Scam Bait - Tears for Cheers Coalition

By Bub 




From: FROM UN
Subject: WINNING APPROVAL PAYMENT CODE:(511) FROM UN AND WORLD BANK


Our Ref: UN/EU/CITIBANK/511

WORLD BANK GROUP AND UNITED NATION ORGANIZATION do hereby give this irrevocable approval order with Release Code: GNC/3480/02/00 in your favor for your contract entitlement/award winning payment with the UNITED NATION to your nominated bank account. Now you’re new Payment,United nation Approval No;UN5685P,White House Approved No:WH44CV, Reference No.-35460021, Allocation No: 674632 Password No: 339331 , Pin Code No: 55674 and your Certificate of Merit Payment No : 103 , Released Code No: 0763; Immediate Citibank Telex confirmation No: -1114433 ; Secret Code No: XXTN013, Having received these vital payment number , therefore You are qualified now to received and confirm Your payment with the United Nation immediately within the next 72hrs.

As a matter of fact, you are required to Deal and Communicate only with MR ANDREW WOLLEY, DIRECTOR INTERNATIONAL REMMITTANCE CITIBANK OF UNITED KINGDOM, with the help and monitory team from the CITIBANK OF NEW YORK which is our official remitting bank, Committee On Foreign Payment Matters in United Nation, has look up to make sure you receive your fund valued $8.3m. So contact:MR ANDREW WOLLEY on his contact information,Direct Citibank Telephone No +44-7045700247, Cell/mobile +44-7031899725 or cell/mobile +44-Fax Number:870 28 7323, Email:andrewwolley3425@aol.com for immediate release of your contract/inheritance/Award Winning claim Be informed that you are not allowed to correspond with any person or office anymore, You are required to send bellow informati

1) YOUR FULL NAME:
2) FULL ADDRESS OF YOUR CITY,STATE AND COUNTRY:
3) PHONE,FAX AND MOBILE:
4) COMPANY NAME,POSITION AND ADDRESS:
5) BANK INFORMATIONS:
a) BANK NAME:
b) BANK ADRESS:
c) ACCOUNT NUMBER:
d) SWIFT CODE/ ROUTING NUMBER:
6) PROFESSION,AGE AND MARITAL STATUS:
7) A COPY OF YOUR INT'L PASSPORT/DRIVERS LICENSE

NOTE: YOUR PERSONAL CONTACT/COMMUNICATIONCODE WITH CITIBANK IS(511),YOU ARE ARE ADVICE TO SEND YOU FULL BANKING INFORMATION TO THE CITIBANK OF LONDON INTERNATIONAL REMMITTANCE DIRECTOR HEADED BY MR ANDREW WOLLEY AND MAKE SURE YOU SPEAK WITH HIM, WITH YOUR NEW PAYMENT CODE FOR RELEASE OF YOUR PAYMENT AND SEND HIM ALL YOUR BANKING INFORMATION NOW.

CONTACT CODE(511)
OFFICER:MR ANDREW WOLLEY.
POSITION:DIRECTOR,INTL,REMMITTANCE CITIBANK LONDON.
TELEPHONE OFFICE/BANK:+44-7045700247 ,
FAX NUMBER:+44870 28 7323
CELL/MOBILE: +447031899725,
EMAIL:andrewwolley3425@aol.com

SIR FRANK PETERSON.
(CHAIRMAN COMMITTE ON FOREIGN CONTRACT/AWARD WINING PAYMENT UNITED
NATION AND USA GOVERNMENT).

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



Dear World Bank Group and United Nation Organization, Mr Andrew Wolley, and Sir Frank Peterson,

I am honored to be named the winner of the UN and World Bank prize. I know there were many other worthy candidates - Mohamed Yunus, Aung San Suu Kyi, Kei$ha; and more controversial candidates - Omar al Bashir, Tony Haywood, Dennis Rader, etc. I am proud to be mentioned along with such renowned/hated names. As part of my work with the Tears for Cheers Coalition I have toiled unrecognized for the greater good and sometimes I wonder if I actually do any good at all. Thanks to this long-deserved reward, I know that any damages or casualties that have resulted from my public service have instantly been subjected to legal immunities, and have been forgotten.

As you are well aware, I serve as the CEO and Board of Directors of the unregistered 401(c)3 not-for-profit organization, Tears for Cheers Coalition (T4CC). I have committed myself to the work of gathering tears of rich westerners to sell as drinking water in remote areas of the third world. Tears, of course, are not as nourishing or hydrating as real water, but in many instances they are tastier. And tears, unlike the Ebola infested well-water they drink in the non-aligned countries, will not kill them because they are all already infected with AIDS.

These literal beggars cannot be choosers. I have in fact reached agreements with the governments of Equatorial Guinea, Guinea, Guinea Bissau, Guinea McCarthy, and the breakaway Nigerian republic of Biafra to criminalize the refusal by beggars of donated tears in exchange for some good or service. We do not ask for much, and are happy to accept even the most modest of sex acts, or meekest of children as payment. The children we receive as payment become upwardly mobile by becoming the first in their family to be gainfully employed - in one of our nine tear factories throughout Africa and Asia. We use these childrens' unclean tears to dilute the pure western tears in order to make our resources last longer and save more lives.

Our methods of tear extraction are among the most humane in the tear extraction business. Unlike our predecessors we have discontinued the use of physical torture devices such as the iron maiden, the spinal tap, and the metallica, in favor of non-physical tear inducing methods. For our third world factories, we translate Morrissey records to the childrens' native tongues and play them on loop as we show them pictures of their family members that have died of dehydration after ingesting tears as a substitute for water. For our western donors, we simply show them video of what transpires in our third world factories.

Once the children reach adulthood they have attained valuable crying skills that will help them cope with whatever soul-crushing forced servitude they choose/are sold into as a career.

As you are aware, the work we do is vital to the lives of millions, if not billions worldwide. Which is why I humbly accept your prize and donate all the proceeds back to T4CC. I choose to accept this offer even under your Draconian stipulation that I will not be allowed to make contact with any person or office anymore. I am willing to make that sacrifice if it means that it will put even one more frown on an underprivileged child's face. Thanks to my generous act we will now be able to hire a team of Quechua and Aymara speaking Morrissey translators in order to reach out to the untapped Amazonian tear market. We will not stop until the day a Zimbabwean boy has the luxury of crying at the death of a pop star, or a Bhutanese girl can weep openly because her mom read the AIM chat transcripts between her and her boyfriend. When that day comes, tears will become universally superfluous, and we will become trillionaires. God bless the crying children of the world.

Tears and Cheers,
Bub

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To Susan:

By Bryan

Enclosed you will find a USB stick containing “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want” by the Smiths. Please import it into your media player of choice (it’s non-DRM) and play it as you read this. The song is rather short, so you might want to set it on repeat. At no time, though, should you read this without that song playing, or with a different song playing, even if it’s by the Smiths or Morrissey solo. Also, I used this USB stick for work, so if you find anything else on the drive, such as some spreadsheets or PowerPoint presentations, please ignore them. In fact, they’re technically company sensitive materials, and as you don’t work for my company, you’re not privy to them, so please delete whatever you see, to DOD spec (seven wipes).

Press play now.


Susan, you’re receiving one of several personalized suicide notes I’ve produced for this occasion. There is one master note that will be what should be published to the press (and which does mention you, by name), but people I think played a substantial part in my choice to end my life are getting their own personal notes. For years, just your mere existence has caused me endless suffering and misery, and I can honestly say had you died a while ago, I wouldn’t be at this point. But you continue on, so I cannot.

Maybe you’re wondering why I’m saying these things, and trying and failing to think of anything you’ve ever done that would have possibly caused me such grief. I’m not surprised: that’s the same old Susan, completely oblivious to others (especially me) and absorbed in her own world. Maybe you’re thinking that I was merely a casual acquaintance and we never had a kind of relationship that would merit this attention from me in my final moments. Once again, S.O.S. (which I’ve come to use in my journal as shorthand for “Same old Susan”), never considering others (especially not me) and always taking interpersonal relationships for granted.

You probably don’t even realize that over the past five years, we’ve spent a total of 27 hours together. Do you understand how much time that is, Susan? Probably not, because to you time is merely something to be wasted, and whose company you spend it in is irrelevant. But let me try and break that down for you: that’s 1620 minutes, or 97,200 seconds. Now I want you to do an exercise: close your eyes, and count to one. Now imagine doing that almost ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND TIMES, and you’ll have an idea of the true amount of time we’ve spent together.

Now that you have some perspective on the extent of our relationship, maybe I can help you understand the misery you’ve made me endure. See, Susan, I may only know you through Jim and Sarah, and our interactions have primarily been through parties at said friends’ home, along with the occasional Facebook message or email survey (which you NEVER respond to) but every moment we’ve spent together has been, for better or worse, monumental.

Remember when we met, at Jim and Sarah’s Christmas party? Probably not, you inconsiderate bitch. Sorry, I’m a little emotional right now; killing myself, remember? You probably already forgot that, too. But there was something special about that night; I thought we really bonded as the night went on. We talked about preferences towards modern Christmas music (post-1960) versus the “classics”; I told you about the different novelty Christmas ornaments I had growing up; and I even went and made you a cup of hot cocoa. Did you realize I made it, and that there wasn’t some kind of magical hot cocoa pot in the kitchen? That I took the time to pick out a perfect mug (did you even notice? It was festive, but reserved; not classy, but classical), heat it to the right temperature, add in the marshmallows at the exact moment where they’d melt slightly but not all the way, then cool it off for you to a digestible temperature. You probably thought that this just happened, but guess what Susan? Not everything just works out perfectly in this world; sometimes you have to work for things, not like you’d know anything about that.

Sure, that entire interaction was under an hour, but in some way it completely surmised and expressed the entirety of my existence. Birth, life, death, joy, sorrow, pain, pleasure, all contained within that bit of pleasantries and conversation. I know it was nothing to you Susan, and looking back I see you probably gave me your email address as a way to get me to stop bothering you without having to give me your number, but at the time it was some kind of penultimate moment that my life had building up to: the edge of the cliff, over which was either immaculate beauty or monstrous doom. Apparently, the latter was what I was destined for.

The rest of our meetings and communications consisted of much the same script: me making sacrifices, giving all of myself, you barely even noticing. Last month’s encounter was no different, and I would say that it was the proverbial “final straw.”

Another year, another Christmas party: this time, I’d say we interacted for a grand total of fifteen minutes, but had it been fifteen days, the only difference would have been the sun rising and setting. We discussed our mutual hatred of bluetooth headsets, our optimism for this new year and its multiple advantages over the last, and then I went to get you a glass of eggnog. Sure, it wasn’t the venture that the years' past hot cocoa was, but I made sure you once again received an appropriate glass, and I had to open a new bottle just to fill said glass. Then, after our years of playing this game, you couldn’t even afford me the simple pleasantries I’d been granted in past years. As I came back, glass in hand, I saw you, Susan, talking to Greg, sipping some OTHER glass of eggnog. Where you got it from, I have no idea (I noticed no one else in the kitchen, so I have to have assume it was that bastard Greg’s... hope you didn’t catch anything, you whore!) but what does matter was that as I stood there, egg on my face and eggnog in my hand, I knew I’d finally fallen over that cliff, and there was no other destination for me but down.

So here we are, Susan. You reading this, on the fourth, fifth, maybe sixth play through of “Please Let Me Get What I want” (though knowing you, you never even played it once, did you?), and me, lying here, my bowels released and my last breath spent. Maybe now you realize it’s all your fault, but somehow I doubt that. But I’ll know, and so will everyone else (that main suicide note does a great deal to implicate you as almost wholly responsible), and that’s satisfying in these last moments.

And I swear to God, if you don’t wipe that USB stick, I will haunt you and Greg for the rest of your days.

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