SomethingSoWrong
Funniness Negates Wrongness
Thursday, June 05, 2003
I got the following in the mail yesterday--another attempt at some brown person trying to scam me.

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JOHN BOCKARIE
FREETOWN
SIERRA LEONE
REPLY TO: johnbockarie@caramail.com

Dear Sir,

Please help me.

I am contacting you through this medium praying to the Almighty God that
you will assist me in my hour of greatest need.

Your contact was obtained through a trade attaché from Freetown in Sierra
Leone, where I am currently in hiding with daily treat to my life and that
of my family.

My name is John Bockarie a brother to the late Sierra Leone rebel
commander Sam Bockarie who was killed on May 5th this year in Liberia by
Government forces of President Charles Taylor.

Since the indictment of my late brother for war crimes by The Special
Court for crimes against humanity committed during Sierra Leone's civil war,
my life and that of my family has been under daily treat from forces loyal
to the present regime in Sierra Leone.

We come from a family of diamond miners and although my late brother Sam
was a rebel leader and responsible for a lot of atrocities committed during
the civil war, I have never held a gun in my life.

My late brother Sam knew too much about diamond deals involving powerful
players in Sierra Leone still in power and their western collaborators and
was killed to prevent him from giving evidence in court. Several members of
my family have also been murdered for the same reason since his death.

With the awareness that the net was closing in on him, Sam, through the
assistance of a Ghanaian diplomat had deposited the sum of 18.5million US
dollars with an investment company in Europe in April of this year 2003,
naming me John Bockarie as his next of kin.

I am handicapped and require your urgent assistance to aid me in claiming
these funds for investment purposes in your country on my behalf, pending my
ability to escape out of here with my wife and kids.

As soon as I receive your response along with your personal data
indicating your willingness to assist me, your details will be forwarded to
the holding company for the transfer of the funds to you by telegraphic
transfer.

Before entering into any formal discussion or agreement with you on the
above, I will have to satisfy myself that you are capable and trustworthy to
handle this matter on my behalf. I would therefore insist that you provide
me with verifiable credentials.

As soon as we establish a workable relationship, I will furnish you with
complete details of the holding company and discuss relevant modalities with
you including your remuneration for your assistance.

I hope you will not betray my trust and the high level of confidentiality
expected from you.

God's Blessings,

John Bockarie


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This is what I wrote back. Let's keep our fingers crossed that I get a reply. I'll keep this blog posted if I get anything back. This might be fun.

Dear Mr. Bockarie:

I am most pleased to make your acquaintance. Please forgive any
misspellings in this communique as I am dictating it to my cabana boy
Carlos, being that I am unable to type myself, having lost both hands in a
horrendous waterskiing accident in Belgium some years ago. You'd asked for
my credentials and I am please to be able to provide a somewhat limited
background sketch of myself. I hope this suffices for your purposes, but
please feel free to request more information.

My full name is Robert Darby-o'Sheagnaussy Nimrod Smythe Smith. I was born
on February 14, 1952 in Leeds, United Kingdom. At the age of 5, I began my
education at Mrs. Miniver's Preparatory School in Herefordshire. This place
was a hothouse of buggery, but I stuck it out until graduating to Eton at
the age of 13. After Eton, I served for a period in Her Majesty's Royal Air
Force before attending Oxford, where I received several advanced degrees in
Art History and Interior Design. I emigrated to the United States in 1975
to open a gallery on Castro Street in San Francisco, but having tasted
adventure in the RAF, I knew my calling was to travel the world. Being the
beneficiary of a coal fortune worth several million pounds, I closed my
gallery and began travelling the world. My adventures took me to the
darkest parts of India, to behind the Iron Curtain and even to both Sierra
Leone and Liberia. During my travels, I helped write several articles for
both the National Geographic and for the Advocate, as well as photographing
several exotic subjects for the magazines Inches and Roughrider. In 1986, I
retired to a ranch in Texas, which I opened as a naturist colony. Using the
large amount of money still left in my sizable fortune, I fund exotic films
as well as own several nightclubs around the United States, including such
fabled places as the Manhole, the Tool Box, Spanky's and Steel.

I hope that my credentials meet your needs and I eagerly look forward to
helping you expropriate your deserved funding.

Sincerely,

Robert Smith
Wednesday, June 04, 2003
Quick Notes:
I'm finally getting broadband. Yay. I haven't had broadband since my college days, as everywhere I've lived since graduating was stuck somewhere in the 1950s (though there is something to be said for women in poodle skirts). The last place I lived had broadband available, but since it was a monopoly owned by the complex (no DSL in the old part of Plano and no cable as it was DirecTV), they decided to be bastards and jack up the price to $95/month for the same speeds I'd pay $45 for anywhere else. Bastards. The new place has both DSL and cable modem available, so I chose cable modem. Good thing, too, as the phone lines there suck and I can only seem to connect at 26.4 kbps with my trusty 56k modem. So, what does this mean? For SomethingSoWrong? Nothing. Yet. Maybe more updates or something. For me? More porn.


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On Saturday night, Josh, Minotaur and I headed down to Arlington from Valley Ranch. Mainly to gauge how long it takes to get from the new place to Six Flags, now that we are possessors of season passes. Also, to go the the Flying Saucer. On the way there, we stopped at a convenience store. After waiting in line to make my purchase, I decided that since I was a bit tired, to walk to the back of the store where the upright coolers are and grab a Mountain Dew Amp energy drink, as I didn't have any vodka on me to make Red Bull palatable. Upon returning to the counter, here is the conversation I had with the Japanese storekeeper:

"How are you tonight?" asked Jappy.

"'Bout the same as I was 45 seconds ago when you asked me that," I replied, alluding to my previous transaction.

"Huh? It's you! You're already back? How did you do that?" asked Jappy, stunned.

"I walked to the back of the store and came back up here," I replied, wondering if I'd just walked into an episode of Ranma 1/2, based on the anime-like excitedness of Jappy.

"That's amazing, hah!" exclaimed Jappy, "Hahahaha"

I gave him a look of both concern and consternation. Scary. I ran quickly to the car and hurried to the Flying Saucer, wary of people that can change into panda bears depending on their temperature.


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The following happened to Jimmy, Josh and I in early May and I hadn't had a chance to blog about it yet. This is for you, Jimmy.

SETTING:

The Scoreboard, a backwoods sports bar/karaoke joint/honky-tonk just outside of Rockwall. Texas. The parking lot is filled with pickup trucks fitted with large toolboxes and ladder racks. Inside, the men wear work shirts with their names embroidered on patches appilqued to the chest. The women wear sleeveless blouses, showing off their flabby upper arms, as well as garishly-colored jeans and lace-up ropers. Haute couture for the uncultured.

Enter our heroes, Rifleman, Josh (aka The Vaj) and Jimmy (aka Mr. Pink).

BARTENDER: What can I git for you rootin', tootin' city slickers?

RIFLEMAN: Three Coors Lights, please...

BARTENDER (ignoring their request for beer: Three rotguts coming up.

Rifleman, The Vaj and Mr. Pink take their drinks, which appear to be some kind of moonshine, to a table. They sit and comment to themselves about the scariness and trashiness of the other patrons, especially the ones drunk and onstage, karaokeing to Merle Haggard and George Jones songs. One guy wearing a shirt emblazoned with Dale Earnhardt's signature and a big number 3 remind them that they aren't in their element. Sipping their drinks, they notice a skanky-looking blonde approaching them.

SKANK WHORE: Umm...guys...umm...could you...umm...watch my...umm...beer while I...umm....dance....?

RIFLEMAN: Uhh...no

MR. PINK: Sure. Just leave it there...

Skankwhore sets down her beer. Rifleman wonders to himself why she has one but the bartender wouldn't give him one. He concludes that it must be a privilege extended to regulars. Skankwhore slinks away, keeping one eye on her drink and giving our heroes a look of suspicion. Mr. Pink notices this and starts laughing. Skankwhore becomes more concerned and rushes over.

SKANKWHORE: What did you do to my drink?

RIFLEMAN; Nothing.

THE VAJ: Nothing.

SKANKWHORE (indicating Mr. Pink): Then why is he laughing?

MR. PINK: I just am. I didn't do anything to your drink.

RIFLEMAN: He's just easily excitable and likes to laugh.

SKANKWHORE: You did something to it, didn't you?

MR. PINK: No!

SKANKWHORE: Taste it then. Take a sip.

MR. PINK: Okay.

RIFLEMAN (interjecting and obviously annoyed): No, Jimmy. Don't drink any. You don't know where this skanky whore has been.

MR. PINK: You're right. I will not drink after you, skanky whore.

SKANKWHORE: No, drink some.

THE VAJ (taking the beer bottle): Here, I'll taste it.

The Vaj takes a sip and quickly swallows.

SKANKWHORE: No, you have to gargle three times.

THE VAJ: I'm not drinking anymore, you syphillitic tramp.

Skankwhore's brother/husband/boyfriend/gay friend notices something is wrong and comes over to apologize and lead her away. She tells the bartenders about our heroes, but they seem unconcerned.

Eventually, she returns.

SKANKWHORE (on the verge of crying): Guys...Guys...I just...just...want to say I'm sorry...apologize...for what happened earlier...Guys...

RIFLEMAN: That's cool. Now go away, before your various STDs are transferred to me by your close proximity. I didn't come here for the crab platter.

SKANKWHORE: Guys.........I'm sorry...I just want to...

She wanders off and passes out in the corner. Another victory over the forces of evil for Rifleman, The Vaj and Mr. Pink.
Monday, June 02, 2003
Rifleman has left the building. I am no longer residing in my stylish and exclusive loft in Plano, but have moved to the home of the Dallas Cowboys, Valley Ranch. I guess this means that I've moved into a crime-ridden neighborhood. And that cocaine flows freely. Actually, Valley Ranch is a very nice area north of Las Colinas and south of Coppell in Irving. My place is a down the street from the Cowboy's HQ and, more importantly, only 15 minutes from my place of employ. No more hour-long commute in the morning. No more dealing with the George Bush Turnpike and the perpetually-crumbly Sandy Lake Road.

Due to the (and I don't mean to sound flippant) foreseen demise of my father last week (thanks to all who sent their thoughts and prayers, they are most appreciated, even though, as Jimmy pointed out, they didn't help--In case you hadn't noticed, Jimmy is a heartless bastard and very wrong. But I don't hold that commment against Jimmy--anyone who knew my father would know that he would have appreciated the gallows humor.), I was unable to get my stuff packed. Luckily, several close friends sprung into action Friday night. Linz, Holly, Grace, Josh, Custardstyle and Minotaur came over and helped packed my stuff, but only after I wrestled the stack of Playboys away from the women. That was a weird situation--I had three hot women looking at porn and I was the one that had to put away the magazines--am I a homo? I hope not, even though I had people over packing my shit.

The move went smoothly...I'd had the foresight to hire a moving company and they sent a crew that consisted of the Dallas Mavericks' Dirk Nowitzski (which I'm sure I misspelled), a creepy guy with creepy facial hair, and another guy with "bitch tits" who punished my toilet. We tried in vain to convince Dirk, through carefully planned snippets of conversation, that we were pornographers. Dirk was unfazed, as he shared stories of moving real pornographers. Apparently, real pornographers have boxes full of vibratey things. The only vibratey thing we had was an electric toothbrush. Not very erotic. Unless you have a really disturbed fetish. Using an electric toothbrush on your naughty bits can't be overly-comfortable. Unless you consider your teeth to be naughty bits.

At any rate, everything's moved and the process of unpacking has begun. As soon as it's finished, I'm going to head over to the New Fine Arts XXX store and buy some vibratey things.