Spell Casting Spammers Must Die!

We really do see far too much of their kind in our day to day lives. They are a loathsome pestilence that would have annoyed the Pharaoh in the days of the plagues of Egypt. They can never take a hint and just go away and find something actually worthwhile to do with their day, such as a real job. No, their only purpose in life is to spam our blogs with spam comments, or send us ridiculous emails with an unbelievable scam story. I speak, of course, of that vile trash we call homo sapiens spammeritis irritatingus. Otherwise known as the internet scammer and spammer. The following came through as a comment on an old blog about- you guessed it- spell caster spam. Which means this post will attract more of the same.

IF ANYONE THAT WANTS TO MANIFEST WHATEVER HE OR HER WANT TO MANIFEST SHOULD CONTACT DR OMAN.
     My husband left me for another woman 3 months ago and ever since then my life has been filled with pain, sorrow and heart break because he was my first love whom I have spent my entire life with. My lovely sister told me she saw some testimonies of a love spell caster online that she believes can help me restore my relationship back, I laughed it out and said I am not interested but because of the love my sister had for me, she consulted the great love spell caster on my behalf, when she tell me i was not happy because i was not interested. To my greatest surprise, after 2 days my husband called me for the very first time after three months that he is missing me and that he is so sorry for everything he made me go through. He came back to me and now we are happy together. I still can’t believe it, because it is highly unbelievable. Thank you Dr. Oman for restoring my relationship and also to my lovely sister who interceded on my behalf, for anyone who might need the help should keep in touch with Dr Oman through his Email address:

Me again. The standard nonsense that we see in these stories. A sob story about a spouse leaving the writer for another love and how awful it is, and how lost they are, and then out of nowhere hearing about a spell caster who can cast spells to get things right again. Which is complete nonsense. Because first, it's all a lie. Spell casting is a fiction, meant for gullible people who believe this crap to feed money to someone at the far end of a daisy chain of emails.

Besides, another point about these emails- what kind of person is just going to forgive that kind of betrayal and act as if everything is fine when their unfaithful spouse comes back because of some kind of miracle? First- there is no miracle, there is no spouse, there is no cheating sob story, because all of this is fake, fake, triple fake. 

And second, no rational person would do that. They'd get a hell of a lawyer, divorce that cheat, and move on with their life. Forgive? Hell no. Never forgive, never forget is my motto. But again, this is a fake story, meant to elicit sympathy from people who might be caught in the real situation.

As said, spell casting is nothing more than a fiction. Don't believe it. The only real thing said in that "testimony" is four words- it is highly unbelievable.

Sigh. I hate people, I really do. 

But I really hate spammers and scammers, who, in my personal opinion, should be catapulted into an erupting volcano. Or if that isn't possible, sent onto a United Airlines flight with this guy, who will no doubt send them to an early exit from the flight.

At cruising altitude without a parachute.

A Tale Of Two Identical Birthdays

If Coincidence Is Such A Coincidence, Why Does It Feel Contrived?

Toronto (CP) It is impossible to have a birthday to yourself. In a world with seven billion people and only 365 days in a year (366 in those pesky leap years), one will share their birthday with many others. Yet there are days in a given year where there are statistically fewer babies being born in the current era. Aside from the once in four years February 29^th, recent studies in statistical analysis have shown that in North America, Christmas Day is the least common birthday. A decade’s worth of American birthdates compiled by the website FiveThirtyEight shows September 9^th as the date of most frequent births, while Christmas Day is the least.

Hospitals have long been aware that families try to avoid births on major holidays. Obstetric procedures are less common on Christmas in maternity wards across Canada and the United States. Elective procedures like inductions and elective c-sections tend to get scheduled before or after the date. “It’s to be expected,” Harriet Reed, a professor specializing in statistics at the University of Toronto said about the report and the so called ‘Christmas drought’ that is reflected in the website study.

“After all, who wants to have their birthday on Christmas?” Reed asked. “You’re effectively being condemned to a lifetime of your birthday being overshadowed and turned into an afterthought if you have a birthday within a week, either way, of Christmas. Birthday cake might end up being Christmas fruitcake, and that in and of itself is awful. But people are pretty much ignoring your birthday because they’re busy unwrapping their own gifts, or caught up with their own families and such. So on some subconscious level, there’s an effort these days to avoid conception that’ll end up with a late December birthdate.”

Some notable people in history have, by chance, marked Christmas Day as their birthdate. Isaac Newton changed the world of science, but was a Christmas baby. The famed nurse and advocate Clara Barton was another. Actors Humphrey Bogart and Sissy Spacek both were born at Christmas. Musicians Jimmy Buffett, Annie Lennox, Cab Calloway, and Dido? All Christmas babies. Current Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau? Also born on Christmas Day. Theological historians note the irony that the individual for whom Christmas is named wasn’t even born on that date- Jesus Christ was born in the spring, probably in March.

“It is a bit trying,” Lennox admitted when this reporter reached out for comment on the experience of having a birthday on such an occasion. “First when you’re a child, you don’t get to be the centre of attention at a birthday party, because you really don’t get a birthday party. Because everyone else is having a party. Second, you’re not really getting two days worth of gifts in the way that a sister or brother or friend might have when their birthday and Christmas are months apart. And what are supposed to be your birthday gifts are just wrapped up in Christmas wrap. Later on when it’s less about the gifts and more about sharing time with loved ones, well, they’re all off with their families and children unwrapping their gifts. This is one reason I liked being on the road on tour that time of year.”

Much the same applies to the day before and the day after. Christmas Eve and Boxing Day, being in such close proximity to the big day, tend to result in some of the same overlooked birthdays for those born on such dates. Such is the case with one of those peculiar coincidences that can’t be a coincidence. Drummer Lars Ulrich, the long-time member of Metallica, half deaf at this stage in his life, was born on December 26^th, 1963 in Denmark. With a birthday in such proximity to Christmas, the drummer was quite accustomed to being overlooked and ignored on his birthday. “It might be why I went into metal,” he conceded. The son and grandson of professional tennis players, Ulrich might have gone into the family occupation had he not gotten into the metal scene early on. “Anyway, when you’re used to everyone else being busy around your birthday with all that Christmas stuff, you might start finding the holidays kind of irritating to begin with. And when they start piling on Christmas music all the time, it becomes all the more irritating. That’s one of the reasons Metallica has never done a Christmas album.”

It turns out that another Lars Ulrich shares the exact same birthdate as his counterpart, albeit years later, as he’s two decades younger than the Metallica drummer. The legendary and cranky RCMP Inspector Lars Ulrich was born on December 26^th at a hospital in Whitehorse, Yukon, which one might speculate may have something to do with his general default state of grouchiness. This reporter sought out the Mountie at his detachment in the Alberta foothills before New Year’s. After reassuring Ulrich that this reporter was well aware that he was not the Metallica drummer, the Inspector was at ease. He admitted that the rumour was true- that he did indeed share a birthday with his namesake.

“Coincidence, they call it,” Ulrich said, shaking his head. “I’d call it something that can’t be printed in a newspaper. Unless you’ve got a common name, like a John Smith, for instance, what are the odds that you’re going to be sharing a birthday with someone else of the same name? Especially if you’re being constantly confused with that other person, like so often happens to me? It’s really irritating to be confused by people for that other Lars, considering I’m younger than he is, and don’t look a damned thing like him.”

When asked about his experiences in having a birthday so close to Christmas, Ulrich shrugged. “Well, I learned early not to put much stock in Christmas to begin with. I come from a long line of Mounties. My father was a Mountie, and half the time he was off chasing some mad trapper or a thief or murderer or jaywalker. So he might not even be around at Christmas. I do the same thing. You can’t call off a manhunt for a terrorist or a mad scientist or a graffiti tagger just because it’s the 25^th of December. So I don’t really dwell on it. I just push through the whole nonsense of the Christmas season, try to ignore the onslaught of music, and don’t make a fuss about my birthday.”

At this point, before another question could be asked, the detachment front door opened, and a man walked in, accompanied by a cameraman. He had the vacant-eyed look common to those of his profession, if you wanted to call his line of work a profession. And he wasn’t quite dressed sufficiently for an Alberta winter, wearing loafers and a light suit without a tie. He caught sight of the cranky Mountie, and strode forward. “Lars! Lars! Jamie Skittles, Access Hollywood!”

Ulrich had not yet turned around, but the grim expression on his face had taken shape almost when the door had opened, as if he could sense the presence of those he despised without even seeing them. “Your name is Skittles?” he asked in a low growl that should have been warning enough for the man to back away.

“You like it? I changed it when I got into the business,” Skittles proudly said, oblivious to what was soon to come. Ulrich’s fellow Mounties, on the other hand, were well aware, one of them opening up the door. “Listen, Lars, first off, a belated Happy Christmabirthday to you. That’s a new word we’re trying out on social media for people who have birthdays around Christmas. You like it? I love it, if you ask me.  Anyway, Lars, what I’m here to ask is this. It’s too late now, but will Metallica be coming out with a Christmas album for 2019? Because surely a metal rendition of We Wish You A Merry Christmas mashed together with Silent Night would go down big time on the music charts.”

Ulrich turned, glaring at Skittles with the sort of expression that would have driven fear into the heart of anyone with a working brain. But not an entertainment reporter, as that sort of person lacks a working brain. “I am not that Lars Ulrich.”

Skittles started laughing. “Oh, you joker!”

Not another word was said. Inside two seconds, Ulrich threw a punch that sent Skittles flying out the front door. The cameraman got out of Ulrich’s way as the Inspector went charging out the door and in pursuit of the entertainment reporter. The pursuit ended with Skittles taken to hospital, trapped in a body cast and murmuring in a daze about jingle bells, boughs of holly, and angry drummer boys.

Death And The Grouchy Sedgwick

Today I have one in my occasional series of totally inappropriate eulogies. The ending came to me first.  This is why I can never be trusted with doing a public speech.

“Thank you, Reverend, for that kind introduction. And thank you all for coming out on this sad, somber day as we try to come to terms with the unfortunate passing of Andrew. A husband, father, son, brother, and dear friend to us. Alicia asked that I should do the eulogy. I can only hope I do justice for Andrew and see him off with what he would expect of us all. A few tears, perhaps some laughter, and good memories.

When we think of the manner of Andrew’s passing, we think of how unfair it all seems. Taken from us in the prime of life, and in such a way. But perhaps we should talk of the man himself as opposed to the way he died. That can wait, after all.

Andrew, Alicia, and I all met in college. We all were geared towards medical school, becoming doctors, establishing private practices sometime down the line. Andrew was already known by a nickname that many of us will always call him before we think of him as Andrew. A name that fits, given his chosen profession.

Doc.

There’s this old expression that comes to mind. Never play cards with a guy called Doc. I learned that one pretty fast with him. I always wondered afterwards if Andrew cheated during poker, so after four or five evenings of him cleaning me out hand after hand, I decided to refrain from playing cards with him again.

So, Andrew and I became friends. Despite his cheating at cards. He and Alicia met and fell in love and made plans for their future. We all went through medical school, somehow managed to survive residency and the endless long shifts and particularly that old bastard Doctor Sedgwick… let me assure you, if anyone deserved to go the way Andrew did, it was Clive Sedgwick… oh, hi! Sedgwick! You’re here! Good god, old man, how are you possibly alive? You must be ninety six by now.

I’m letting myself get off track. Sorry. That happens.

Well, we got through medical school. We got through residency. We did our time in the proverbial trenches of hospital life and the tensions of an emergency ward. And we all moved on with our lives. Private practice beckoned, because honestly, who wanted their life to turn out like an episode of Grey’s Anatomy?  Which, for the record, is an awful show.

Andrew and Alicia got married and settled into a private practice and a quiet life in the countryside. Had three wonderful kids. Katie, Michael, and Ella, your father loved you very much, and you made him very happy. He’d be proud of you.

In time I got married too. Josie and I have stayed friends with Andrew and Alicia, even though my private practice took me to another part of the province. We’d get together every once in awhile, keep in touch the rest of the time. Life was good. A good living, practices that were thriving, patients that kept us busy, but time to be had for the important things in life. Family and leisure and the occasional evening dining out.

Which I’m sure is better than can be said for Sedgwick and however he spends his days. Honestly, old man, tell me you finally retired, or are you still making life hell for every resident doctor you’ve ever met? Oh, don’t look at me like that.

I’m getting off track again. Sorry.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Life was good.

Until last week, that is.

It’s for the best that we have a closed casket.

It’s not as if open casket was an option, under the circumstances.

Andrew was off at a medical conference in Chicago. Everything went fine. He was on his way home. He just happened to pick the wrong flight.

If he’d flown Air Canada, maybe nothing would have gone wrong.

Instead, he flew United.

Well, from what we’ve been told by the other passengers, United continues to have problems with customer service. This, after more than a few incidents in the last couple of years.

They had a couple of their employees flying with the passengers, off duty, just heading for Toronto for some time off.

One of them wanted a seat to put their shopping bags on.

Now apparently shopping bags for an off duty pilot is more of a priority than a passenger.

Okay. So the plane was fully booked. Enough so that they had to turn people back at the gate who’d bought tickets in advance. Let it not be said that United has learned anything from their previous mistakes.

So they went looking for a volunteer.

Someone to give up his seat.

And they settled on Andrew.

They’re still not saying how it happened. I mean, I would have thought it was physically impossible to open a plane’s doors in flight. Sufficed to say there were unpleasantries said, according to the other passengers… and Andrew was removed from his seat.

And then kicked off the plane.

At cruising altitude.

Without a parachute.

They say the terminal velocity for someone falling through air is about 195 kilometres an hour. Before he hits the ground. Andrew hit the ground on a farm outside of Kitchener. Or the ground hit him. I guess it depends on how you see things.

Well, they say if you have to go, you might as well go fast. Better to go fast than to die slow and in agony. A little pain, but fast? Okay. A lot of pain, and horribly slow? No thanks. We’ll never know if Andrew passed out of this world before he hit the ground. But in those last moments, surely he must have been thinking of his beloved Alicia and their kids.

Strangling the chairman of United Airlines after suing the company into bankruptcy.”

A Horrid Week In Public Relations

What follows are remarks possibly being made at the executive level of a certain airline that's had a few bad days publicity wise as of late. I'm sure the actual remarks are far worse.

“Ladies and gentlemen. It has been a difficult few days for our organization. There have been lots of bad press, misunderstandings, and disapproval of the public at large over some of our more... unorthodox decisions. It didn’t help that my response to the affair was, to be fair, rather tone deaf. There’s an old expression about there being no such thing as bad publicity, but I think at this point that it’s safe to say we’ve proven that wrong.

You know, if we could have taken it all back and done things differently, we would have in a heartbeat. I mean that. Really, I do. How were we to know that our tendency to overbook flights would end up biting  down hard on us like this? How were we to understand that one bad decision might lead to another, and then another, and another, and before we knew it, we had a passenger dragged off the plane, all bloody, and to make things far worse, it made the news everywhere.

I mean, abusing your passengers is one thing. It’s a long standing tradition at our airline.

But for it to actually make the news? With video proof? That’s unacceptable!

There are those naysayers out there who would tell us that once a passenger has taken their seat, that’s theirs, and we don’t have the right to toss them off the plane just so we can accommodate some of our own people for nothing. Well, to those people, I say: read the fine print!

There are those who say our industry shouldn’t overbook flights. That it’s a bad business practice. That we’re screwing around with the goodwill of the public. Well, to those people, I say... get bent! We’re the airline industry! We have the God given right to abuse our customers!

There are those who say that the right of passengers to get to their destination in a timely manner should come first. To those people, I laugh in their faces and say, drop dead!

There are those who say that to increase profit for the company, rather than increase ticket or fee prices, we should trim the executive salary levels. To those people, I fall about laughing. Are you serious? I happen to like having all that money I make every single year, thank you very much.

There are those who say that Amtrak doesn’t treat its passengers this way. Well, to those people, I say... we get the pissed off unwashed masses from coast to coast faster than Amtrak gets out of a state. Who gives a damn about customer service?

There are those who say that we shouldn’t have glorified rent-a-cops drag a paying passenger off a flight for simply refusing not to leave when asked to volunteer to leave against their will. To them, I say fuck you!

Look, we all know the cold, hard facts. Airlines rise and fall on how much money they make. And we lose money when it comes to undersold flights. If someone comes along and tells us we can’t overbook a flight, well, what happens? Empty seats. Because for some reason that escapes me, not everyone who books a flight actually gets to the airport to make that flight. It’s a hedge bet, every time. People aren’t going to show. So what’s best for us is to overbook a flight. Oh, sure, that might mean sometimes that everyone shows up and we have to bump someone to a later flight. It should only take an hour or four or nineteen later to get them home. I mean, we’ve got a sterling record of 56% of our bumped passengers finally getting on a plane within 72 hours, and if you ask me, that’s something to be proud of.

Oh, sure those whining twits complain. Lord, do they complain. I can’t tell you how many times our complaints department has heard the I was late for the wedding, funeral, birthday party, job interview, mother’s operation, spring break, honeymoon, stag and doe party, Super Bowl gripe. Bunch of whiny jackasses, if you ask me. They should be paying us more to fly!

Well, things are going to change here at United. Fly The Friendly Skies has been a slogan for us off and on down through the years, and it’s high time those scumbags we call passengers start to learn that you don’t treat your friends like this. You don’t question their integrity, you don’t film them when they’re doing their job, and you don’t dare complain just because you think your civil rights are being violated. We’re United, damn it, and we’re not going to take it anymore!

So we’re changing the way we do things. We’re going to get those dirtbag customers to start showing us some respect.

Over the next few weeks we’re going to start rolling out some new ways to maximize our profit potential. That includes our brand new Adventure Class of airline traveling. This will consist of tying ten bungee cords to the wings on each flight and to the waists of ten passengers. As long as they can keep up with the plane while it’s taking off down the runway, they should be fine, but trust me, you don’t want to trip running down the runway while bungeed to an accelerating plane.

And of course, it’s quite possible none of them will actually survive being completely exposed to the elements at 35 000 feet for hours on end, but come on... they’re airline passengers! Who cares what happens to them?

And sure, it’s possible that even if one or two of them actually survive that flight, that they’ll be turned into a bloody pulp when they hit the runway as the plane lands at its destination. But that’s just one of the downsides to doing business. And fortunately it’ll be covered in our new fine print.

But that’s not all we’re going to do. We’re going to throw in a new fee- guaranteed that the passenger will not be bumped, abused, mistreated, or eye rolled at by any of our staff.* The asterix, of course, will be in fine print, and will reflect the fact that we can put an exception on any of those conditions. For instance- except  if the airline needs to get twelve of its employees home on the next flight, if we feel like it, if our gate agent’s having a bad day, if the flight attendant feels particularly vindictive at the moment, or any other reason we can possibly think of to treat these so called guaranteed passengers like dirt, even if we’re not supposed to. And that new fee will be a five hundred dollar surcharge. If you don’t pay it, prepare to be harassed, harangued, and tormented at every turn by our flight attendants, all of whom continue to take lessons in sadism at the Marquis de Sade School Of Public Relations when they’re not in the air.

Okay, so we kind of messed up with this whole incident. Clearly I shouldn’t have used words like reaccommodate and volunteer. Clearly I shouldn’t have spoken to the media at all. Isn’t that what we’ve got public relations people for? You don’t ask the CEO to go before the cameras in a situation he can’t have every bit of control over.

But what’s important now is that we don’t learn from our mistakes... I mean, we learn from our mistakes. From this day forward, no more filming our actions on cell phones or other cameras. No more posting unflattering footage of our operations online. No more complaints department. Who needs to hear the whining and complaining anyway?

If you don’t like how you’re being treated by the flight attendants, that’s fine. Step out of the plane and leave.

Just don’t expect us to give you a parachute.”

Mayhem, Chaos, And Bedlam

I have an image blog today. Enjoy!