The South African Banker Scam

They are a plague on the universe as a whole. Nostradamus never saw them coming. Though no doubt some version of them existed in his day. They infest our email with pointless spam and scam messages They leave comments desperately trying to draw attention to themselves (Rajani Rehana, I'm looking in your direction, you jackass) while proving that they don't actually read the blog post in question. I speak, of course, of the vile, loathsome lot known as internet scammers and spammers, otherwise known as homo sapiens spammeritis irritatingus. The following came through my email recently.

Dear Sir/Madam,

I am Mike Ondra  assistant to Mark Stewart who is a advisor and former director BDO South Africa.  I write to you with regards to one of my late clients who left a huge amount in a private institution unclaimed.

The amount involved is USD$18,000.000.00. My client next of kin is very young and a girl who is looking for a foreign investor to assist her re-invests this fund into a lucrative business venture.

Your kind response will enable me to give you details on how this transaction will be finalized.

Yours truly,
Mike Ondra
( Advisor BDO )

Oh, yes. That old unreliable banker scam ploy. This one from South Africa this time. He spins the story of unclaimed funds (in the ballpark of 18 million bucks) from a "late client". He tells us that the next of kin is a young girl who is "looking for a foreign investor to assist her re-invests this fund into a lucrative business venture."

First- re-invests? Shouldn't that be "in reinvesting"? I would think so.

Second, bankers are unscrupulous and would be looking for ways to line their own pockets, not reaching out to random people on the other side of the planet.

Now that I've insulted bankers (they deserve it), I should also add that this is, of course, nonsense. This is shorter than the usual Cancer Widow/ Beloved Former Tyrant email scam, but has the same hallmarks. Because a real situation involving a real person of a minor age involving a real substantial sum of money would not be in limbo. This would have all been arranged well in advance. 

But this is not real. This is the work of a scammer. And I know all of your tricks.

Because I know all of your tricks, I wish you well (actually, no, I don't, I wish you to go to hell) with some name on that list of half a million random emails you've sent this to. Maybe someone will be dumb enough to believe it, buy into it, and send off the "processing fee" you'll bring up after they've bought the bait, and only realize they were scammed after their ten grand disappears forever along with you. 

Point is, I'm not dumb.

Look, I get it, it's impossible for you to make an honest living. You're a scumbag, and scumbags have to resort to being scum. So you're going to do crap like this. It's your nature. It's just tedious for the rest of us who have to put up with you.

It's in that spirit that I wish you would run into one of these guys. It would make our lives so much easier.

Blowing Up The Franchise Again

Egomaniac Director Plans New Installment Of Old Franchise, Guarantees Explosions

Los Angeles (AP). There are few things in life that are guaranteed. Death and taxes. The Toronto Maple Leafs never again winning the Stanley Cup. The depths a Kardashian will stoop to for attention. The gullibility of a MAGA follower.

One of the other things guaranteed is the prospect of explosions in the films of a certain Hollywood director.

This week real reporters and entertainment reporters assembled at the production facilities for Platinum Dunes, a mainstay in the film production business of Michael Bay, director of such dreck as Pearl Harbor and the Transformers franchise. They assembled for an announcement by the director himself. Entertainment reporters were buzzing in the auditorium beforehand. Real reporters were busy rolling their eyes (editor: for good reason. Michael Bay is an idiot).

At length, one of Bay's staff came out on stage. "Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the greatest visionary film director of our time, Michael Bay!"

The entertainment reporters broke out into rapturous applause. The real reporters shook their heads and rolled their eyes. Bay stepped out on stage, smiling like an idiot, his customary three days of stubble and dishevelled hair present, dressed casually. He waved, laughed, remained oblivious to the contempt of the real reporters (editor: he is as dumb as his reputation suggests). Bay strode up to the podium, paused to look at himself in a full length mirror set up, and winked at himself.

"Hello!" Bay exclaimed, looking out at his audience. "Thanks for coming in. But of course you had to. Everyone in the world is fascinated with me, and what I'm going to do next. It's in that spirit that I'll let you in on one of my future projects. I've recently acquired rights to a franchise that's been, well, a kid's franchise. And I want to put my own Michael Bay spin on it. Girls in hot cars waxing the hot cars. Aerosmith music. And explosions. Because you've got to have explosions. What kind of movie is it without explosions?"

"The kind of movie you can't make?" this reporter suggested (editor: good dig at him).

Bay laughed. "Funny! No, the kind of movie I don't want to make."

He paused before continuing on. "No, see, the thing is, like many of you, I get a lot of spam in my email. I mean, Nigerian princes, pointless links that'll hack into your email if you click on them. We all get those. I also get a lot of spam email from people telling me to stop making movies. They must be spam, because everyone knows I make great movies. But a few weeks ago I got this spam from a guy claiming to be a burglar who had broken into a house and was subsequently crippled by a little girl. I mean, that's a little over the top, don't you think?" (editor: this from a guy whose films are the very essence of over the top?)

Bay looked out over the crowd and grinned, somehow missing the contempt from the real reporters. "First of all, a burglar admitting to his crimes? And admitting to getting beaten up by a kid? But it's the sort of idea that gives me an idea. And when I get an idea, you know it's going to lead somewhere."

"Into an overblown movie with lots of explosions?" this reporter asked.

Bay clapped his hands together. "Exactly! Now a couple of weeks back, thanks to cheating in a poker game, I acquired the rights to make a Home Alone sequel. Problem solved. But it would have to have my own spin on it. First off, we'll ditch the kid. I don't like working with kids."

"You're proposing making a Home Alone film, only without a kid?" another reporter asked. 

"That's right," Bay replied. "What I want to tell is the story of an Army bomb disposal expert on leave, back at her home in Chicago. It's a big home in the suburbs, thanks to inheriting a ton of money from Dad. He'll be played in flashbacks by Jon Voight, because you've got to have a Jon Voight appearance in my films. And little does she know but there's a couple of burglars in the neighbourhood, casing houses for robbing. Played by Nicolas Cage and Steve Buscemi."

At this point the two actors stepped out on stage. Buscemi didn't look happy, but when does he ever (editor: this is true). Cage was guzzling from a bottle of scotch. "Hello!" Cage said as he stumbled over to join Bay. "It's great to see you!"

Buscemi sighed. "Look, everyone, I really don't want to work with this guy ever again, but I lost a hand of poker in the same game he got the rights to this dumbass movie, and he's demanding I make a film with him again."

Bay laughed. "What a kidder!"

Buscemi glared at him. "I'm not joking."

Bay didn't appear to notice. "And playing my protagonist, Kelly McCallister, is one of my favourite actors. Give a warm welcome to Megan Fox!"

Fox herself came out on stage, with the usual vacant eyes and her customary barely clothed showing off the cleavage attire. She smiled (as much as the plastic surgery could allow), blew kisses, and gave the cameras a look at her cleavage (editor: why does she keep getting roles?). The entertainment reporters applauded wildly. The real reporters sighed. She joined the others.

"You expect us to believe Megan Fox could believably play someone capable of defusing a bomb?" this reporter asked (editor: good question).

"I can do whatever I set my mind to," Fox replied. "What was the question again?"

Bay shrugged it off. "You're just jealous. Or kidding. I don't care. What I care about is a film concept that has overeager burglars getting in over their heads and finding themselves at war with a really hot babe who knows a thing or two about war and hurting people and leaving them crippled and crying and begging for mercy. What I care about is Aerosmith doing the theme song. What I care about is explosions, explosions, and more explosions. That's what I care about, that's what my audience cares about, and that's all that matters."

Bay shook his head. "What's important is this. Home Alone: Blown To Hell is going to do big box office. It's going to be an epic blockbuster that everyone's going to want to see. It'll be funny and fast paced and exciting and it'll be the talk of the town for months. And it's going to win me all the Oscars and all the recognition that I'm long overdue. Thanks for coming out!"

With that, Bay departed the stage, followed by Cage and Fox. Buscemi remained behind for a minute. "Hey, I'm really, really sorry I'm stuck with this. I thought I was done working with that hack for life."

He departed again. Entertainment reporters were buzzing about the prospect of yet another Bay film. Real reporters were shaking their heads in dismay. And when last seen, Nicolas Cage was getting into the back of a limo, using a hundred dollar bill to light a cigar.

This reporter wondered when Cage's next bankruptcy would be happening (editor: ouch).

Beware Scots Bearing Haggis

 Robert Burns Day is nearly upon us, a time of whiskey and haggis parties for the Scottish, and so I have an image blog for the occasion. As for haggis itself? Look it up, but only on an empty stomach. Trust me.

I'm convinced the Scots tell outsiders that haggis is a national dish and they should try it only to see the look of disgust on their faces and fall about laughing.

It Is Time For Turkey Comas

 Once again it is time this week for our southern neighbours to engage in that grandiose, over the top festive occasion that they call Thanksgiving, which at this point should just be called Thanksgistmas since they stretch it all the way until Christmas with holiday greetings, football games, shopping frenzies otherwise called Black Friday, get togethers, and eating enough to stuff a horse. To our American friends, Canada had Thanksgiving over a month ago at harvest time when it actually makes sense, and we don't go crazy about it.

Here's an image blog for the occasion.