It wasn’t so long ago that I was plagued by tsunamis of email from a) a minor African functionary who had been squirreling away windfall profits and now desperately needed my help in smuggling them out of his impoverished country (and I couldn’t help thinking that if he was on the level, he was the unluckiest poor devil who ever lived, to have settled on an aging nincompoop in Norfolk, Virginia, as his savior. He could have thrown a javelin into a methadone clinic and struck a more responsible and capable avatar than yours truly), or b) Ludmila, last name not offered, who had apparently devoted her life to helping me achieve greater volume, and I’ll leave that right there. But in case you assume that I, having slipped out from under the avalanche of unwanted communications from annoying assholes, now while away my days skipping gaily through meadows of black-eyed susans, you are so wrong. First of all, I don’t skip gaily. If I ever tried it, my great folds and flaps of adipose tissue would churn as if I were a bit player in a bad sci-fi movie and an alien were trying to escape from inside me after its egg or whatnot was implanted unbeknownst to me within my person. Second of all, the role of Wally-tormentor has been ably filled by an annoying asshole name of Reince Priebus (you’d think he’d put just a little effort into coming up with a believable fake name, wouldn’t you?) and he seems to have concluded that I am desperate to make Barack Obama a one-term president, and he is happy to offer me an avenue to express myself financially.  He writes to me at least once a month, and he’s not at all deterred by  my profane responses. Here’s a paragraph from today’s letter:

Your urgent gift is extremely important.
(How does he know how urgent I feel about sending him a gift? Or maybe he’s throwing me a softball and allowing me to get all elitist on his ass, surmising that I’ll be so grateful for the opportunity to sneer at his poor communication skills that I’ll send an unmanned drone chock full of cash in his direction.) Walt, you know as well as I do that you won’t hear President Obama’s cheerleaders in the liberal media reporting about his dismal economic record. (This can be best characterized as a....um...okay, as a lie. Why mince words?) Walt, I admit it, I’m a craven mouth-breathing sloping-forehead greedy bastard who doesn’t give a shit about people worse off than me--after all, if there were nobody worse off than me, then I’d be on the bottom, am I right, Walt? (Okay he didn’t really say that last thing. I’m depressing myself talking about this jerkoff, so I’m going to go have some Puffy Chee--fookin ell, I can’t even have them! Sigh.)