Fuzzy Bunny Slippers!

One day, several months ago, I was "cyber-surfing" the blog sites of the universe by way of the multiple click of the blogger.com next button.


This results in a ricochet rabbit type bank shot off of one unknown blog to the next, to the next, to the next. Eventually, this has you far afield in the cyber-stream of discourse that 55 million people add their torrent of textual and visual imagary to daily. In their desire to share with the world at large just exactly what it is that has awakened them at 3:05 am with the burning need to post.


O.K. the burning desire needy thing was in almost every instance a bladder control problem. But none the less! Sleep is no longer an option until something, anything is hammered out and flung like a heavy metal folding chair at the still mostly asleep consciousness of the world.


Yes! so far afield in the raging river of cyber-repartee that no amount of electronic cookie crumbs existant could ever lead you home.


Fortunately, Blogger.com makes available a user name icon to do that!


Below, you you find one of my textual missives. Written when I was lost, and alone in the magical, mystical dark forest of both the blogger universe and the one located somewhere in the synaptic "no fly zone" of my mind.


Remember; If it gets too scary, quickly click your user name icon to escape.


If that fails, pull the plug connecting computer to electrical source.


Also;Try and restrict your fluid intake after 8 pm if you have a bad experience during your "twilight sleep trance like" posting and surfing.


Below; Case in point.I was doing the random cyber surf thing when I was cowabunga'd by a huge rouge wave/post from a woman with a highly erotic user name.Here is my response.
***********************



Hello fuzzybunnyslipperz!!!!!!!!!!.........!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!......!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!..........!!!!!!!!!!!!-!!!!!


I'm glad that you enjoyed my manic mental meanderings that skitter hither and yon like a waterbug on meth.Held up by the surface tension of the last thing that caught my attention.Whether or not it should have is for you to decide.


But I have to tell you that your user name combines three of the things that raise my heartbeat, temprature, and..., I don't know you well enough to get even remotely descriptive about the explosive exponential three dimensional growth of that third aspect of my person.


I mean, "Sweet Jesus with a woody!" I can't believe that you were not aware that by combining; Fuh Fuh Fuzzzzy! wi wi with, Buh Buh Bunnnny!And th, th, then adding ...uhh,....uhhh ssslsssllippperrrzzz...!!!!!!!!!!!........!!!!!!!!!!!. .......!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!.......... !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.................. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!....!!!!!-!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!............!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.........!!!!!!!!.......!!!!!!......!!!...!!..!....???!!!!!!!!!...??
.....????


Where am I? Oh yes. Sorry.


Didn't you know that by hotwiring this particular cobination of words into one "manage a trois word" that 87 percent of all living males, and 19 percent of all deceased males will have a "system overload" that results in...


Well never you mind exactly what this results in. Let's just say that Both wonderful and embarrassment end up dancing cheek to cheek. So to speak.


So, if it is all right with you, and please tell me it is, from this moment on I will refer to you as fbslpz.


I know what you're thinking. That I just "made up" this whole scenario because I'm too lazy to type out fuh...,fuh..,


Oh hell! here I go again!


I'll talk at ya later fuh, fuh, fuhzzzy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!....... .!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.... ...!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!..............!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My short lived conversation with Lusty Duck!

Here is a photo of Lusty Duck making his move on the wrong sex, as well as species.

Hey Karl,

Below is a story that I posted on a friends writing blog.

("Vic Monchego's sudden fiction.")

It's called; "My cyber-query of; "The lusty duck."

If you get the time, check it out. Some of the writers are pretty good. 

Especially my bro, Vic Monchego.

He's the head word rustler riding the "that was a hoot" owl trails of the Bad Lands of New Textico.

As you will see, after reading this, I have too much free time.

Mikey

************

Hey Vic,

Always good to hear from you.  I'm always amazed at the many faceted,  synaptic connections that you manage to necklace together into a whole. That is imbued with a bright shiny humor,  or a stark crystalline reality.  

Your word craft unfolds in such a way that it keeps a person's attention front and center, on where ever the hell it is that you are intent on taking a reader. Not a bad thing at all Vic.

I hope that I continue to have the pleasure of a Vic Monchego, "sudden fiction" read for some time. 

Tilt your literary lance at the windmills of the mind, and the dragons of the real world.

Both are fair game when they cross your path without proper respect for your joust, or jest.

This is something that I have been playing around with for a few months.  Let me know what you think.

gmw

***************************************************************************************

My  cyber-query  of;  "The  Lusty  Duck."

I was recently cyber-gabbing with some folks on a variety of mundane subjects.  When I received a response to one of my asides.  I can't even remember what my comment was, or what it related to.  Which is a sure sign that neither one was of any particular import. 

None the less,  It registered enough on someones; "word-o-meter" scale to cause the person to generate a bland,  short text-ed; "thumbs up" to some turn of phrase,  or twist of meaning that I employed. 

Whether the twisting,  turning,  meaning or phrase was intentional,  accidental, or even actual,  I couldn't tell you.

But this guy had a user name that he signed off with that started to work on my thought process.  Not in pleasant ways either.

His user name was; "lusty duck" 

Below is my response to his comment,  on my comment,  on somebody else's comment,  about something or other.

*******************************************

Howdy, and hello Lusty Duck!


I have never; conversed with a duck before.  Lusty, or other wise.  But hey!  When in Rome,  loot and pillage like the Vandals,  Visigoths,  and the other Germanic and Teutonic hoards are a doing,  is what I say!


By my way of thinking,  a lusty duck,  would be a lucky duck. That is,  if there are other lusty,  or horny ducks near by.


Perversely.  Excuse me.  Conversely,  said lusty duck,  would be an unlucky duck,  if he was stuck at this hormonal apex of a mounting,  building,  "where the f**k is there a duck that I can f**k!"  With no duck,  lusty or otherwise  within duck shot.


It would seem to me,  that you'd be needing a duck that shared the mutual urge of ducks that are lusty.


Or at the very least,  a heavy drinking duck.  That you could ply with high proof alcohols,  combined with some sweet and fruity mixer.  One of them; "Stealth Bomb" cocktails.


You know,  one of those liquid; "persuasion enhancers" that will have the soon to be; "lucky duck" drunk, and plucking her feathers  and yours at the same time. 

Until you are two completely shucked ducks.


Are you getting all this?

Are we even on the same page here?

Or do I need to slow down?

Back up?

Or maybe it would be best if I just stopped right here,  and waited till I knew you a little better?


But I gotta tell ya,  this whole duck lust thing is gnawing at my brain stem.

I had never thought about ducks; "doing it" till now.  And; "Sweet Jesus with a 12 gauge,  in a duck blind!"

It's like a badger is racing around in my brain pan.  Gnawing away at my inner child or something!


Sooner or later,  I'm gonna have to get some answers.  I mean,  I need closure on this whole; "f**k a duck" thing!


That's all I got to say for now.


Sorry I said this much.

Mikey

*********************

I never pick up beer!

A friend of mine has invited me over to his house this Saturday around noon. He is going to be in his full on "Bar-b-Que" mode and he wanted me to be there specifically.


Because he has been aware for years that I have never met a grilled steak, slab, shank, flank, hunk, chunk, slice, cut, leg, roast, rib, breast, or thigh that could be found on any kind of critter that didn't set my gastrointestinal juices to rumbling like the Bloods and the Crips over a crack deal.


I told him that he could count on me to "hold my own" when it got down to grabbing growling, chomping and chewing on the wide variety of meats, and tasty meat by-products that he was threatening to unleash. On the mostly unsuspecting digestive tracts of his blood relations and low rent buddies.


I'm not bragging, but I have been diagnosed as being an incurable "meat-a-holic."


And I love beer! What's even better is; "Beer loves me."

The fact is; "Beer loves me so much, that I never pick up beer. Beer picks me up. (It's the liquor picker upper!)


I can be moseying, or meandering my way down the highway, road, or goat path of life and all of a sudden, my forward progress is blocked by some vivaciously friendly Saint Paulie Girl.


She's holding one of those Oktoberfest 256 ounce pitchers, full of the kind of beer than goes down as smooth as honeydew vine water. And if you chug the whole pitcher at once, (and who the hell wouldn't?) it comes back up as sweet and as smooth as it went down.


Now that's beer!


I never refuse. I mean Sweet Jesus in a nudie bar! How could I?


You've seen her, I'm sure. Leaning over to pour you a taste. Filling up some "Stien-o-saurus Rex" container all the way to the top.


As you watch this wonderful sight, an even more wonderful sight over rides the "keep your eyes on the beer" part of the brain. Replacing it with commands from the "Sweet Jesus with a tittie fetish" part of the brain.


What exactly, you ask, could possibly over ride such a completely hardwired into the psyche brain command such as the "keep eye on beer" one is?


I'll tell you what! Two of the most milky white, ample to the tenth power, flawless breasts that have now poured themselves all the way to the top of her overwhelmed, and undersized blouse.


A blouse that is so low cut to begin with, that the only portion of these mouth watering perfectly fashioned ear protectors that isn't visible, is the tiny mole underneath the firm fold of her mammalian magnificence.


Not visible that is, until even the high grade steel cable straps of her custom made bra simultaneously suffer "catastrophic structural failure."


Each one of these portable suspension bridges was designed and built by some of the world's best structural engineers. Dedicated men that did their post graduate work in the field of "mega-boob dynamics" at the highly respected University of T&A. At the main campus in "Boulder" Colorado.


Alas! There are some forces of nature that man will never completely overcome.


But why oh why does this have to be one of them?


There is some good news that results from this tragic, and yet strangely wonderful upheaval.


Which is this;


It takes months, for a crack team of some the best boob men to be found anywhere, working around the clock, to build another harness, that for a little while, if she doesn't lean over, will be able to harness what is essentially unharness able.


Which is fine by me 'cause once you've seen them beauties, the first thought that runs through your head is that every one on the planet that is intent on restraining what neither God, Man, or even the "cloven hoofed one" ever dreamed of making captive, should at the exact same moment, have a fatal "accident".


And if we all stick together on the "fatal accident" story, there's no tittie hating jury on earth that's gonna be able to prove a thing!


Sure they'll suspect, but they'll be pounding sand if we just stick to the; "It was a series of simultaneous fatal accidents. It's a real shame" Game plan.


So as you see.


I've had beer. Beer has had me.


But I never pick up the beer.

Trixie the inflatable doll moves uptown!

Trixie has recovered from her addiction to "fix a flat" and has moved uptown.


I see by the photo that "Trixie" has moved uptown.


At least that was her name when she used to be the go to regular, "hospitality hostess" at the annual International gathering of the Computer Dweebs Convention.


I've uhhm, never been to the "gathering" myself.


Alright, I've read about it. And there were lots of pictures, graphs and scary warnings from some guy in Atlanta, with a weird username? C.D.C?


I mean, at first I was afraid that it was like some; "Charlie Daniels Cult" or "Crazy Demonic Choirboys" gathering. Because I had enough problems at that time in my life without having to learn all the words to "The Devil went down to Georgia". (see how I hog-tied that Atlanta clue to the CDC thing.)


And their wasn't no way in Hell I was gonna be singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" A Capella in Castrato! Hell No!


But upon reading further, I realized that it was just a bunch of computer wonks that made good on their sacred oath, as "Brother Dweebs" to remove themselves from the pasty glare of their computer screens, for at least one weekend each year.


And Dweebs or not, from what the videos of last years convocation of the faithful, that were posted on youtube revealed was that these boys, to the last pimply faced man/child amongst them, all "knew" Trixie. In what you would call the biblical sense, except that I don't remember reading about no blow up dolls in the Good Book.


And believe you me, them boys brought several cases of "fix-a flat" for Trixie last year. And that girl was flat out (no pun intended) strung out on that stuff! I mean she was main lining it! Sweet Jesus in rehab! That's gotta be bad for the poor thing! She was going through one tube after another by the second night. It kept her going for a little while, then she would just collapse.


I mean it was like someone just let all the air out of a tire or something.


On the last day of the convention, some of the Dweebs tried to get an "intervention" going. Then somebody found a half of a case of fix-a-flat stuffed under the bed. Right then and there, the whole intervention thing went out the window. Followed less than a minute later by Trixie! She couldn't take it anymore!


I mean Sweet Jesus on the nicotine patch! It happened so fast! It was almost as if she "flew" out the window.


Evidently, two sick bastards, the Lionel twins, had stashed the tubes, some glue and rubbers (patches) there. They had been acting all big shotty recently. Because they had just inherited their daddy's toy train empire. (Running trains is all these boys enjoy doing ) and from the looks of things they was gonna have themselves a little private soiree, (that's french for get some)


That was the last that anyone had seen of Trixie. Until you posted her photo on your blog.


I'm glad that she has gotten her self cleaned up. And it would appear from the photo that you posted that she is finally in the company of some one who cares for the blow up doll that she is. And not just the air filled fantasy
floozy of their dreams.

Pitchmen, and the female grifters that love them.

                           

There are a lot of people that have expressed surprise that Billy Mays, the Infomercial King of cable TV fame was doing cocaine. Especially to such a long term degree that the coroner ruled that it had contributed to the heart disease that he expired from.


Most people attributed his drug use to his quasi celebrity status as the pre-eminent pitchman for various and sundry products of debatable usefullness and worth. And the attendant stresses of fronting his own reality TV show; The Pitchmen.


But I suspect that the origins of his drug usage had less to do with his place in the world as a man in his fifties, and more to do with his formative years in the pitchman trenches of higher education. Where glib double speak spieling and hypnotic pitch patter are fine tuned in the "make a killing" fields of middle America.  I'm speaking of course about our nation's state and county fairs.   Graduates of these hustler schools of conning rubes have "I love Robin Marks" tattooed on their soul for all eternity.

Except for the few that make it to the next level of societal sheep shearing, paid programming infomercials, most pitchmen remain minions and gophers of the carny barker bosses that are the seamy underbelly of midway mercantilers.

Most of these people will never be ready for prime time, as their penchants, and preferences run several degrees south of being merely pedestrian. Most likely due to their mostly being paid off for services rendered with drugs, fire crackers, switchblades, and sexual favors provided by midget hookers and the bearded lady. 





Errr....Or so I've heard.  Is my above description of pitchmen in general some what exaggerated?  Of course it is.  Do they not love like we do?

Well...Do they?

If they are cut, do they not bleed? Or just leak some oil based lubricant of a heartless selling machine?

If their outrageously marked up commodity price is undercut by another pitchman that dares to be even more unscrupulous than the original purveyor of something or other, won't he nut up, and beat a prostitute senseless, like the ShamWow! pitchman did, for not filing her canines down, before uhhh, going down? Apparently.

Their lineage is ancient, and just as manic. The loud shrieking, arms flaying rug merchants of the Casbah. That never met a rug they didn't like.
     

 The "cigars, cigarettes, tiparillo" pitch gals in pasties at the Copacabana. That were given a twenty dollar bill for a five cent cigar and told to "keep the change" because "It just seemed right." after Trixie, or Wanda leaned over to light your stogie, and your face was enveloped between her mammalian magnificence long enough to anesthetize your ability to calculate the difference between five cents, and twenty dollars.  

 The Traveling Medicine Show snake oil salesmen of the old west.
That rolled into small towns, and bucolic burgs preaching the gospel of Sister Henrietta's health infusing, ailment arresting, healing holy hooch. That was guaranteed to keep you so shit-faced that you thought you were healed long enough for these Prince of Darkness pitchmen to abscond with a good portion of the town folk's money, and one or two of their daughters.

They have gone by many names. Silver tongued devil. Barker. Huckster. Scammer. Liar. Thief. And "That's him sheriff!" Just to name a few.  There is always something of value to sell, that a man can turn a decent profit on. These retail scamps and scallywags avoid products like that as if their life depended on it.  And in the most basic of ways, there life does depend on steering clear of affordable, useful items. That is; Their life as mesmerizing, merchandisers of the blatantly over priced cornucopia of corny, and crappy kitch. That they obviously have imported directly from the junk dimension. Via mainland China.

There is only one legendary pitch man that springs to mind when talk turns round to the question; "Is there a decent paying life, and an honorable reputation after pitching crap for decades to unsuspecting rubes by the use of deceptive claims?  His name was Ed McMahon. Johnny Carson's signature sidekick for the long run. And like most people, I liked, and admired Ed during those golden years of his pitchman existence. When there was nothing to sell to the audience, or viewers, other than that he found everything that Johnny said to be immensely funny.

But sadly, like a dog returning to his own vomit, or a pitchman returning to the seventh hub of pitchman hell, (where damned pitchmen spend an eternity trying to carve tomatoes, and cantaloupes into artistic creations, but instead, they all resemble tortured souls) Ed dove back into the pitch black, metaphorically murky waters of slick, and slimy double speak spieldom.

His di was cast, his fate was sealed, and the wheels on his roller coaster ride to hell were greased when he formed an unholy Trinity alliance with the Dorian Gray cursed poster boy of ageless pitch, Dick Clark,

and the soulless Dark Lord that is computer generated, person specific mailing lists.

Faster than you can say; "Release the hounds of Hell!" Every man, woman, and child in the U.S.A. had several pounds of Publisher's Clearing House mailings proclaiming that; "You may already be a winner!" But you NEVER were!

No one that I ever knew ever won even the cheesy chaise lounge crap that they passed out as consolation prizes. Crap so pathetically cheap in quality that they bought a warehouse full of the stuff at rock bottom prices, after several babies, and elderly people were mangled, and strangled to death when the framework suffered catastrophic collapse at the precise moment that a person's neck was exposed, and ready to be mangled.

Every week. Every month. Every year. For many years, Ed, and Dick's face smiled up at you, from your kitchen, or coffee table. My mother, like millions of other elderly people bought over two thousand dollars worth of magazines a year for over ten years. She never read any of them. No one could convince her that her odds of winning were the same if she never bought a single magazine.
Without really saying so, (like all good pitch men) Ed, and Dick projected exactly the opposite. And mom trusted Ed, and Dick to give her the straight dope.

Ahhh Ed. You knew that there was great damage being done to millions of people that loved you. Trusted you. But you were a pitchman through, and through.  And you broke something in my Mother's heart that never healed. And she wasn't alone Ed. There were millions like her.


Which leads me to believe that you might find it impossible to "pitch one" across the plate when the great umpire in the sky says; "Play ball.  You are gonna have to do a lot better than; "It chops! It blends! It juliennes! It purees! It is a magical little gadget that saves you time, money, and aggravation! Sorry, due to an extremely limited supply, we can only let you order twelve at a time!" 

Much better.

To dream the impossible dream of becoming the Tidy Bowl Man!

A Tidy Bowl Man applicant during the difficult "Lost at sea in a leaky vessal" stage of the vetting process.


MisterTrue thinks to himself...


Who wouldn't labor happily for years in the porcelain fields of America's unknown, and unsanitary discussion forum bathrooms? Sustained only by the dream of someday being the Tidy Bowl Man?


To be the captain of your own vessel. If not your own fate.


Like Captain Kirk, circleing below Ur-anus, or someone elses, searching for; "Cling-ons" that must be dealt with.


To scour the very edges of some urinary universe!


From the yellow stained rim-worlds, at the top of the porcelain portal, right on down into the depths of the Black-Hole/Worm-Hole.


Where all matter within this ceramic water-world eventually does a slow motion, downward spiraling, death dance, before it is eventually sucked into...


Mystery of mysteries...


Where does it go from there?


Some realms are best left un-explored.


But everything above that mysterious fecal/focal point of egress, right on up to the open skies, and full moons of what lies beyond the top of this ceramic cosmos, make up the realm that Tidy Bowl Man is King of.


And yes I know know that into every life a little (or a lot) of rain must fall.


But Tidy Bowl Man is smiling, if not "singing in the rain" because his yellow, water-proof slicker, and "Northeaster" hooded cap protects him from the elements!


Only the Gorton Fisherman is afforded the same level of bright yellow protection while navigating the reaches of his stormy watered sea.


I can almost hear Robert Goulette singing;


"For one brief shining moment..."
(How did he hit those high notes, night after night?)


Yes, to actually dream of being the Tidy Bowl Man is an; "Unreachable Star."


But I will continue to row my happy ass in that direction, until they pry my cold dead hands off of the oars of that there dream my friends.

The most amazing faux foot!

I recently had a cyber conversation with this guy who
e-mailed me this picture of a hollowed out foot that he
used to hide his bottle of "Who hit John?" from his wife in.


I immediately saw that this fake foot had the potential to hot wire reality on a much grander scale than this guy could comprehend.


At which time, I e-mailed him my offer of 100 dollars in exchange for clear title to this flat-footed vehicle of conveyance, that was capable of transporting more than just my physical self down the road, or as I envisioned using it, through the custom lines of life.


Below, you will find a copy of my offer.


As of this date, I still haven't received a response to my offer. Also, a few days after I sent my request, his e-mail site was closed. I wish that I could locate him again. I'd double my initial offer.


I must have that foot!


***********************************************************


Hello inthebag,


Thanks for the heads-up, and picture of that amazing little "now ya see it. Now ya don't" alcohol dispensing appendage that you managed to acquire.


I could use that there little baby to add some fun, and excitement to my worthless, dead end, downward spiral of a life.


So if you could find it within yourself to take pity on an old man, and what is left of his squandered existence, please let me buy that five toed, technological wonder from you.


I figure that you could probably use some drinking money, being the lush that you are. And I am willing to give you 100 dollars, in exchange for that ankle attachment of yours. That's enough cash to fully subsidized you continued round the clock black out for at least another 3 or 4 days. Longer if you ration it wisely....


OK... Two days tops. But your gonna start shaking like a dog sh**ting peach pits if your blood to alcohol ratio dips too low. So let's just cut to the chase!


I don't need nothing, but I got to have that "secret agent" foot! I mean, Sweet Jesus in a customs line! That there little hollowed out appendage will be better off in my hands, or mouth, rather than running around loose. Or hopping around loose.


Anyway, let loose of that there foot! So I can start utilizing some of the amazing properties of such hi-tech wizardry!


Sure, I'm probably gonna run afoul of a few state and federal laws, accidentally of course. But Sweet Jesus with false bottom sandals! It would be a much bigger crime not to take this fabulous faux foot out on a shake down cruise at least.


Something simple, and easy, like me!


I'm ruminating the "downside/upside" ratio of bringing some duty free tequila, firecrackers and switchblades back from Tijuana.


Hell! If there's something more red white and blue, all American wonderful than some quarter stick of dynamite M-80's, exploding in a room full of drunken underage hooligans, each armed with his own razor sharp, spring loaded nine inch pig sticker, I've never been charged with it!


I mean where's the harm? The cops are most likely gonna show up and confiscate all of the "door prizes" before any fingers are lost, or eyeballs are blown out of their sockets. Which is my point exactly! It isn't about carnage, or months of painful physical rehab to learn how to live without something you can't live without.


Oh no! It's about the potential for such a catastrophic injury being "factored into" the casual anti-social get together, that kids these days insist on having come Hell or High water.


Which is why I have updated that aging "gangsta" mantra; "Don't hate the playa. Hate the game." My new and improved gangsta mantra for the year 2,000, and beyond, (which is gonna be on us people, before you know it!) is; "Don't hate the playa. Don't hate the game. Hate the illegal receiver down field. Then "penalize" his ass!


So inthebag, my man! Please send that "what's in the foot?" faux foot my way post haste.


You can mail it to:


That's not mine.
123 #321 (corner of walk and don't walk)
Oxnard, Calif.
zip code: oh, oh, oh, oh, oh


I'm thinking that to "throw off" whoever might use their x-ray vision, or super hero psychic abilities on this package while in transit, please, please, PUHLEASE! Send it this way in anything other than a shoe box!


Myself, and a large number of anti-social, underage drunks are counting on you!

Nigerian riches soon to be mine!

From: Mikey
To: Suzy


Hey Suzy,

In the last two weeks I have recieved five internet offers. Each one was from an individual that desired to make me the recipient of a bodaciously huge sum of cash.

Three of these offers were from various Nigerian bank employees. Men with larceny in their hearts. Who were looking for the same among folks in the good old USA.

Starting with; Dr. Ramadan Abdu. Who is, or was until recently, (I'll get to that part in a minute) the; "bill and exchange manager" of the; "African Development Bank."
Dr. Ramadan Abdu is; "Trusting to hear from you. (me) immediately."

As he has "found" a 30 million dollar account that was abandoned!

All of which is in good old American greenback denominations!

Suzy, it gets better! This truckload of cash was just laying around somewhere in or near the bank's; "bill and exchange" department.

A pile of dead presidents that was just begging to be given to some stranger. For a mere 40 percent of the "out of coutry" take. (He sounded pretty damn desperate, so I'm thinking that I can wear him down until he agrees to 25 percent.)

I was still chewing the fat off of this here tasty offer when I get another e-mail offer from the Nigerian B of A!

No, it wasn't the "Bank of America," which was what I thought it was at first, but the; "Bank of Africa!"

Which to my way of thinking, (and I'll do my best someday to try and explain to you exactly how that process works) is a lot better than just "The Bank of Nigeria." I mean, for Chrise sakes Suzy, this is the Bank for the whole damn African continent!

Mr. George Williams, the; "bill and exchange manager" of; "B of A" had located another COMPLETELY DIFFERENT ACCOUNT! containing the; "abandoned sum of 30 million U.S. dollars" that he wants to hook me up with!

Now my mind is chewing on two huge meaty, fatty, tasty, greasy, gobs of some kind of; "African roadkill surprise." And two of such is a feast for any man's mind to masticate his way through.

When; KA-BOOM! The Hat Trick; "Mother of all internet offers of outrageous finacial fortunes, that are yours for the taking," arrives in my inbox.

A Mr. Ellis Lee, who also works at the African Development Bank. And is also the; "bill and exchange manager" there, had an; "offer" for me.

Which made me wonder if Dr. Ramadan Abdu was caught doing the "Nigerian two step" with the 30 million dollar account that he was going to send my way. Leaving an opening in the; "bill and exchange department," that Mr. Lee had the good fortune to be assigned to.

I use the term; "good fortune" because Mr.Lee no sooner has the job, title, and access to the banks; "letters of account" and WHAMO! He roots out another 11 million dollar abandoned account!  Like one of those truffle sniffing porkers from France that ferrets out those tasty fungi!

Obviously, Mr. Lee was plugged into the same mysterious; "mumbo jumbo, chili gumbo, whodoo, voodoo, hey you, who gnu?" energies that seem to be highly concentrated in, or around the; "bill and exchange" departments of Nigerian banking institutions.

The cosmic synergies that are a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, and covered with a spicy chipolte sauce, once again conjured up my name as the person that all these millions sitting in abandoned Nigerian bank accounts should be sent to.  Can it any longer be denied, (with a straight face) that; "God has my back?"

I must be sucking all the luck out of the known universe for two complete strangers, that are both from Nigeria, who have both; "located; run accross; discovered; and or; became aware of" two entirely different abandoned accounts that had 30 million in US buckaroos in them.

And then have another Nigerian in the know, toss towards my mind's already full hands and mouth, another 11 million dollar gob of meaty, chewy, greasy, fatty, rib of roadkill. Right off the grill.

That's 71 million Suzy!  The Trifecta of internet offers of robber baron type wealth!

I can finally get that 21 foot long, fiberglass bass boat! (And an extra set of oars!)

What are the odds! 

Never mind. I don't want to cheapen the magic of this moment with sound mathmatics, or basic applications of logic and reason!

Even more amazing, all three of these fine upstanding, hardworking bank employees with larceny coursing through their veins, have picked me to be the recipient of their grossly mispelled offer!

Choosing me, I am sure in some cosmic coniption fit connection, a la; "bury the chicken bone, kismet, whodoo, juju, coo coo ca choo Mrs. Robinson" mannner that us; "Westerners" will never understand.

It's one of those beautiful, inscrutable, imuteable, lootable, not suitable for children, or anyone else who isn't suffering from the last stages of alzheimers type offers.

One of those cosmic mysteries that occassionaly work there way up under the skin of a person's reality.

Usually to lay their innumerable in number eggs. That in a few short weeks will hatch into a hellish legion of voraciously hungry something or others. That will then perform upon your body the insectile equivalant of Shermans; "scorch and burn" march on Atlanta. Which if you remember, was during the; "Civil," but none the less, quite deadly; "War."

But not this time! No way Jose!

I figure that at least one, and possibly two of these offers have the potential of an exponential to the tenth power payout.

But as you can see, with both of my mental hands, as well as my mind's mouth, full to the choking point with; "Fresh from the grill, Nigerian Roadkill Riches" I'm in need of a little help.

I could use your finely honed, and razor sharp analytical bonafides as concerns this matter. To help me navigate the byzantine intricacies of counter-scamming a Nigerian internet scammer.

Not that I think that this is a real possibility, in these three particular instances.

But I didn't fall off of a turnip truck. Let alone last night.

It was a rutabaga truck. And that was years ago.

Get back to me on this one Suzy.

I think we've finally latched onto a real live opiated pipe dream!

I will tell you about the two; "notifications" that I recieved from the; "Irish Sweepstakes" - Claims Department.

You won't believe how much I have won!
Mikey