Nigerian 419 Scam Letters
You've got to be kidding me, Right? Sending Dr. E. Scientist a 419 scam request? Well two can play at that game, me boyos.
First, Dr. Allo Halopti claims to have a few odd quid left behind by a French film company. And since we all enjoy French films:
Dear Dr. Halpoti,
I am well aware of the antics of the thieving bastards at Agente Filme Francois, Ltd. For many years I worked for them under the nom-de-plumb “Erect Steele”.
My credits with AFF encompass over thirty films including the lead role in the big budget “Goodwill Humping” (1999), “Schindler’s Fist” (2000) and the cross-over classic (Roger Ebert gave it an enthusiastic: “Two Thumbs WAY Up”), “Shaving Ryan’s Privates” that was nominated for four Woodies at the 23rd California Respectable Adult Motion Picture awards.
Sadly, in late 2002, I was having difficulty achieving the money shot, or, as we refer to it in the industry; “proof of purchase”. AFF’s onsite doctor/fluffer prescribed some Kampuchian manufactured Viagra.
While the resulting 8 hour priapism allowed me to shoot the action packed thriller “The Need for Seed”, the charming adult Seuss remake “Horton Feels a Ho” and the tear jerker “Touched by an Angel” in their entirety, my pleasure popsicle has never been the same. The AFF management cut me from their line-up without so much as a “golden shower”.
This was the goad to take me to the next step; directing! “What”, I asked myself, “motivates a mumbling, drooling, and possibly psychotic wino?” Armed with several cases of Chinese Tequila, and a cheap .32Cal. pistol, I set out on an epic voyage of discovery.
I have thus honed my self-directing and method acting skills through appearances on the TV show “COPS”, viz: naked drunk in broom closet at Topeka, KS Shriner’s convention, (episode #62); Incoherent machete wielding Hare Krishna, LA Airport (episode #138); line up suspect #4 (possible poodle molester) Little Rock, AR (episode #205). I believe that my performances in both media speak for themselves.
Aloo, I have just the investment you require! Back me, and we will produce adult films the likes of which the world has never seen. If you would be so kind as to send me your address and $35.00US to cover international shipping and insurance, I would be delighted to send you a video of my acting and directing highlights.
In order to protect you from embarrassment, I’ll even mark the package as “Educational tapes: Animal husbandry- artificial insemination methodology”, which, truth be told, is not too far from the mark.
I look forward to your reply, so that we can move our business relationship to the next level.
Lucas Zuma is the only son of the Sierra Leone Diamond and Mining Corporation's late Director of Finance Chief Vincent R. Zuma. Lucas, along with his 17-year old sister Juliet, are looking for a foreigner to help them dispose of $27 million, because his father warned him on his deathbed that he should "avoid African men with their greedy and evil mind." Oh yes; according to his letter he has recently “found Jesus”. Well, Brother Lucas….
Dear Mr. Zuma,
I believe that your letter has arrived at a serendipitous moment. As you may well know, we here at WondaWafa™
Inc., manufacture communion wafers and are currently getting ready to roll out our latest product, a low-carb wafer to be marketed under the name “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Jesus!”™ (Product testing indicates that trans-substantiation
We believe that Africa in general, and Sierra Leon in particular would be a great potential new market. We are looking for enterprising investors to purchase franchises of what will no doubt be the next best thing to sliced bread.
Please forward $29.95US (cash only, please!) to the address below for an informative video explaining your exciting new
future as a WondaWafa™ franchisee.
Be sure to specify either DVD or VHS format, and allow 6-8 weeks for overseas delivery.
Please act promptly, as we are offering franchises on a “first-come, first-served” basis. We would prefer to sell you the lucrative Sierra Leon franchise, rather than Libya, where
sales forecasts remain gloomy.
Director of Sales
Lemming Crossing, PA
Mr. Joseph Chau represents a bank that holds the considerable assets of the late Mr. Poot who passed away while tsunami surfing. Mr. Poot?!
Dear Mr. Chau,
I’m sorry to hear about the death of Mr. Poot. I knew an Irvin Poot in high school. He played wind instruments in our school orchestra, with a fluidic technique.
I doubt if your customer was the same Poot, but it is still sad. As my grandfather used to say, “It’s an ill wind that blows from the south”.
I’m not sure that what you are proposing is strictly legal. As a business owner I can’t afford to cause any legal stink. As my grandfather used to say, “The amount moral fiber in your diet will set the tone of your business dealings”, and after digesting his words, I have strived to live up to his ideal. Perhaps I might suggest an alternative that would be satisfying for both of us.
We at Fat Yankee™ Cutlery, Inc. produce a variety of kitchen tools, but our most famous and lucrative products are our cheese slicers. As we like to say, “Nothing cuts the cheese like a Fat Yankee™!”
In the last few years we have devoted most of our foreign cheese cutting efforts to France, where business if booming for us, but I think we made a big mistake by neglecting other parts of the globe.
I think it would be satisfying for both of us if we aimed our business end for Asia in your direction. I feel that businessmen of your caliber would be the ideal target for Fat Yankee™ cheese cutting products. What do you say? We would be happy to send you some product samples free of charge. Please send me your mailing address, and I will follow up with some cheese cuttings, toot de suit.
Wreke E. Flatus, CEO
Fat Yankee Cutlery, Inc.
8 Beans Rd.
Roaring Gap, PA, 16823
None of the bastards ever e-mailed me back.
Letter to the Good Brother, I
Every family has one; the good child. The one that got seventeen A levels and thirty two O levels. The one that saved the Pope’s life and found the cure for cancer. The one that didn’t change Newcastle from the charming bucolic paradise of yesteryear to the mutagenic hell hole of Geordie chavism that it is today (Look, I said I was sorry, OK? Christ, you’d think that re-arranging peoples DNA without their consent was a crime or something).
Anyhoo, my brother turned away from the path of the evil scientist and went to work for Her Majesty’s Government.
This, I suppose, is the next best thing.
We fell out of touch until recently, when I found out that through dint of hard work and talent, he was rewarded with a position of import along with a posh house, car, and most importantly an enormous
entertainment liquor budget. Naturally, I had to write to congratulate him cadge an invite.
Thanks to the strange situation where being related to me is not a political leg iron (this will, of course, change as soon as MI6 can obtain the necessary court orders), and a brand new Ronco Metaphor MixMaster3000™, I find myself caught betwixt the horns of a conundrum: Precisely how many rounds should one fire into the air while celebrating one’s brother’s ascension to the lofty realms of H.M.’s Government?
The desiccated old harridan, Emily Post, suggests 17 rounds from 12 pound Napoleon smooth-bores, but that would surely invoke a negative response from my neighbors; perhaps to the point of depleted Uranium (this is Pennsylvania, after all). I’m not at all sure that the Slanty Shanty™ could withstand such an onslaught of gratuitous ordnance.
Furthermore, the hoary traditions of our native “Hard Liquor and Handgun Nights” have not yet been codified, as our secretary, Bubba Rundqvist, keeps getting arrested before he can put pencil to paper.
Thus, I find myself having to make a judgment call. I sincerely hope that I haven’t insulted Her Majesty’s Gov’t. with the following salute:
1 sealed milk jug of petrol thrown on the bonfire; (an act which, incidentally, put paid to my eyebrows, as well as a superfluous out-building or two belonging to my neighbors.)
2 bricks of “Out of State” fire crackers.
3 magazines from a somewhat illicit AK-47 (5 Jams, for a total of 85 rounds).
4 largish home-made rockets (even though this has brought the Welsh to a state of high alert; something I regret, as I understand that they were on our side during the second World War… something about providing grape juice to the allied armies).
5 maidens ululating
6 packs, a drinkin’
Things became rather hazy at this point. (NB. I intend to have the partridge; late of the pear tree for Sunday dinner.)
I trust HM Govt. will accept this in the reverential manner in which it was intended (prior to the eighth drink). May I still come and visit?
Your affectionate and medicated brother,
E. Scientist, phD.
Every Evil Genius must show himself to be a man of culture. This can be through musical or literary expression. These are union rules, and must be followed, or risk having one's Nehru jacket confiscated.
I play the Highland pipes (indoors, for extra evilness) and dabble in poesy.
Now, before you get your knickers in a twist, I am neither a Republican, nor a Democrat. Besides, convicted felons, are not allowed to vote in US elections; not that I'd let that stop me. This is poetic license to kill, written from an eeeeevil perspective, and let's face it, the Democrats are a bunch of cute and fuzzy bunnies compared to the Republicans who have Cheney, Rove, Ashcroft and Rumsfeld in their corner. I could have poked fun at them, but then I could have been fitted for cement overshoes and bunged into the Potomac. Nothing doing.
Besides, whom do you think the Brotherhood of Evil Geniuses is going to support? That's right.
Now, shut up, and listen:
Once upon a evening dreary, after voting; Bush, not Kerry,
Came to mind the strange and spurious Lawsuits of the Loser Gore,
Whilst I prayed for a ’bitch slapping’, suddenly there came a tapping,
Caught me in this midst of crapping, trousers draped upon the floor,
‘Tis some pollster’ I muttered, ‘Tapping at the kitchen door;
Only this and nothing more’.
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak November,
And each surly Journo member, made the wait a painful chore.
Eagerly I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow
From whiskey surcease of sorrow; hearing the attention whore.
Lo the foaming dingbat’s blather, spewing from the mouth of Rather,
Chilled me to my nut-job core.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of the shower curtain
Accompanied a gastric lurching, seldom ever felt before;
So that now I sat there bleating, ever more profanely pleading;
”Dammit, Honey, stop your sleeping; would you kindly get the door?
”But alas, there was no answer beyond the wife’s stentorian snore,
Only this, and nothing more.
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
”Sir,” said I, “or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I am crapping, and my dearest wife is napping,
that I have to leave you tapping, tapping at my kitchen door,
Thus I sat in noxious vapour; discovered there’s no toilet paper;
Nothing left but cardboard core!
The rapping then became a pounding, cursing down the hallway bounding,
Soon I heard my neighbor Downing; the one who channels Michael Moore.
“Though your gut may be you vexing, what I find that’s most perplexing,
Is why you’d vote for Bush and Satan; that stole the vote from Albert Gore?”
Over me like a red curtain, came the urge to leave him hurtin’,
For making me befoul my drawer.
Then a fantasy beguiling, sent me into insane smiling,
Suddenly discomfit clouding the countenance my neighbor bore,
Flung at him, my skivvies laden, with the foulness I had sprayed in,
Digested, eggs and fried menhaden, flew out of my kitchen door.
With his thus improved complexion, I bade him come back next election,
Quothe my neighbor, "Nevermore."