOU  

 

He asked...he got answered with this photo and text:

 

Just an atypical recipient of your email that isn't gibbon a damn about your email.  What are you?  

 

 

I guess the mere idea that he was trading emails with a gibbon was a bit much for the good bannister.

 

As for white guilt...meh.

 

Dang That Privilege...Or Whatever

A reverend with a Dr thrown in is white, privileged, and feels terribly guilty about it.

The “reverend” and “Dr.” in the same title had me believing that he was an email scammer.

The more I read his schtick, the more I became convinced that he must be.

My pet rock, Seymour – the expert “editor” around here – is on a bit of a geologic sabbatical, so this edit falls to me. Which I will indulge in, happily:

In a recent column in the empty-headed bird cage liner Salon, a Rev. Dr. John C. Dorkheimer sadly revealed that he received a pHd in White Privilege, and hence lives a life of perpetual guilt and shame that he had once laughed at an old TV commercial -- depicting two old white elites sitting next to each other in fancy cars, with one asking the other “Pardon moi, but would you have any gray poop on?”, and the other responding “why you bloody wanker”, getting out of his car and beating the snarf out of the other guy – and only now he realized that he dreamed that commercial in a fit of racially engendered night guilt that he wasn't born a cow instead.

Or something like that. 

At any rate, having achieved one of the most useless doctorates in the history of liberal white male feminincompoopism, the Rev Dr felt compelled by demons at a hellary satanic cult crimepaign dally to write a column, titled "I'm White And Here's Unrelated Reasons That I Suck", which sounds like something Saturday Night Live will get around to doing a bit on one day when they think they've run out of rehashed material.

Heed ye well, as yonder he bloviates:


Dear White Men, 

You are persons of Newark.  Well, at least some of you are.

What does it mean to be persons of Newark? Beats the hell out of me; I've just spent years and a ton of student loan money I expect to be relieved of having to repay.  Why?  Because I went out and got me a pHd in something that will never create, design, build, market, or improve the human race one nano amoeba fart. But it did allow me to feel guilty about caucasianism, maleism, privilegism and the fact that my dog is NOT getting enough cheese. Aside from the digression, not many people would have the talent to throw thousands of dollars and thousands of hours away on a degree that, with fifty cents, won't get you a decent bowl of soup from the Soup Nazi on Seinfeld.

But I can feel good about me now. Phffffft. You can't...you don't have this pHd. I do.

Like Hellary on her quest for self centered inevitability, you are a fluke of the universe and you have no right to be here. And it doesn't depend on what your diefinition of “it” is. This letter, written by one of my multiple tortured and twisted personalities – I'm also a transspecied female dolphin trapped in the body of a guilt-ridden human male pHd that's yearning for an ESPY – is offered to invite you on a journey of visuals usually accompanied by severe bowel cramps. 

Privilege can be hard to see, until your cat attacks your tallywacker after a shower. Then you wonder what good it was having not got a pet rock instead. 

One of the four reasons I wrote this paper is because there's a sale at Cabelas. Another reason that I wanted to make more germaine but it wound up Dutch, is that we aren't getting development arrested at four times our population rate, even though it seems like we're arresting development pretty well on college campuses.
 
 So why aren't we doing better at guilt-tripping?

We aren't being followed when walking through a goat herd wearing a “Butt Me” t-shirt. 

We don't try to loot anything in Toledo. 

The joys of feeling guilty about privilege pale in comparison to a bucket of buffalo chicken wings and the NFL Game of the Week. 

Our children aren't sitting in classrooms with ISIS. Unless they're in Syria. 

Our churches aren't being turned into bingo parlors. Dammit. 

We are not saying to ourselves as part of a non-colored man's code of conduct that if a sheep is a ram and a donkey is an ass, then why is a ram in the ass a goose?  

We are not saying to ourselves “why didn't I abort myself like the parents of Hellary should have?” 

We are not saying to ourselves "Wow, that 24 ounce genital piercing is gonna leave a mark when the morphine wears off, dude." 

The journey to seeing and understanding the pernicious consequences of confusing Preparation H with Polygrip includes the harder work of figuring out “WTF?”   I have started practicing this as a discipline. That's what my pHd is good for. Neener. 

When I walk into a convenience store to get a receipt for my gas and the young woman at the counter greets me with a smile and a kind word, I tell myself "What would Batman do with a Slurpee to make her not smile at him?" 

When I see a highway patrolman pass me by while I'm exceeding the speed limit or, as actually happened two weeks ago, I get pulled over for that and  get tased for refusing to let the officer see my Nancy Pelosi mole on my butt, I say to myself: "That happened because of the large genital wart on my nose that looks like Donald Trump's hair." 

When I drive through the many border checkpoints we have set up here in Washington DC – to keep out Donald Trump's ex-TV shows – I say to myself: "That is the result of my voting democrap and being dumber than a door knob." 

I don't know in the end if any of those were would have been written if I'd been clean of meth for the last 48 hours. That isn't the point of this exercise. The point is to get whatever rag publishes this crap to pay me so I can keep my meth buzz going. 

I want to be clear about something: pillow fights don't kill people. Anvil fights do.  

I want to be clear about something else: whatever solutions are going to come will require Congress to pass a law that our empty chair fauxtus will sign and the Supreme Court won't overturn, that outlaws anvil fights. We can't get there without this basic awareness. And nachos.  A crapload of nachos.

When I was learning that it sucks to be me at Enema Insertion University, the assignment I left unfinished every day was this: "Why does Noel have an “L” in it?” That's not the reason I passed that course; it was the goat turd I slipped in the professor's latte that got me where I'm not sure I am today.

Of course I blame Dubya.  Everyone else as stupid as me has been since 2009, so it seemed like the thing to do. 

The point I'm not getting anywhere near making here is this, and there is a reason for that:  privilege comes at a price – I paid $19.95 through Ronco for mine, and got a second one absolutely free. Supplies were limited. And that kind of privilege makes me uncomfortable when I can get the second one free and someone from Uranus can't because they don't know the value of getting a second one free because they can't read the Disclaimer in the first place. 

Therefore, I extend an invitation to a Taylor Swift concert and therein seeing that all that transcends the Ages of Miley Cyrus twerking, engenders the kind of discomfort that one experiences from wearing your pants down around your knees. Not that Taylor does that; she keeps her belly button covered.  A lot of us would probably love to see Taylor wear her short shorts like a five finger discounter in Ferguson.

Don't worry about carrying the burden of solving this or any other pervasive injustice: for good reason, you don't have the pHd that I do – neener – so I'll take care of it. When all varieties of hamburger buns are treated equally, that is what they have to teach us about what will be required for true equality to emerge.  Hotdogs will not be so treated, thereby exposing the blatant, non sequitur thread of illogic and hypocrisy of my entire paper, dagnabbit. 

The acceptance of this invitation, and the resulting years of work it will take us all to open our eyes to that we have been conditioned to ignore for the sake of deep fried mozzarella sticks, is the first step in the proverbial journey of a thousand snail miles. Liberal male feminincompoop obola voters in America, I invite you to join me and Obolascare Pajama Boy in ignoring that road and having meth 'n coffee in the basement of the DNC, while we try to figure out if Debbie Wasserman-Schultz really IS related to Medusa.  Your results may vary, but probably not much.  


I hope he doesn't mind if I don't care if he minds that I'll pass.  My mind is made up; DWS is a dubious antecedent of Medusa...