Dick is in the box

I still have a few senators who still haven't received letters.

But we are in the homestretch.

This week's Thursday Thrashing letter goes to North Carolina's Richard Burr.

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12.27.2018

Russell Senate Office Building, 

217 Constitution Ave NE, 

Washington, DC 20510

Dear Senator Burr,

Or do you prefer Richard Burr?

Or the more colloquial, Dick Burr?

Senator, I don't know if you've noticed this, but you and many of your colleagues, Boozman, Crapo and Blunt, have some strange surreally appropriate surnames.

I know this because I have been writing letters to each and every Republican US Senator as part of a my own personal mission. It goes without saying that I have taken great joy pointing out the foibles and failures of the upper house.

It's like shooting fish in a barrel.

Flat fish, like flounder or halibut.

Flat dead fish that don't move or show any signs of brain function.

You walk those underground tunnels and maybe even share a chicken salad sandwich with these folks at the congressional commissary, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

But I'm going to afford you something I haven't made available to any of your senatorial coworkers -- the light touch.

I'm going to go easy on you, Dick.

For one thing, it's only a couple of days past Christmas. And though I don't officially celebrate the holiday, I do enjoy the downtime and the opportunity to indulge in some day drinking. Particularly when there's a bottle of Noah's Mill bourbon within sneezing distance.

The other reason, and this one is far more disturbing and such an anomaly that it has quite frankly thrown me for a loop, you've actually done something right.

By most accounts you and your Democratic partner Senator Warner, have run a truly bipartisan Senate Intelligence Committee.

I like to think I play fair and that, in these contentious times, is something. I'm sure Congressman Devin Nunes, your house counterpart, is jealous. Actually, I don't think that clueless soap dish of a man can even spell bipartisan.

And just last week you did what heretofore seemed impossible from someone of your stripe. You put country before party and submitted to the Special Counsel's office a list of witnesses you now suspect lied before your committee.

Hit me in the face with a hot waffle iron.

I never thought I'd see the day.

In light of all that, I'm going to leave this letter on a pleasant note and wish you a Happy New Year.

I'm also giving fair warning to next week's letter recipient. There's a good chance I'm going to go off on him or her like an angry, defective Russian-made knockoff pressure cooker.

Best,

Rich Siegel

siegelrich@mac.com

Culver City, CA 90232

I love brown people

I took this picture months ago at my local Pavilions supermarket. It was about lunchtime and this mariachi band was on break enjoying the latest in Asian cuisine from Panda Express.

"Este es Kung Pao Pollo es muy bueno."

"Me gusta los lo mein noodles."

"Que dice su cookie de fortuna?"

I love that the band shared in the irony and so willingly let me photograph them. I also love how this one shot so captures the blending of cultures that define American Exceptionalism.

At least until now.

Because as I write this, the government is still shutdown until a great big beautiful Wall is built on the southern border.

Oh, and it's Christmas morning, and the nation's faithful are basking in the warm, loving words of scripture while simultaneously tithing their paychecks to fund the Wall and angrily demand that we not only deny entrance to these poor, brown refugees (fellow Christians by the way) but that we snatch up their children and lock them away in camps.

WTF!

When Precedent Shitgibbon kicked off his campaign he said, "Mexico is sending us criminals, rapists and drug dealers. And some, I assume, are fine people."

I've had the good fortune to meet only the fine people.

When I moved to Southern California, I got work as a head cook and kitchen manager at a local steakhouse. The guys at the back of the house taught me Kitchen Spanish. We would curse at each like drunken sailors. And laugh just as loud. Valentino, the sous chef, taught me how to roast a whole pig, which we served at catered events, mostly wrap parties for movies. These guys were skinny, wiry, and hummingbird quick. Moreover, they worked harder than any white man or woman I've ever met. If you ask me, this country needs more of these people not less.

Years ago, while employed at my first ad agency, I was invited to an authentic Mexican wedding in Pacoima. There were more than 500 attendees. The affair dwarfed anything I've ever seen in New Jersey or New York.  I hate to make sweeping generalizations like Captain Fuckknuckle, but from what I could tell these were hardworking, joyous people who were contributing to and were part of the American dream. (Though I was not fond of the cash bar and dropped a C-note before it was over.)

Finally, I'm taking the advice of my two woke daughters and not mentioning the many gardeners and nannies we've had over the years. But instead broadening the discussion to cover the whole of Southern California which is now close to 50% Hispanic. Some, find that alarming. I find it comforting and count many Hispanic people among my friends and neighbors.

Therein lies the difference.

I see them as people.
The folks sporting the red golf caps see them as something less.

Perhaps, on this fine Christmas morning, they need to be reminded of other poor, brown people who only wanted a better life for their children.

What are the odds?

Meet Louisiana's junior Senator, Bill Cassidy.

He's the recipient of Thursday Thrashing Letter #37.

I think it's 37. It's getting up there.

Enjoy.

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12.20.2018

Senator Bill Cassidy

520 Hart Senate Office Building

Washington, DC 20510 

Dear Bill,

Bless you Senator.

Finding you was like hitting the Etymological Jackpot.

Allow me to explain. Several months ago I set out on a mission to write letters to each of the Republican US Senators. While picking one off week by week, I noticed a weird phenomena. You see many of your colleagues sport illustrative names that are apropos to what a Republican Senator in 2018 should be.

For instance, there's Senator Crapo.

For another instance, there's Senator Boozman.

Let's not forget Senator Blunt.

Nor Senator Flake.

Last week I wrote to Senator Moran. (see accompanying picture.)

You see where this is going, right Bill? 

Most intriguing however was the number of Republican senators who lived up to their name in the most form fitting way possible:

Senator GrASSley

Senator BarASSo

Senator SASSe

That's the holy trifecta of ASShattery. 

Or so I thought. Because then I stumbled upon you. And judging from your distinguished record of non-achievement, I suspect stumbling is how most people find you.

But in ways too many count I am so happy that considering the plethora of ass-happy senators, you Senator CASSidy were the one I found last. Sort of like saving that best piece of chocolate-frosted cake for the end.

I took the liberty of running down your bio on Wikipedia. 

You can just imagine my delight when I read about your life in the great state of Louisiana and that before you were in public service, you were in the service of private parts. 

More specifically, you were an accredited gastroenterologist.

You were literally in the Ass Business. 

Or is it the Business of Ass?

Color me amused.

Between the daily antics of Precedent Shitgibbon and the assbackwards enabling by you and your asinine Vichy-minded colleagues, you have all secured quite a special place in the annals of history. 

I'll leave it right there, Senator, as I feel a sudden urge to wash my hands.

Best,

Rich Siegel

siegelrich@mac.com

Culver City, CA 90232

PS. Let there be no mistake, I fully recognize the juvenile and sophomoric nature of this missive. Let it also be noted for the record that in the last month your president has referred to a woman he bedded down as a "horseface", called a US attorney a "sleazebag" and a US Senator, a "dick." If you want to blame anyone for the coarsening nature of the current political climate I suggest you look up the street towards the fusty, knotty-pated, mewling hedgepig who resides at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. 

For your safety

Today's blog posting that spoofed Russia and Russian dating sites has been removed so as not to offend or do deadly harm to anyone.

We will return tomorrow.

Hopefully with kid-friendly comedy and satire that will not incur any damage.

Warm regards,

Management

The Wild, Epic Tales of Gilgamesh and Dorothy Parker

As I might have mentioned a few weeks ago, I'm trying to do a lot more reading. Not just of the NY Times and the Washington Post, but of the classics.

And so I turned to the most learned man I know on the topics of books, reading and writing, my friend and fellow blogger George Tannenbaum. Like me, George was born in the Bronx. So he is not only wise to the way of the writer, he's wise to the way of the street.

That is to say, he can be fancy but also fucking funny.

At the top of his all time reading list is a book called Gilgamesh. It's actually less of a book and more of an epic poem. To be frank, I had never heard of it. Nor did I have much interest in investing my valuable time, time away from online chess, Shitgibbon memes and banner ads for Harry's House of Catheters, to read poetry.

But I was wrong.
And I'm man enough to admit I was wrong.

The story of Gilgamesh is fascinating. Once I accommodated myself to the lyrical storytelling I found I could not put the book down. In fact, I gave myself an entire rainy afternoon to the tale and read it cover to cover.

There is something very pleasing in the discovery of a new writer. So much so that I indulged my curiosity and made further inquiry into the work of a writer I had heard much about. But of whom I knew so little -- Dorothy Parker.

I would often come across anecdotes or more likely, quips, from Ms. Parker, and always thought, "Damn, she has a sharp tongue and is so damn funny." 

So I visited her Wiki page.

You can imagine my surprise to find that Dorothy Parker was originally Dorothy Rothschild. Moreover, she was Jewish on her father's side and of Scottish descent on her mother's.

Just like me.

And I can tell you from exposure to both cultures, that is an extremely odd combination. With the possible exception of their legendary thriftiness and dark, cynical sense of humor, the Jews and the Scots could not be more dissimilar.

Nevertheless, I am proudly in the same gene pool as Dorothy Parker and Mark Knopfler. Not in the deep end of the pool. More like in that little gutter that runs along the walls and collects all the debris.  That's where I am.

Yesterday, the Amazon Prime guy showed up with my copy of The Portable Dorothy Parker, a collection of poems, satire and stories. It's literally 627 pages. And though I haven't had the opportunity to dive in yet, I will leave you with this telling sample:


THOUGHT FOR A
SUNSHINY MORNING

It costs me never a stab or squirm
to tread by chance upon a worm.
"Aha, my little dear, " I say
"Your clan will pay me back one day."

Freedom of Screech

Dear neighbor with the randomly-activated car alarm,
How blessed you must be to own a 2006 Toyota Camry.
Guard it at all costs,
Not many cars come with built in cassette player,
And cupholders, three.


Dear neighbor with the randomly-activated car alarm,
Thank you for letting the alarm do its deed.
By allowing it to sound for 13 minutes,
you protected your vehicle,
and every car on the street.


Dear neighbor with the randomly-activated car alarm,
What was I thinking, sleeping at 4 AM?
There's a woman on C-SPAN
fielding questions about internet spam.


Dear neighbor with the randomly-activated car alarm,
How lucky are we to have you nearby,
"But I didn't order ten pizzas",
you'll say to the delivery guy.


Dear neighbor with the randomly-activated car alarm,
I hope a small meteor falls on your house.
Not one big enough to hurt you,
Or your family,
No, 
actually I hope it does hurt you,
you rude, 
inconsiderate, 
self-absorbed fucktangle!!!

The crimes are getting bigger and the letters are getting longer

Me: No cheap jokes about his name.
Me: No cheap jokes about his name.
Me: No cheap jokes about his name.
Me: No cheap jokes about his name.
Me: No cheap jokes about his name.
Me: No cheap jokes about his name.
Me: No cheap jokes about his name.
Me: No cheap jokes about his name.
Me: No cheap jokes about his name.
Me: No cheap jokes about his name.

Here's your Thursday Thrashing letter to the junior representative from Kansas, Senator Jerry Moron.

DOH!

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12.13.18

Senator Jerry Moran

Dirksen Senate Office Bldg. #521

Washington, DC 20510

Dear Senator Moran,

Can you smell it Senator? 

I can smell it. 

65% of Americans can smell it. 

It's the sweet, fragrant aroma of retribution...er...I mean, impeachment.

Last week, your president (from this point forward to be referred to as Individual #1 or Clueless, Hogbellied Gudgeon #1 or Fusty, Fishbrained Twatwaffle #1) was named in a federal sentencing memo as an unindicted co-conspirator in the commission of criminal violations of Federal Election Campaign Laws.

That's not just a mouthful. That's a mind full.

Think about it Jerry, the Ill-tempered, Ill-informed Imbecile #1 sitting at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave., the schmuck who could, with one too many Diet Cokes and the flick of an undersized stubby finger, blow the planet to smithereens, is a legitimate criminal.

While you ponder that, let me explain that I've been writing letters to all 53 of the United States Republican Senators. You're number 36 or 37, to be honest, I've lost count. Sorry. 

But this letter is special. Why is this letter different from all the others? Well, for one thing, sometime in the near future this letter will be published, with all the others, in a book. And as a service to my readers I feel the need to mix things up.

So today, unlike previous letters to your colleagues, I'm not going to harangue you about all the shitty policies you've endorsed and or the fascist, hypocritical legislation you've supported.

You see this letter is not about what you've done. It's about what you will no doubt do.

And what makes me so prescient? I'm not. But you see Senator, not only are you exceedingly vanilla and excruciatingly uninspired, you are also painfully predictable.

Torturously so.

Therefore, to know how you will proceed with the upcoming impeachment trial for Captain Fuckknuckle #1, we need only to see how you voted in the impeachment hearing for a previous president, Bill Clinton.

And here's where it gets so interesting.

While you were a member of the House representing the great and scholarly state of Kansas, you unsurprisingly voted with the Republican majority to impeach Clinton for lying about his dalliances with Monica Lewinsky.

Not only were you quick on the draw to whip out the impeachment bomb, you, Senator Moran, felt the need to pile on and do a little grandstanding, telling a reporter from the Washington Post...

“Having to make a choice, I choose to be on the side that says no person is above the law; that this is a nation of laws, not men; that telling the truth matters; and that we should expect our public officials to conduct themselves in compliance with the highest ethical standards.”

Lordy, if that could all fit on T-shirt, I'd commit those beautiful, articulate, inspirational words to ink.

If I were to understand that correctly, I assume you would apply those same "high ethical standards", when it comes to time to judge He-Who-Consumes-No-Information-But-Buckets-of-Crispy-Kentucky-Fried-Chicken.

Because, let's be honest, banging a porn star and then doling out $130,000 (a week before the election) to hush the horsefaced one (his words, not mine) is certainly not kosher. Nor is money laundering, obstruction of justice or conspiring with Russkis to steal an American election.

Therefore it goes without saying and it's a simple slam-dunk that you will vote FOR impeaching the 45th Precedent of the United States of America. Right? Because you said, "no man is above the law" and that "telling the truth matters."

You said that.

But who are we kidding, Jerry? We both know, we all know, you're NOT going to do the right thing and vote for impeachment. You're simply not. I'd bet one of my two semi-functioning testicles on it. And here's why I'm so confident.

Like all Republican senators, your unwavering, unfathomable, and partisan, patriotism-free predictability is surpassed only by your equally predictable hypocrisy.

Have a nice day, Senator Hypocrite.

Rich Siegel

siegelrich@mac.com

Culver City, CA 90232

PS. I believe I am due some credit/points for my restraint and for not reaching for the easy joke by calling you Senator Moron, which I'm sure you've never heard before.

The Write Stuff

One of the joys of writing a blog, and I'm sure I will get concurrence on this from fellow bloggers like George Tannenbaum, Bob Hoffman and Laura Sweet, is the freedom.

I can write what I want.

When I want.

And with as many foul unspeakable words as I want.

As someone who is paid to put 'verbiage' on the page by advertising clients and agencies, this is never the case.

So today, I'm going to exercise that liberty and take a break from the ranting and raving and indulge in a little kvelling.

Much as I tried to discourage my daughters from following in my footsteps, it appears I have failed. My youngest, Abby, is currently studying Communications at Boulder and is set to graduate in May.

Recently she was told to sign out an expensive camera, hit the streets and photograph garbage or lost and found items. here are a few shots from her project.

Much as I like her photography and think she has a good eye, I like her dark, cynical and achingly funny writing even more.

She's a writer.

She just doesn't know it yet.

Skip Ads

My former boss, Lee Clow, once famously stated, "95% of the ads you see on TV are pure crap."

I would posit that in the age of the holding company, creative by committee, and the burgeoning world of digital media, the number is closer to 99%.

Perhaps we should not be surprised by this. These days it is not uncommon for a creative team to be briefed by a 27 year old planner at 10 AM, only to be revisited by that same pesky planner an hour later,

"Hey, do you have any scripts you want me to look at?"

Or, god forbid,

"If you'd like I can give you some thought-starters."

This disrespect and devaluation of the process goes a long way to explain the current dreck that populates our plasma screens. I'm looking at you GMC and that spoiled princess who learns her husband bought TWO trucks for Christmas and then immediately lays squatting rights on the bigger badder blacker truck.

But there's one commercial out there that really puts the tin foil in my chewing gum. Because this commercial commits the cardinal sin of putting the brief on celluloid. It runs all the time. Perhaps you've seen it.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"SOLVED"
:30

Open on a (man and a man) (man and a woman) (woman and a woman) (three white men and an African American/Asian/Hispanic man in a car) or (three white women and an African American/Asian/Hispanic woman in a car).

PERSON #1: I'd really like to but I have (insert problem here. eg. medical condition, home repair, bad credit, computer problem)

PERSON #2: Haven't you heard of (insert product or service that solves previously mentioned problem)

PERSON #1: (repeats name of product or service that solves previously mentioned problem) (This is what passes for branding)

PERSON #2: Oh sure. (repeats name of product or service/ more branding) With (repeats name again) I don't have to worry about (medical condition, home repair, bad credit or computer problems) anymore.

PERSON #1: (Name of product or service) does all that?

PERSON #2: Sure does. Best of all, it's (fast, free, convenient, easy, effective, long lasting, etc.)

AFRICAN AMERICAN/HISPANIC/ASIAN MAN/WOMAN: Gamechanger!

LOGO
NAME OF (product or service or dotcom) SUNG IN A CLOYING JINGLE

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's a shame that shit like this gets produced.

It's even more embarrassing that shit like this gets presented to clients.

If only there were people out there who had a solid track record of creativity and knew how to craft commercials people would actually want to watch.

A Day that will Live in Larceny

What a day yesterday was.

I say yesterday because while it is Monday (when you are reading this), it's Saturday (when I wrote this.) I write the entire week's blogs in one sitting on Saturday morning. Sometimes, between the typos, the non-sequiturs and the self immolating career anecdotes, that's painfully evident.

Nevertheless, let's get back to yesterday, December 7th, 2018. A day that will live in larceny.

A long time ago, Precedent Shitgibbon was a regular guest on the Howard Stern Show. This is while he was just a citizen grifter and sleazy fuckwaffle and not a presidential grifter and sleazy fuckwaffle. He once explained to Howard the dangers of the disco dating scene in New York City. And on describing the prevalent sexual disease and subsequent death, compared his experience to the experiences of soldiers who didn't have bone spurs.

"It's my own personal Vietnam", he said in his signature glib style.

If that was his Vietnam, yesterday was truly his Pearl Harbor.

It started with the stock market dropping close to 600 points. On top of the huge losses that happened earlier in the week. Normally I take no glee in the sudden loss of trillions of dollars of investor wealth. But since I largely divested myself of stocks and equities when this fishbrained gudgeon took office and because I know so much of his popularity is falsely tied to Wall Street performance, the precipitous drop was just the thing to put some pep in my step. #FuckTrump

That was just the beginning.

Rex Tillerson, the former Secretary of State who allegedly called the President of the United States a 'moron', all but confirmed the remark in an interview with CBS, claiming "he is undisciplined, doesn't like to read, acts on impulse and often tries to do things that are illegal."

Unable to restrain himself or accept honest criticism from one of his "Best People", he, the clueless, uncontrollable hedgehog, lashed out like a sullen teenage girl on Snapchat, calling the former Chairman of Exxon Mobil and engineer of multi multi-billion dollar international deals, "lazy", "lacking mental capacity" and "dumb as a rock." Willfully ignoring his own penchant for watching TV,  eating fast food, playing golf almost every weekend, and mistakenly assuming Frederick Douglass is among the living. #FuckTrump

And that was just the appetizer plate.

At 2PM, Robert Mueller, Republican, Thrice decorated Purple Heart Recipient Marine Commander and former FBI Director (confirmed by the Senate 98-0), rolled out a sentencing memo for Michael Cohen, the personal attorney to Precedent Shitgibbon. And in it, he asked for leniency. Why? Because Michael Cohen had made substantial contributions in the investigation of Russian "synergy" with the Trump campaign. Meaning Russian FSB intelligence officers had their hooks into the inner circle of the clueless clods now in charge of the free world. #FuckTrump

As if that were not enough, it was not.

Hours later, Bobby Threesticks dropped another sentencing memo on Paul Manafort, the former Chairman of the Shitgibbon campaign. In it, we find out about undisclosed contacts with Konstantin Kilimnick, a shady Russian intelligence operative working to secure the presidency for our beloved churlish, shrill-gorged canker-blossom. #FuckTrump

The day was capped with some incredibly good personal news about my formerly unemployed college graduate daughter that I've been instructed not to divulge.

Oh and I got booked on a last minute assignment that will have me working through the weekend.

Fridays don't get much better than that. #FuckTrump

Whip it good.

With the Michael Cohen guilty pleas, the General Flynn sentencing Memo and the daily denials of collusion despite evidence to the contrary, it's hard to keep up with non-Trumpian news. For instance, did you know that this twatwaffle was chosen to be the new Senate Majority Whip?

That's John Thune from the great state of South Dakota, a state that 83% of Americans can't find on a map.

I'm one of the 17% who could. So here's your Thursday Thrashing Letter.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

12.6.18

Senator John Thune

Dirkson Senate Office Bldg. #511

Washington, DC 20510

Dear Senator Thune,

Let me start by saying Mazel Tov.

It's my understanding that you have just been elected the new Senate Majority Whip, the second highest ranking among Republican Senators. You're replacing Senator Cornyn from Texas and you've wasted no time filling his shoes, finding the nearest microphone and immediately starting with the GOP Batshit Crazy.

Good on you, Senator.

And while we're at it, good for all your colleagues for their week in/week out nonstop parade of hubris and IBS-inducing Trump apologia. Just as a little background, I've made it my mission to hand write letters to all 53 of you Cro-Magnon bastards.

We're actually getting towards the end of the list, a position not unfamiliar to every South Dakotan. And for that matter, your equally forgettable neighbors to the North.

I did a little research and discovered that Sioux Falls, the largest city in South Dakota has a population of 185,000. Is that all? On any given Friday night, there are 190,000 people waiting to get a table at Tsujita Ramen on Sawtelle Blvd. If you go there Senator, don't bother with the Miso broth, go with the pork belly.

I don't want to spend my time taking cheap shots at the Mount Rushmore state.

I'd rather concentrate on the rock-headed interview you gave last week when it was divulged, by Michael Cohen, one of the president's legendary "Best People",  that Captain Fuckknuckle had been in active negotiations with Vladimir Putin while running for President of these United States.

Let that sink into the sedimentary grey matter lodged between your ears, Thuney.

Because to those of us with a functioning brain, it says he's been lying all along. Ok, that goes without saying. But in this case, he's been hyper-lying. How many times has he stood in front of a microphone or sat on the porcelain throne and under the haze of too many Diet Cokes, tweeted, "No Collusion"?

He was colluding.

Not just with Russian oligarchs or made men from the Russian Mafia, but with VTB (a sanctioned Russian bank no less) with direct ties to the Kremlin.

I'm not sure they teach geo-politics at North Bunghole University, where you got your Masters in Wheat and Plainscaping, but Russia is our adversary. Has been for close to a hundred years. And they have this force of cutthroat spies, now known as the FSB but formerly known as the KGB. In 1998, little Vladimir Putin was put in charge of Russian Intelligence.

In short, he's an evil mastermind. To be even shorter, you'd have to be raised on airplane glue, or a lunkhead from South Dakota, to believe Putin gave a rat's ass about some shoddy-built fleabag hotel sporting the Trump name high atop the Moscow skyline.

Putin did it to get his hooks into our own Precedent Shitgibbon.

Kompromat, Senator. Kompromat.

And yet, with these mind blowing revelations, on top of the growing mountain of evidence compiled by Mueller, a true patriot, you hunted down a reporter from Newsmax and said...

"I don't think that there has been anything that changes the landscape so to speak where the president is concerned."

As if that buffoonish jackassery weren't enough, you added that, "it was time to draw this Mueller investigation to a close."

A close, Senator? No.

There are many, many, many questions that have yet to be answered. Not the least of which is: Where do they find clueless clods like you?

Also, when you ran track in high school, did you ever find yourself on the errant receiving end of a shot put?

Best regards,

Rich Siegel

siegelrich@mac.com

Culver City, CA 90232

Illuminati (the Complete Boxed Set)

As many of you know, my adventure with Roland Kings, Illuminati handler to the stars, is over. He has stopped corresponding with me. And while that might sadden you, it surely saddens me.

As a service to faithful R17 readers, I have compiled the entire Illuminati saga into one excruciating long post.

Enjoy.

It started last week when I received a comment to a recent blog posting...

If you know me at all, you know I am fascinated by the Illuminati, Free Masons, the Trilateral Commission and the Bilderbergs. Mostly because at the root of all these nocturnal organizations is some classic thinly-veiled antisemitism.

So naturally, I responded...

Also naturally, because that's how these internet scams go, he responded...

I prefer to use the more convenient email interface...

He gleefully obliged...

Now, I'm getting excited....

Slow down grasshopper, there is still the important aplication(sp) to be filled out...

Holy shit this is getting good I thought. I'm receiving actual aplications from the Illuminati!

Roland is a smooth criminal and has an answer for everything...

And so I filled out the application...

I'm not sure I can string this out long enough to make another book, but I can amuse myself and hopefully you as well.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

   

Last time we spoke about this, I had just submitted my aplication to the Illuminati Recruitment Board and I was awaiting further instructions.

Roland Kings followed up my aplication with some more questions, which surprised me, They usually get to asking for money pretty quickly.

But as you'll see I'm game.

The whole Lucifer thing threw me, but not by much.

Having agreed to worship the Dark Lord, it seems I have passed all the tests and I'm ready to purchase the Illuminati Swag package.

There it is. The request for money. Now this shit starts getting fun.

And Roland doesn't miss a beat.

I have my hook sunk into his mouth.

The trick is to let out as much line as I can to string this thing out.

And we'll leave it there for now. But you should know the correspondence has been going back and forth. And I do plan on visiting a Western Union to send him some money. 

Stay tuned.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When we last spoke of the Illuminati I had just told Roland, my "handler", that I couldn't make the $299 payment he desired because of a family emergency.

I told him my dog, Mantu, had eaten a bunch of yeast, flour, sugar and water and was having baked bowel movements.

But business is business and Roland wants to get down to it.

With not just one admonition to pay up, but two.

I'm not about to send him money. Yet. So I break out the stall techniques, which are always better with some visual aids.

Apparently Roland is unfazed by large shitmuffins.

You cool your jets mister. I have Roundseventeen fans who do not want to see this journey come to an end.

And, just to make Roland believe I am still an eager beaver, I add some special secret sauce...

But Roland, God bless him, I mean Lucifer bless him, has an answer for everything.

Does it all end here? 

Oh hell no.

Coming up: 

* I take my dog Mantu to Los Angeles for a Bundtemology.

* We meet Dr. Nick

*And we receive another Illuminati invitation from Beadle Walter

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If you've been following at all you know I have had quite a few back and forth with Roland Kings, who had invited me to join the Illuminati.

It's not a real invitation at all but just the latest twist on the Nigerian Scam, which I know quite well.

I can't do a total recap, suffice to say I told Roland I had to fly to Los Angeles to get my dog Mantu a vital operation, in other words anything to delay sending the $299 for my Illuminati initiation kit.

I used the invitation from another scammer to throw Roland for a loop. He wisely chose to focus on me and my dog Mantu.

To calm my fears about the other invitation, he even had a friend of his, Dan Perry pose as an attorney and try to calm my fears. 

To keep this concise and moving along, I disposed of Jam Berry as quickly as possible.

Roland is laser focused about getting his money. And can you blame him?

Of course I've turned Nigerian procrastination into a high art. (Well, I like to think I have.)

I love how Roland keeps it personal, as if he really cares about my short legged furry friend.

But he's not getting any of my money until he starts divulging some secret Illuminati rituals, you know the good stuff.

And that gets us mostly caught up. Still to come: stories about Steve Guttenberg, Pebble Beach Golf Club memberships and transexual concubines.

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I hope you are enjoying this Illuminati rabbit hole as much as I am.

When we last spoke, Roland Kings, my Illuminati "handler" told me there were no secret handshakes. I think he's holding out on the good stuff. Naturally he kept hounding me to wire him money but I know how to stall and keep the correspondence going.

Roland doesn't get many takers to his scam emails, so he obliges.

He's also curious about this rival offer.

So I muddy the waters even more to keep him guessing.

You would think a picture of a Corgi playing the saxophone would make him scratch his head and start to wonder if I was goofing on him, but you'd be wrong.

So it's time to take it up a notch.

This seems to have set him off.

For two days, I do not hear from Roland Kings, official Recruitment Officer for the Illustrious Illuminati. I feel like I have lost a friend, albeit a scamming, lying, fuckwad who is only interested in getting rich off the labor and dreams of others (sounds like our President.) 

But when all seems lost, it isn't.

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When we last visited Nigeria and my Illuminati recruiter, he was complimenting me for being smart. For not just sending money willy nilly to any Tom, Dick or Roland from Nigeria. He also said if I was no longer interested in joining he would not force me.

But I want in. I seriously want in.

But Roland is not keen on my unique solution.

And so the game is back on.

And on...

And of course, he obliges.

So, now it's time to up the ante.

And on that note I will leave you, until next week when actual money is exchanged.

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When we last left the Illuminati saga, I had visited the RIA Pay Transfer Station and given money to RuPaul, the cashier, to send to my "handler" in Abuja, Nigeria.

His response to receiving the money was, "OK."

He then demanded proof I had actually wired him the money, which I did.

But for some odd reason he wanted to know how much I sent.

Well, anyone who reads this blog knows I'm a man of my word.

But now Brother Roland suspects I don't want to be Illuminati. 

Of course I want to be Illuminati.

He claims I sent $2.49 and NOT the $249. Why would I do that? That's crazy talk.

Knowing that Shaft is hot on your trail is enough to scare any motherfucka. So Roland punches back.

But Shaft is on the case.

And I am not going to rest until Roland Kings sends me $246.51.

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If you've been following my Illuminati journey you know I have been going back and forth with Roland Kings for the last 6 weeks.

To catch you up, I wired money to Mr. Kings to cover my initiation costs. He claims I only sent him $2.49 when I should have sent $249.

If you know me you know I never welch on my word. Now I want my $246.51 cents back. And I have dispatched Detective John Shaft to Africa to hunt down my money.

Roland was not amused and ignored my warnings. But I am nothing if not relentless.

And so I tried to reason with him.

His answer was short and sweet.

And I thought I'd give him one last shot.

Sadly he has not responded.

It appears the game is over. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. I really was looking forward to getting my red fez hat.

The good news is if you enjoyed these escapades, there's a good chance you'll enjoy a book I published a little more ten years ago. It's chock full of these shenanigans.

And it makes a lovely stocking stuffer.

Mecka Läcka Hi, Locka Hiney Ho!!!

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