From: Elaine Masters [mastelaine@gmail.com]
To: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
Date: Tue, Mar 17, 2008 at 5:31 PM
Subject: My Honest Desire
Hello,
I am Elaine Masters now undergoing medical treatment for cancer. I am married to Dr. David Masters who worked with United Kingdom Embassy for ten years before he died in the year 2002.
Before my Husband died, we both made a deposit of a total sum $8.6M in a financial company here in U.K. Recently, my Doctor told me that I have few months to live due to cancer problem. Having known my condition I have decided to donate this fund to an honest Person. who will be trusted to assist me in my last desire to help the poor and the sick through charity.
Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I stated herein. Hoping to hear from you. Remember to send your response to this email address: mastelaine@gmail.com
In His Arms.
Mrs. Elaine Masters
***
From: Smokey R [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
To: Elaine Masters [mastelaine@gmail.com]
Date: Tue, Mar 17, 2008 at 5:33 PM
Subject: Re: Your Honest Desire
Dear Mrs. Elaine Masters,
Thank you for contacting me with your offer to donate $8.6 million to me. I'm sure there are a lot of people out there who wouldn't know quite how to respond to such an offer, or who might think that someone sending an unsolicited email offering to give $8.6 million to a stranger is too good to be true. Fortunately for you, I have a great deal of experience accepting huge random donations from people with limited functional English knowledge who have never met me.
So let's do this.
I'm sure the easiest way to arrange the transfer would be for me to forward my bank account information, including PIN numbers and online passwords and whatnot. But that's just what they'll be expecting us to do. So here's what I'm thinking instead: if you can arrange to get the $8.6 million in $20 bills, I will send you 430,000 stamped business envelopes, and you can mail the Jacksons to me one at a time.
I know this plan might seem inefficient and somewhat costly, but trust me when I tell you that you do not want the tax-related hassle of writing me a check, or directly depositing the funds into one of my many bank accounts. Too many questions. Too much paperwork. Too many sticky entanglements with the law. Too much marshmallow on my fluffernutter.
Besides which, I'm the one doing you a favor anyway. I'm not talking about assisting you in your last desire to help the poor and the sick through charity, I'm talking about the other favor I'm doing for you, which is to spare you the burden of being rich anymore. I'm sure you'll agree that this economic climate is not exactly hospitable to people who have lots of money. Why, just yesterday, Senator Charles Grassley (R-Iowa) called for fatcat AIG executives who approved bonuses to their Financial Products division to either resign or commit suicide. Suicide! Just for being rich!
It's times like this when you have to ask yourself what the point of the American dream is. Well, not you, since you're apparently in U.K. Also because you have cancer problem and will be dead soon.
Anyway, the money. Let me know if my plan is acceptable to you, or if you have a different suggestion about how to get me the money. I say "different suggestion" and not "better suggestion" because honestly, I don't see how you can top my 430,000-envelope idea. But go ahead and try if you want to, chuckle chuckle chuckle.
Yours in song,
Smokey Robinson.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
And now, an offer for FreshDirect...
Dear FreshDirect:
You did it!
I am so excited and so proud of you for finally managing to deliver me my eggs without cracking any of them in the course of said delivery. I admit, I was less than optimistic when I opened up the box and saw one of the egg cartons lying on its side. Oh no, I thought. Here we go again.
Actually, that's not exactly what I thought. My inner monologue tends to be a great deal more profane than that. I think it's because one of my personalities is a sailor who swears like, well, a sailor, frankly. What I actually thought was, oh fucking no. Here we fucking go fuck a-fuck-gain. Fuck.
Please excuse the language. Also, please excuse the low expectations. (My sailor personality is also very jaded about 21st century customer service. Sorry.) I'm just being honest here, though, which I hope will give you greater insight into the FreshDirect customer experience, which, believe me, can be a profanity- and pessimism-inducing experience even if you don't have an alternate personality with a maritime background and a bitter streak.
Anyway, I just wanted to compliment you on finally getting the egg thing right. This is the third time I've ordered eggs from you, FreshDirect, but it's only the first time I've actually gotten all the eggs I ordered intact. Both of the other times, various amounts of egg breakage in my orders have resulted in my account being credited for the full value of all the eggs. In other words, I have not yet actually paid for a single egg.
Until today. And believe me when I tell you that I am fucking happy to do so.
As a matter of fact, I even feel kind of guilty, probably because one of my other personalities is an abusive parent with an overdeveloped sense of remorse. I feel guilty about everything.
But I especially feel guilty about having eaten so many free eggs. So, FreshDirect, in the spirit of quid pro quo (Is there a spirit of quid pro quo? What does that even mean?), I'd like to credit you $5.00 on my next order. If you could please just add a random $5.00 charge - not in return for a product, not for a service, but just because I asked you to - I would be very much obliged. It's my way of saying, "good job, fucking FreshDirect! Thank you for all the free goddamn eggs. Oh, and I'm sorry I hit you - please don't tell your mother."
Yours truly,
Smokey Robinson.
You did it!
I am so excited and so proud of you for finally managing to deliver me my eggs without cracking any of them in the course of said delivery. I admit, I was less than optimistic when I opened up the box and saw one of the egg cartons lying on its side. Oh no, I thought. Here we go again.
Actually, that's not exactly what I thought. My inner monologue tends to be a great deal more profane than that. I think it's because one of my personalities is a sailor who swears like, well, a sailor, frankly. What I actually thought was, oh fucking no. Here we fucking go fuck a-fuck-gain. Fuck.
Please excuse the language. Also, please excuse the low expectations. (My sailor personality is also very jaded about 21st century customer service. Sorry.) I'm just being honest here, though, which I hope will give you greater insight into the FreshDirect customer experience, which, believe me, can be a profanity- and pessimism-inducing experience even if you don't have an alternate personality with a maritime background and a bitter streak.
Anyway, I just wanted to compliment you on finally getting the egg thing right. This is the third time I've ordered eggs from you, FreshDirect, but it's only the first time I've actually gotten all the eggs I ordered intact. Both of the other times, various amounts of egg breakage in my orders have resulted in my account being credited for the full value of all the eggs. In other words, I have not yet actually paid for a single egg.
Until today. And believe me when I tell you that I am fucking happy to do so.
As a matter of fact, I even feel kind of guilty, probably because one of my other personalities is an abusive parent with an overdeveloped sense of remorse. I feel guilty about everything.
But I especially feel guilty about having eaten so many free eggs. So, FreshDirect, in the spirit of quid pro quo (Is there a spirit of quid pro quo? What does that even mean?), I'd like to credit you $5.00 on my next order. If you could please just add a random $5.00 charge - not in return for a product, not for a service, but just because I asked you to - I would be very much obliged. It's my way of saying, "good job, fucking FreshDirect! Thank you for all the free goddamn eggs. Oh, and I'm sorry I hit you - please don't tell your mother."
Yours truly,
Smokey Robinson.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
Conversations with Jesus about People Our Age: Alex Rodriguez
This is the year that yours truly, Smokey Falafel Robinson, the Motown Marauder himself, turns 33 years old. Now, some of the skeptics out there will say, "hey Smokey, that's impossible," or "hey, Smokey, you're a liar," or "come on, Smokey, quit stealing my gummi bears," citing the following evidence:
1. "Shop Around," my first chart-topper, was released in 1960,
2. According to my wikipedia page - I mean, birth certificate - I was born in 1940.
3. I have, in fact, been stealing gummi bears.
But what those skeptics do not know is that I was actually born on a small island named "Lost," which is the same island where they currently film the ABC documentary of the same name. So while it may seem impossible, trust me when I tell you that, as hard as it may seem to believe, I am only as old as Jesus was when He croaked.
Speaking of Jesus (a Friend of the blog, by the way), we here at YATOPNRTB managed to get Him to take a little bit of time out of His Busy Schedule to chat with us about some other luminary personalities who are celebrating their year of Crucifixion, only without the crucifixion part.
First up is Alex Rodriguez.
Alex, or "A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media," is a baseball player for the New York Yankers, or so we are told. And A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media has been having something of a rough go of it lately, ever since his fourth-favorite Chihuahua, Calcetin, died of a poison-related illness some weeks ago that I swear to Zod I know nothing about. To a lesser extent, A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media has been dogged by recently confirmed rumors that he is of Hispanic descent - something that would be hard for anyone to get over. (Right, Mom?)
Jesus and I sat down with A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media over a cold glass of steroid juice and some Growth Hormone sandwiches, which are a specialty of Jesus's.
Unfortunately, because of an unexpected wizard's duel between Jesus and A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media, and a memory charm that shot off sideways, I am unable to reprint the happenings of that meeting, because I can't remember them. But suffice it to say that it's probably not a good idea to say to Jesus that "at least I wasn't crucified, Dude," no matter how hard Jesus is laughing at your misfortune. Something to keep in mind next week when we sit down with Tiger Tiger Tiger Woods, y'all.
1. "Shop Around," my first chart-topper, was released in 1960,
2. According to my wikipedia page - I mean, birth certificate - I was born in 1940.
3. I have, in fact, been stealing gummi bears.
But what those skeptics do not know is that I was actually born on a small island named "Lost," which is the same island where they currently film the ABC documentary of the same name. So while it may seem impossible, trust me when I tell you that, as hard as it may seem to believe, I am only as old as Jesus was when He croaked.
Speaking of Jesus (a Friend of the blog, by the way), we here at YATOPNRTB managed to get Him to take a little bit of time out of His Busy Schedule to chat with us about some other luminary personalities who are celebrating their year of Crucifixion, only without the crucifixion part.
First up is Alex Rodriguez.
Alex, or "A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media," is a baseball player for the New York Yankers, or so we are told. And A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media has been having something of a rough go of it lately, ever since his fourth-favorite Chihuahua, Calcetin, died of a poison-related illness some weeks ago that I swear to Zod I know nothing about. To a lesser extent, A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media has been dogged by recently confirmed rumors that he is of Hispanic descent - something that would be hard for anyone to get over. (Right, Mom?)
Jesus and I sat down with A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media over a cold glass of steroid juice and some Growth Hormone sandwiches, which are a specialty of Jesus's.
Unfortunately, because of an unexpected wizard's duel between Jesus and A-Rod, as he is sometimes referred to in the media, and a memory charm that shot off sideways, I am unable to reprint the happenings of that meeting, because I can't remember them. But suffice it to say that it's probably not a good idea to say to Jesus that "at least I wasn't crucified, Dude," no matter how hard Jesus is laughing at your misfortune. Something to keep in mind next week when we sit down with Tiger Tiger Tiger Woods, y'all.
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