A love letter from Mrs. Agnes Jonas Savimbi?

Here is a strange love letter I recieved. (Or is this the famous African email scam that my brother Sanjay has been working on?)
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From: Mrs. Agnes Jonas Savimbi
Email: rsavimbifamily2@hotmail.com
Sub: This is top secret, keep confidential please my dear.

Beloved,

This letter may come to you as a surprise but I really prayed to God to help me choose somebody that will be my true partner, a person who has a fear of God that cannot betray my remaining family and me as I don’t even know whom to trust so I allowed the spirit of God to lead me.

I am Mrs. Agnes Jonas Savimbi, wife of the late leader of the National Union of the Total Liberation of Angola (UNITA) After surviving more than a dozen assassination attempts, my husband, Savimbi was killed four years later, in February 2002, in a battle with Angolan government troops.

Two weeks before he died, he called me and reveals the existence of US$25,765.000.00 (Twenty five Million, seven Hundred and sixty fiveThousand United States Dollars) being deposited in a suspence account with the bank in South Africa. This money was income accrue from the sale of Gold & Diamond.

When I heard the bad news of my husband's death, his trusted aid moved me and members of our family out on hiding, but unfortunately my elder son and myself were caught and place under house arrest. Luckily to us, my second son being sharp and clever has escaped through Zambia to South Africa where he reside as a political refugee. Now the problem he is facing their is that the labour of South Africa does not permit an asylum seeker (Refugee) the right to financial transaction. This was the basic reason why I decide to contact you, so that you will stand as the beneficiary of the funds, we are prepared to transfer the ownership of the funds to your name.

30% of the total money goes to you, as a commission for your services, while 70% goes to my family, which we intend to invest, immediately we are being released from house arrest. I am assuring you that this transaction is risk free as we have put all the logistics in place to make it successful, all we need from you is your co-operation and sincerity of purpose.

You will be contacting my son on his details below for more details on how you are going to assist us conclude this transaction. I will wait for your response through my son, thank you and God bless.

Name: Robert Kamara Savimbi
Tel No: + 27-73-933 5582
Email: rsavimbifamily2@hotmail.com

In your email to my son Robert Savimbi, kindly forward to him the following:
1 Your Full Name 2.Your Contact (Home) Address 3.Your Telephone and Fax number

Thanks and may the almighty father guide us through.
Thank you.
Mrs. Agnes Jonas Savimbi.
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An excess of salt has built up in the traffic arteries

There is controversy within the local governing body that oversees the distribution of orange barrels and the shoveling of asphalt for roadway patching. The Engineering and Roadway Department employees are mad at their boss, because budget cuts did not allow them to have raises, but the state saw fit to give the boss a raise. And so all the cunning foxes are crying "Sour grapes! Sour grapes! My God, why have you forsaken me?!"

There is no money in the budget to give these people raises because it's all been spent on new metal signs that say ROAD CLOSED, as well as DETOUR and GONE FISHIN'. Perhaps there would be more money in the budget if they would stop spending it on road salt. Engineering and Roadway Department employees have been spreading salt on the same streets over and over again, regardless of whether we get any snowfall. Just this week, I saw four different trucks spread road salt four times in a 24-hour period (before a snowfall predicted to be only a dusting!) I know, because I watch everything that happens outside.

And I know it's wasteful: here on my street, we've got salt spread on top of salt on top of more salt, and it's a level grade cul-de-sac! We've got so much salt, the deer herds are coming to lick the gutters, and I think I saw Daniel Boone curing some ham hocks.

So to all the county employees who did not get a raise, I say: divide up the excess road salt among yourselves and take home a few barrels. That should be worth something.

I was just thinking about the Chinans

A question on Jeopardy --about Saint Columbus and his discovery of the so-called New World Indians-- made me begin to think about etymology, which is the study of tadpoles and frogs. But then one thought led to another, and I began to think about the origin of words.

And so, in India, you have my people, the Indians. In America, you have yourself, the Americans. In Africa, the Africans; in Australia, the Australians; and in Asia, the Asians; and so on.

So why (since the rules clearly state that if your country or continent ends with letter "a" the people are "—ans") why I ask, are those from China not the Chinans?

Hillary Clinton won't iron your shirt, but I will

Today, the former White House Prime Minister Hillary Clinton was heckled at a rally by misogynists who told her to do the laundry and iron the shirts.

Of course, it was a sexist comment, but what were they thinking? She does not iron shirts! She does not even TOUCH the laundry, much less her wardrobe. She has a personal concierge who dresses her, just as every American Prime Minister has.

But I am letting it be known that I can iron shirts, launder them, add starch, you name it. You have never had a finer article of clothing than the one I personally washed in the river and beat on a rock, I am telling you.

An awful time today at depressing retail slum Wal-Mart

I have not shopped at a Wal-Mart in over five years, and not because I disagree over the wages they pay to employees or how they manufacture their goods overseas (in fact no-one in my family complains about Wal-Mart and many of them are still working in the sweatshops of Uttar Pradesh). No, I do not shop at Wal-Mart because it is a depressing retail slum!

Mind you, I am no high caste bourgeoisie, but even for me, the appeal of Wal-Mart is a few notches lower than the crowded Mumbai Trivandrum Express train. Today, I went as part of my Sunday errands, just to return a holiday toy and hopefully get a little money. Into the poorly-lit bleak front entrance I went, where piles of damaged and probably useless merchandise were overflowing past the returns desk and into the store (in fact, it was hard to tell where the discard pile ended and the salable merchandise began). An old woman tagged my package and pointed me to wait my place in the queue, which was fifteen people deep and reeked of french-fry oil and thrift store mothballs.

In front of me was a short fat woman with sideburns and her short fat daughter who had taken colored markers and drawn over the bruises up and down her arms. Each of them had a shopping cart with a microwave in it, presumably to tell the returns clerk that the microwave was no good and they'd like to exchange it for an identical microwave which was also no good. Behind me, a restless, heavy-breathing woman who approached the line and asked if I was waiting in line, as if perhaps I was accidentally in line for an Icee or maybe I was just politely holding the next available place for someone like her. And as the line was not moving very quickly —due to the fact that at any one time only one of the four return cash registers was occupied— I had time to myself to ponder the masses of great unwashed entering and exiting this depressing retail slum.

When it was turn for the fat woman to exchange her microwave, I expected a delay. This item of complicated electronics looked like it had fallen off the roof of an apartment building: the box was ripped away from the side, had crushed corners, and no effort was made to mend it. When the returns clerk asked if anything was wrong with it, the fat woman said there was some paint chipped off the side and she wanted to exchange it. She had no receipt, but the tired-looking clerk approved and that was it, done! So I thought it should be easy to return my unopened rubber toy with licenced character face.

As I approached the counter, I offered a hello, but got no reply, and then meekly said I recieved this as a gift and would like to return it, and I do not have a reciept. That's when she looked at me like I was a fool, and asked what was wrong with it. Nothing I say, it is brand new, unused, it is just a toy made of molded polypropelene plastic and an accompanying bottle of bubble bath solution, no moving parts or batteries, nothing is wrong with it, in fact you should be more concerned about that beat-up microwave oven that was just returned than this bathtub spout cover with the face of a cartoon character on it, nothing is wrong with it...

And slowly she opened the register drawer and began fishing for change, as she pushed a receipt across the counter that required my signature, phone number, and address be filled out. Just as I was about to scribble illegibly, I saw that the refund was only $1.47! This must be a mistake, only $1.47 for this brand-new toy? "It's the price when y'all don't have a reciept." Incredulously, I asked "And so what is the price when I DO have a reciept?" But I didn't get an answer, and I wouldn't have waited for one, because I was so holy-rolling mad at wasting twenty-five minutes standing in that returns line —breathing stale air and looking at the backs of heads with greasy dermatological conditions— that I wasnt going to give depressing retail slum Wal-Mart the pleasure of keeping this stupid bathtub toy that they can re-stock then re-sell for full price! I won't be anyones' chump for $1.47!! (Though now I suppose I was a chump anyway, and got nothing for it).

So I told the clerk she can forget it, and stormed away, muttering aloud to myself how much I dislike Wal-Mart for being such a depressing retail slum, damn you Wal-Mart, etc., and an overly-sensitive customer walking into the store stopped and barked at me demanding to know what the hell did I just call him? I got away from there and vowed to never be a patron of depressing retail slum Wal-Mart again.

And because my righteous pride wouldn't let Wal-Mart take advantage of THIS old man, I now have a cartoon face garden hose cover and bubble solution for washing out the garage in the spring…
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Koogle Peanut Butter

Raise your hand if you remember Koogle Peanut Butter.

If you are older than 30, but a week younger than 50, you may recall childhood memories of your mother stocking the pantry shelf with those squat little jars of artificially-flavored peanut butter. It came in enticing flavors like Banana, Cinnamon, Chocolate, and there was one other flavor and I cannot recall what it was but I seem to think my grandmother stirred it into her curry recipes and we ate it on naan…

The mascot was a hairy blob with eyes, and he had a voice like the Kool-Aid Man. His catchphrase was "Koogle: With the Koo-Goo-Googly Eyes." Is your hand going up now?

Eraserhead: The Movie AND the Dream

I had a dream wherein an embalmed cow fetus was living in my bedroom, crying all night, and then I went to church where a dumpy white woman with buttered scones pasted to her cheeks (or was it mashed potatoes?) was singing "I'm In Heaven When You Smile" by Van Morrison, and a tree was bleeding maple syrup all over the floor, and the woman hugged me and I woke up next to David Lynch.

Weird, uh-huh.

And I really only wanted to see this movie ever since Alex Lifeson sported a huge Eraserhead button on his lapel during the Permanent Waves 1980 World Tour. And so now, I must live with the knowledge that human brain matter can be made into suitable rubber eraser tips in the pencil manufacturing industry…

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