Posts Tagged ‘ idiots ’

My email to Hoo haa Bar

Earlier this month, two young women tried to get into a venue on Melbourne’s Chapel Street by the name of Hoo haa Bar. They happened to be partners. They happened to be holding hands.

The women say that they were not permitted entry, and suspect their sexual orientation had more than a little something to do with it. Several witnesses support their claim.

Of course, it’s all “alleged” at this stage.

What’s not alleged is Hoo haa Bar’s Facebook-page response to the ensuing furore. It’s real and you can read it here.

I get confused, flustered, but ultimately excited when private enterprises show a willingness to respond to questions and criticism. And I feel like I have cola-activated Wizz Fizz in my underpantal region when they choose to play the woe-is-us victim.

This, combined with the fact that I recently found myself a  patron at this particular establishment, meant that the following email flowed as easily as hypocritical drivel out of Kyle Sandilands’ mouth:

Dear Hoo haa Management Team,

I’m writing to seek clarification on an incident that took place at your establishment earlier this year. In hindsight, and in light of recent events, I now consider the event in question to be enormously distressing.

On Saturday the 26th of May, I travelled to Prahran to attend the birthday party of a friend at Hoo haa Bar.

I was let in.

This is causing me great consternation and I desperately need to know why it took place.

The obvious answer, of course, is that I am now one of Melbourne’s A-list celebrities and should be granted access to every single establishment in the city. But this doesn’t really cut it, when you consider that I have earned my reputation as a bloggospherical deity by working almost exclusively as a semi-anonymous cyber vigilante. Despite the fact that most Australians know and adore me, very few know what I actually look like.

And what I look like is really at the crux of this matter.

Recently, it’s alleged, your door staff denied entry to two women on a Saturday night at around about 9pm. Their names are Kay Girardi and Ari Missikos. Now, the old saying that beauty is in the eye of the beholder generally holds true, but let’s be honest here: unless the Herald Sun has gone into a PhotoShopping frenzy and given Kay and Ari’s faces a complete digital reconstruction (and we are talking about a News Limited publication here, so I concede that anything’s possible), these were not unattractive people you told to bugger off.

And even if you wanted to mount a case that they had been given a couple of lashings with the proverbial ugly stick, everything is relative. Relatively speaking, these two women are smoulderingly, wickedly, incomprehensibly sexy hotties. Relative to what or to whom, you ask?

Relative to me.

While I may be the world’s most promising and precocious literary talent, this doesn’t change the fact that I am as ugly as sin. And I’m not talking about one of the spurious Catholic ones like “original sin” or one of the piss-weak Deadly ones like sloth or gluttony; I’m talking about the absolute shockers like wrath, Avada Kedavra and, by far the worst of all, vanity. (I absolutely abhor arrogance and conceit, and as the owner of a Chapel Street night club, you undoubtedly do too.)

I’m so unattractive, my wife employs a Perseus-style mirror-plated shield when conversing with me. I’m so unattractive, I’m reluctant to have children because I fear that if my son or daughter got my face genes, I’d be dragged to The Hague and charged with crimes against humanity. I’m so unattractive, when I sent an email to Ben Polis earlier this year implying that he looked like “a rodent with mange…a loathsome mouse-dog… a repellent maggot… a rosy-faced cretin… a small, podgy dipshit and an angry little gerbil [resembling] Jake King… a dead carp’s slowly disintegrating prolapsed anus and an unctuous, ulcerous semi-human” I feared that he would respond with “I know you are, but what am I?” and his case would be water-tight.

(Speaking of emails to famous people, last year I sent an email to the well-known human/dinosaur hybrid Margaret Court (she still hasn’t responded – RUDE!) and told her that a boy at school once described me as looking like a pig with Down’s syndrome. His jibe, though cruel, was excruciatingly accurate.)

What I’m getting at is that if you want to argue that the two women you didn’t allow into your alcohol-serving-sauna-with-very-loud-music are not aesthetically pleasing enough, you have to take into consideration me. Not as an arbitrary point of reference, but because just a few Saturday nights before you told them they weren’t what you were looking for, you told me I was!

Now maybe you’ll argue semantics: it wasn’t so much what they looked like as their look. Again, I’m the hurdle that will make that argument’s finishing line very hard for you to get to.

To be fair, I don’t know what Kay and Ari were wearing on the night in question. But you do. So perhaps you can tell me: was it a pair of off-white cargo pants purchased in the late 1990s, a blue and red Melbourne Football Club tie with an old-school AFL logo on it, an ill-fitting white Rivers shirt with uneven stripes or a beanie of a similar vintage? Did they at any point produce a multi-coloured, multi-textured wallet with a small cowrie shell embedded in it?

The reason I ask is that’s what I was wearing on that chilly, and dare-I-say-it, soon-to-be-infamous May night.

Plus, my hair was as shit as ever and my beard was poorly trimmed, to the point where if you poured three litres of liquid on to the crotch of my trousers and squinted, you could easily have mistaken me for Biff Pelican.

Apparently, your hired muscle told Ari and Kay that they might consider coming back on a Wednesday night when the venue was “more liberal” about who it gave the thumbs-up to. In my experience, however, your Saturday night at 9.00pm policy is more liberal than a hippies-only Swedish key party at a vibrator factory incorporating a swimming pool filled with champagne jelly and Enya playing in the background.

So what’s going on here? Why didn’t you tell me to go back to Thornbury and put on some more appropriate clothes? Why didn’t you tell me to come back another night, even though I was there for a friend’s birthday? Why didn’t you look me up and down, smirk and tell me with undisguised disdain “Not tonight, buddy”? Why did you let me in?

WHY?

WHAT DID I DO RIGHT?

WHY?

Thanking you in advance for your considered response and wishing you all the very best in your (sensible, in my opinion) public campaign to have consumers consider the potential impact of their actions upon innocent businesses before launching their vicious, inane and destructive personal opinions and experiences out into the social media universe,

Jonathan Rivett

I’m looking forward to Hoo haa’s response even more than I’m looking forward to The Shire on Channel 10.

Haught fact of the day:

Enya’s most famous song isn’t named ‘Sail Away’; it is in fact called ‘Orinoco Flow’.

Other emails I’ve sent:

I’ve hit pay dirt… again

Sometimes I receive messages in the spiced ham folder of my email that get me so excited I feel like I want to climb onto the tallest building in the suburb and shout my exhilaration to the world. I’m always reluctant to do that because I also feel like I could spontaneously combust at any moment and the tallest building in the suburb happens to be a school, and I wouldn’t want to scare the kiddies, or spatter them with charred human meat.

I think the closest I’ve ever come to climbing the bell tower at St Mary’s with post-email elation was after reading this little doozy. But today I received a piece of electronic correspondence that blew Jean Fafona’s effort out of the water. Some of that water happily sprayed onto me, putting out the fire that had started on both of my arms.

Here it is:

Dear partner,

I am James Francis from Florida USA I was the personal account officer of  late Libyan Leader Omar Muammar al Gaddafi for 25year, before his dead last year 2011 he ask me to transfer a very huge amount of money about $20m (Twenty Million US Dollars) to a Commercial Bank in Malaysia (Chase Bank) for a twenty five story’s building he wanted to buy in SARAWAK MALAYSIA without a beneficiary name  because of the nature of his country, Since after his death  no one has come for the claim of the money due to the fact that there was no beneficiary to the fund.

Now the Bank (Chase Bank) is asking me to present the beneficiary of the money that they need to transfer the money back to the owner since the account is dormant for a long time now.  After going through your profile and that of your company I believe you are the right person for this job since your company’s business correlates with a kind of business I would like to invest my own share of the money when is finally transferred.

But right now my healthy condition and security in my country I can’t transfer this fund to my personal account rather I want you to assist me to receive this fund” If you would assist me with this I will compensate you with 30% of the total sum and at the same time invest my own money in your company’s business. More details will be sending to you when I receive your interest response.

You are free to call me for more information.

Thanks & Best Regard
James Francis,
H/P: +1-732-659-5513
Email: jamesfrancis219@rocketmail.com

Here’s what I sent back when my arms stopped smouldering:

Dear partner (indeed!),

First, congratulations on getting to the silver anniversary under the Colonel. Fair effort, that.

Now, let’s get down to tin tacks: I like the sound of this deal for three reasons:

  1. It’s straightforward and makes perfect sense.
  2. You’ve obviously done your research.
  3. It dovetails nicely with a similar transaction I’ve been looking for a partner to help me complete.

When you say you’ve been through my profile, I presume you mean you’ve read my blog. (You and half the rest of the world!) Before I go on, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Now, be honest – is it the best thing you’ve ever read? A few people have told me it is, but I get the feeling they’re only saying it because they want something from me. It would be great to get the opinion of someone who has no ulterior motive.

In any case, I really believe that investing in my business is a financial decision you won’t regret. At the moment I make an annual profit of A$0. Your generous cash injection will ensure I can maintain the operation’s stability and I am extremely confident that I can continue to post similar profits into the foreseeable future.

Now to the money. US$20 million is certainly a very huge sum. But not as big as the sum I’ve been looking to transfer from an account in ULAANBAATAR, MONGOLIA for the last decade or so.

You see, my story sounds remarkably similar to yours.

I am, as you well know, Jonathan Rivett from Melbourne Australia. I was the financial adviser to the late Idi Amin. (We might have even bumped into each other at one of those Swiss alpine retreats Idi and the Colonel went on together, now I come to think of it. Do you have thick red hair and a small scar on your left cheek?) Before he died in 2003, the big fella asked me to mortgage Uganda and transfer the proceeds into a commercial bank in northern Asia. I said to Idi, I said, “Idi, you silly fat fuck, you can’t mortgage an entire country. Get serious, please.” (By the way, when I told that to Forest Whitaker while he was doing research for The Last King of Scotland, he laughed so hard he fell off the chair he was sitting on and thought he’d dislocated his shoulder, but it turned out to only be a minor subluxation and he was fine.) So Idi returned to the realms of possibility, did some  stock standard embezzling and told me to transfer the resulting US$97 million into a commercial bank in Mongolia (Khan Bank) for the purchase of a mountain.

Because of the nature of the toiletries industry at the time, he made the transfer into the account of his invisible friend, JimJam Jones, a gigantic talking prune with predilection for stamp collecting and brightly coloured bow ties. Now, JimJam Jones owned a concrete business operating out of Libya (you may even have purchased some concrete on behalf of the Colonel from him) and was away on business at the time of the transfer – Idi demanded that I make the transaction without informing JimJam. When JimJam discovered the money in his account (now holidaying in Cancun) he made the assumption that he had won the lottery, despite never having bought a ticket. He became reckless, decided to go waterskiing for the first time in his life, even though he was an invisible prune and didn’t have opposable digits, and was killed in a spectacular explosion involving an offshore oil rig (JimJam was smoking two cuban cigars as he skied). While this was all happening, Idi’s kidney’s were playing up; he died in Saudi Arabia not long after the last of JimJan’s delicious remains washed up on the beaches of Montego Bay, Jamaica. This meant that nobody was left to claim the money now lying dormant in a dead figment’s Mongolian account. Of course there was me, but everyone knows foreign banks only let you transfer large sums of money if you have a complete stranger into whose bank account you can make the transfer and, until today, I didn’t know any complete strangers. But now I do. His name is James Francis, and I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. (By the way, I’m referring to you, not another James Francis.)

OK, so here’s the deal. I will give you 42.87 percent of the US97 million and will invest 12.43 percent  into your Miami pineapple growing business. All you need to do is send me a statement of your interest, followed by your bank account details, followed by your left hand.

You are free to email me for more information:

haughtfeelings@gmail.com

With a jiggly wiggly sense of anticipation and a yearning to trade despot stories, I remain faithfully yours,

Jonathan

PS: I once bench pressed a fully grown cow.

PPS: Who do you think will play Gaddafi if they make a movie about him? I think probably Fassbender.

Wouldn’t it be good if he replied?

Haught fact of the day:

Until recently, I thought Mongolia was like Siam and Abyssinia and Ceylon and was now called North China or South Russia. What a bogan, eh?

What’s happened to the Grape Men?

A lot of people have been enquiring as to the whereabouts of the Grape Men. I’ll write a full post about it later, but in short grape season is over for another year and their allotment of land no longer resonates with the word “putana” or the gentle stop and start and stop and start and stop and start of engines.

The #FreeAnnie campaign [VICTORY]

At the end of last month you might recall that I began the #FreeAnnie campaign. If you didn’t catch the post or if the details are a bit HB-pencil sketchy in your mind, you can find it here.

In the immortal words of Professor Farnsworth, “Who likes good news? Everyone? Then: ‘Good news, everyone’.

Annie sent me this message yesterday:

Haughty-Haught-Haught… Can I take a moment to thank you for your help? I’ve just received official notice that the robots who issued my infringement notice have been reprogrammed, rebooted and have come to their senses… (Or, at very least, the higher ups were not appreciating the #FreeAnnie campaign/ my incessant letters).

My infringement notice has been officially re-reviewed and Metro Trains’ plans for world domination (one $180 fine at a time) have been derailed!

Yep, #FreeAnnie led to free Annie. Well, that’s what I’m claiming.

So if you read and ‘liked’ the post, and particularly if you passed it on, used the #FreeAnnie hashtag on Twitter (@Jay3199 – magnificent!), talked about it with friends, gave a dirty look to a ticket inspector post-#FreeAnnie, or sent me any kind of correspondence re: the campaign, consider yourself a successful public transport activist.

There’s only one downside to Annie’s emancipation: the following email will never get put to practical use:

Dear Department of Transport,

In May, a commuter by the name of Annie [surname redacted] was booked by a Metro Trains Authorised Officer after she was unable to produce a valid ticket within an arbitrary period of time. Shortly after the ticket inspectors had left the carriage, Annie’s Metcard fell out of the book she was reading.

She wrote to you, detailing exactly what had happened and requesting that the $180 fare evasion fine be quashed. Instead of responding with the reasons why this was, or was not, possible, you chose to write her a letter listing the stock standard excuses fare evaders give you when hoping to have their fines overturned. It was like a David Letterman top 10, but with even more world-weariness and more than a small touch of the snide about it.

To me, this kind of response is incomprehensible, full stop. But when you add the fact that not one of the excuses had the vaguest relevance to Annie’s case, your effort goes from budgie-attacking-its-own-reflection silly to young-people-shrieking-for-no-apparent-reason-in-an-ad-for-bourbon farcical.

Imagine if all legal systems ran on the basis that the guilt of the accused should be determined by how fed up the accuser is with the defences offered by those previously accused of the same crime or misdemeanour.

Imagine if everyday life worked that way!

Think about what would happen if this strange new convention you seem to have created could be applied by those who use your rail network.

Dear Department of Transport,

Thank you for your questions regarding my non-payment of fares. 

You can probably understand that, as a commuter, I receive hundreds of excuses from Metro Trains and the Department of Transport every week. These include:

  • There was a signal fault
  • There was an ill passenger
  • There was a defective train
  • There was congestion at Flinders Street
  • One of the doors won’t open
  • One of the doors won’t close
  • Something about an overhead power line
  • One word: vandals
  • Melbourne is too small to make regular trains viable
  • There are too many new customers
  • There’s been a lack of investment (from both sides of politics)
  • We need more rolling stock
  • We need more stock that is propelled by electricity, in addition to having the capacity to roll
  • Overcrowding is slowing down trains
  • It was a very wet day
  • It was a very dry day
  • It was a very hot day
  • It was a very cold day
  • It was a mild day, but passengers were doing myki wrong
  • The system would run better without passengers
  • The system would run better without trains
  • The system would run better without the system
  • We were busy
  • We’re still getting the hang of this electrification of the network thing
  • We got distracted
  • It’s mostly your fault
  • The moon went behind a cloud
  • There was a gunman at the station
  • The dog ate our blueprint for improvement
  • Our performance statistics tell a different story
  • We thought we saw a wolf hiding in a bush and we got scared
  • Pardon our progress
  • One word: unions
  • There was a problem with the swirler thing that regulates the big machine that makes a noise like this: “brip brip”
  • Someone put an advertisement over the driver’s window and the train effectively became blind (on the plus side, we added to our monthly profit)
  • The on-board sundial was off kilter
  • Camels replaced trains at Clifton Hill and one of the camels bit some people
  • We’re moving backwards, but don’t worry, we wrote a poem about moving forwards
  • Research tells us people like sitting in the Jolimont Rail Yards for up to twenty-five minutes at a time
  • It’s the drivers’ fault
  • We thought we had enough trains, but we didn’t so we had to buy some old rattlers off a collector, who was mean and sold them to us at an exorbitant rate and now we don’t have any money left to improve the system
  • Our sextant was bent
  • A combination of factors, going forward, has meant that the system has become temporarily suboptimal across many of its key performance measures, going forward (but  we have got some good take outs from this situation and are implementing many of the learnings, going forward)
  • One word: jabberwocky
  • Our operations centre still uses computers that show chunky green text and possess 3 kilobytes of memory
  • We keep getting kerosene and paraffin mixed up
  • There are many many trains but only a few stations – you do the maths
  • A wil-o-the-whisp got into one of the engines
  • We thought we saw a wolf… again
  • Connex left the whole place in a mess
  • The Met left the whole place in a mess
  • The Indigenous people of what is now metropolitan Melbourne left the whole place in a mess
  • One word: wolves
  • Someone literally threw a spanner in the works
  • Well, hang on a second – could we at least finish our lunch?

In light of this, and having carefully read your submission, unfortunately, I cannot change my decision to ride on your trains for free at this time. 

Thank you for having me as your non-paying patron. 

Sincerely… etc


You can sniff and scoff at your customers’ “excuses” all you like, but let’s be honest, to any reasonable, fair-minded person,  “I didn’t have the correct coin change to pay for a fare that now costs $11.90” is far easier to accept than the circular logic of “Overcrowding is leading to late trains”.

Terrible things happen on your trains every single day. Passengers punch other passengers. Inebriates vomit all over seats and down aisles. Smart-alec little heroes ride between carriages screaming abuse at anyone who looks at them from inside the train. Fat slobs somehow manage to take up four seats. People barge on before anyone else has had a chance to get off. And you’re going to fine a woman because she forgot she was using her Metcard as a bookmark and not even extend her the courtesy of explaining why?

You expect as a kind of birthright an epic benefit of the doubt from Melburnians. How about giving it back once in a while?

Sincerely,

Jonathan Rivett

Or will I just send it, anyway?

Haught fact of the day:

I only made up two of those Metro/Department of Transport excuses listed above.

My email to Jim Beam

Recently, you might have seen an ad for an alcoholic beverage company where young men and women shout noises at the top of their voices…

…and that’s it.

You know the one…

Recently, I’ve heard some disappointing discussions revolving around the ad and have often found myself the lone voice of reason, defending their subversiveness, wit and poignant underlying message, among a group of up to a dozen irrational halfwits.

This being the case, I decided to write a letter of support to Jim Beam. It went a little something like this:

Dear Mr Beam,

This is a short letter of support.

As a bourbon drinker, I sometimes use rocks to fashion rudimentary tools, but I don’t live under one and so I know what people are saying about your wonderful campaign. And it’s all utter crap.

Here are some of the repeated criticisms I’ve heard, followed by my rebuttals (which you are free to use, if you haven’t already):

1. These are the worst ads ever shown on Australian television – what nonsense. What about the Coles ad where Normie Rowe tries to sing a version of one of his old songs only minutes after having had a stroke? Or the ones where two prostitutes try to out-strumpet one another by doing Darth Vader impersonations and talking about tattoos in their respective underpantal regions?

2. These ads are just annoying – ever heard of all publicity is good publicity? Anyone who says these ads are annoying either has no idea what he’s talking about or is exactly right and doesn’t understand marketing. It doesn’t matter if the ads are annoying – as long as they’re getting people’s attention, they’re more brilliant than a peacock having sex with a bird of paradise in front of a bird of paradise (plant) on a beach on Daydream Island.

I remember once a dim boy in primary school by the name of Louis Carnegie picked up a condom that was lying in the quadrangle and put it on his nose. It attracted a great deal of attention. Oh yes, some teachers said it was “unhygienic” and “disgusting” and a “fool of a thing to do” and some classmates called him “Gooey Louis” and “Louis Franger-Snout” for the rest of his school days, but Louis got exactly what he wanted – I don’t know exactly what that was because he had a great deal of trouble communicating with others, but I know this for sure: if the internet had existed back then, his hilarious little misadventure would have ‘gone viral’ for sure.

3. These ads are incoherent; they dumbfound me – what’s not to get? A man makes a Tarzan noise in front of a cityscape and then another man opens the plantation shutters on the top level of his Victorian-era home and makes a noise like a monkey and then a man going up an escalator shrieks “Lalalalalalala” and then a woman waiting for a taxi in a busy place holds a high note and then an unseen man under a bridge howls at the moon and then the noises are repeated over and over again, faster and faster, and then a slogan from a 1970s political campaign comes up and then cans of Jim Beam positioned like bowling pins spontaneously explode and then start perspiring heavily before pulsating. I’ll ask again: what’s not to get?

4. These ads don’t make me want to drink Jim Beam – yes they do.

5. These ads treat viewers like idiots – viewers are idiots! Especially the ones who don’t like these ads! And anyway, who cares what viewers think? You’d think they were a crucial part of our economic fabric or something. Newsflash, idiots – simple economics tells us that there’s no place for consumers in a post-industrial society: large companies generate wealth by advertising their products using the media owned by other large companies. That wealth is then distributed wantonly – and thus perfectly – by the United States Federal Reserve, derivatives traders and Harvey Normal retail outlets. Where do consumers come in? THEY DON’T! SO SHUT UP!

6. I want to punch every person in the ad in the face and then step on their larynges – that’s just childish. I’m not going to descend to that level.

7. These ads are obnoxious – your bum is obnoxious and you’re a bum face and I hate you and your bum smells of poo.

8. It angers me that numerous people had to approve this before it went to air – I just told you how the system works. Only one person has to approve these kind of ads and that’s Ben Bernanke. Apart from the odd mistake (undead Normie Rowe) he makes excellent decisions.

9. These ads frighten children – I think Jim Beam will be the judge of what does and doesn’t scare children, thank you all the same.

10. There should be fewer of these ads on TV – if anything there should be more. Here are some ideas for ways of extending this brilliant campaign to eight or nine ads:

A man of about 25 is combing his hair in the bathroom. He suddenly fixes his own gaze in the mirror, opens his eyes very wide and makes this hilarious noise:

An attractive young buck is at a restaurant with some other attractive people. He puts down his knife and fork and makes this highly amusing noise to everyone in the vicinity:

A young bloke (with his collar up) is tending a rice paddy. He lifts his sedge hat and you notice his mouth is full of water. He makes this hysterically funny noise:

An insanely hot minx of a woman is in a deserted South Australian car park collecting cans to supplement her income. She decides to say over and over again the funniest word that comes into her head:

A fella is at a pub urinal next to two other blokes minding their own business and he starts to describe what he’s doing in a thought-provoking  monotone:

A strapping lad is on safari. He suddenly jumps off the truck, hurtles into the wilderness and begins making the same noise as the pack of okapis into which he’s ensconced himself (in a very witty manner):

A beautiful young lady is riding a zepelin. She randomly, and very humorously, shouts the names of characters from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles series in the faces of other passengers.

I’m available to play any or all of these characters.

Anyway, there you have it: possibly the most sincere and heartfelt piece of correspondence you will ever receive.

With that I would like to say farewell and keep up the stupendously good work.

Your friend in fermented corn,

Jonathan Rivett

Yet to receive a response.

“I’ve hit pay dirt, baby”

Late last year a man sent me an email that I thought had changed by life.

It went like this:

Good morning,

I hope you are fine today?

I don’t know if you might be interested in a business proposal which am about to reveal to you considering that we haven’t met in person.

It’s all about US$ 10,000,000 dormant fund in our bank coded account here(SGBCI).

I am the only person with the knowledge of the funds and its deposit, and will solicit for your partnership for us to have it. My position in the bank will guarantee easy and risk-free handling of the transaction as i have every details of it.

I will give your more details as soon as I hear from you, including the sharing ratio.

Please ignore the proposition, if you don’t seem to be interested. contact me at mrjeanfafona@yahoo.co.uk

Please keep confidential!!

Thanks,

Mr Jean Fafona

Once the pressure build-up in my underpantal region had subsided, I responded, thus:

Good morning, Jean,

This sounds like a wonderful offer and I feel so privileged that, of the world’s seven million people, you chose me to share in the US$10 million.

First, I should apologise for being so late with my response. Please do not take this to mean that I am anything less than in a muck lather of enthusiasm over your proposal. For some incomprehensible reason your email was snared by my ‘Spam’ box and I only discovered it this morning.

Second, I don’t want to sound like a wet blanket (which I presume would make a gentle squishing noise), but won’t the Société Générale de Banques en Côte d’Ivoire be angry if they find out you’re offering easy and risk-free handling of money. Perhaps things are different where you are, but here in Australia, banks tend to avoid providing ease of transfer to customers and, when it comes to risk, tend to leave that to (or should I say with?) the federal government.Third, I foolishly didn’t read to the end of your email before acting on it. So, before I got to your express request to keep the information confidential, I became excited to an almost absurd degree and began ringing friends and saying silly things like “I’m rich! I’m rich!” and “I’ve hit pay dirt, baby!” I admit, I went over the top, not just with my prideful and presumptuous pronouncements, but with the sheer number of people I rang. I literally contacted every single person I have ever had even the shortest conversation with, some of whom work for government departments such as the Australian Federal Police, Australian Customs and Border Protection, as well as ASIO (which is like our MI6, but heaps better). Do you think my unrestrained exuberance could in any way have compromised our imminent transaction?Fourth, if the answer to the question above is no, will I need to pay tax on my portion of the ten mill, either in Australia or in the Ivory Coast? I want to do this by the book – as I’m sure you do.Fifth, if I may be so bold (considering we haven’t met in person, to borrow a phrase from a close friend and confidant), I would like to make a suggestion: the subject of your email was “Good morning,”. While pleasant enough and unquestionably polite, if I’m honest, it didn’t speak to me. Of course, it’s easy to just sit in the “cheap seats” and holler criticism, so permit me to offer an example of a subject line that has recently grabbed me. While perusing my Spam box this morning (again, I’m perplexed as to how such an email ended up in the veritable naughty-boy’s corner of emails), I stopped when I came across the words “Best Maximum Penis” (in that order). Now, it would take years of practice and probably a degree from Oxford or Stanford to be able to consistently come up with brilliant subject lines like that, but I think that could be an aspiration for you, if not an immediate goal.Sixth, and finally, how do you pronounce your name? I presume that it’s the French way, but I know that some men by the name of Jean – Americans mostly, who find the idea of a soft J offensive – pronounce it ‘Gene’ and don’t want to embarrass myself or, for that matter, you, when we inevitably converse via the phone.

I am extremely keen to hear more details and wonder whether you would mind if I, as a show of good will, sent through my bank and credit card details, my tax file number, my car registration number and my home address in my next email. That seems only fair.

Again, thank you very much for choosing me to share in your (or whomever’s) money. I look forward to one day lying on a bed with you and throwing it (the money, and maybe the aforementioned Best Maximum Penis medication) in the air so it rains down on us in the classical Hollywood way.

With much affection and gratitude and, to be honest, a little bit of desire,

Jonathan

Still haven’t heard a reply, but it’s only been four and a half months, so my fingers (and I hope now yours) are still well and truly crossed.

Haught fact of the day:

The ‘underpantal region’ was a widely-accepted medical term in parts of Europe until the 1980s. In Germany it was known as  ‘die zonenuntergarment’ and in France as ‘le districte de controlle merde’.

Grape Men quote of the day:

Grape Man 1: “So what happened about that fucking rotunda?”

Grape Man 2:  “Oh that. Fuck. Fucking council…”

Grape Man 1:  “What happened?”

Grape Man 2: “They put the car wash on it.”

Grape Man 1:  “What? A fucking car wash? In your back yard? What the fuck?”

Grape Man 2:  “No. Car wash. You know. They put the… they no let me do.”

Grape Man 1:  “What the fuck has that got to do with a car wash?”

Grape Man 2:  “No. A carwosh. Carwosh. You know. They put – ”

Grape Man 3:  “He means kybosh.”

[laughter]

Grape Man 1: “WHAT? Oh fuck. Cretino. Just shut up and pack the fucking crates. Fuck.”

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Who are the Grape Men?

Find out here.
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