An open letter to Dr. George Lawrnece Mensa

>> Friday, March 07, 2014

Re: Important Notification.6.7


Dr. George Lawrence Mensa (      4:39 AM
From:Dr. George Lawrence Mensa (
Sent:Thu 3/06/14 4:39 AM

Attn: Beneficiary,

I'm Dr. George Lawrence Mensa, the General Manager of Hsbc Bank. We wish to urgently confirm from you if actually you know one Mrs. Jeanne White who claims to be your business associate/partner.

Kindly reconfirm this application put in by Mrs. Jeanne White - she submitted the under listed bank account information supposedly sent by you to receive the funds on your behalf.

The bank information she applied with are stated thus:

Account Name: Jeanne White

Bank name: Citi Bank NA

Bank address: #1230 Arch Street, Philadelphia, PA 19107, USA

Account Number: 013439887655

Routing Number: 2771722

Swift Code: CITIUS30

The said Mrs. Jeanne White is claiming to this office that you are dead and have Instructed that all relevant documentation/Information regarding your Payment/Transfer, be changed to her as the beneficiary of the payment short-listed among the foreign beneficiaries entitled to receive their payment.

For your Information, our Government have approved the total amount of EIGHT MILLION, FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND UNITED STATES DOLLARS ONLY, in your favor, prior to the Federal Government instructions/mandate to offset all outstanding payments to the various legal foreign beneficiaries around the world and your payment file was affected. We need to confirm from you if it's really true that you are dead as made mention by your Associate.

You should note that, if we do not hear from you; we automatically assume that you are actually dead and the information passed to us by Mrs. Jeanne White is correct. Hence, you are hereby requested to reply this Email immediately for confirmation, before we proceed with this payment and for us to know the true position of things with you so we won't make any mistakes/errors in remitting your out-standing payment to a wrong


Lastly, If she's not authorized by you to claim your funds, then be advised to reply back this email with your full information as required below for re-confirmation.

Full name....................................

Direct telephone number......................





Bank name....................................

Bank address.................................

Bank account.................................

Account type.................................

Your quick response will help us a lot.

Yours, Sincerely,

Dr. George Mensa.
Dear Dr. Mensa,

Words cannot begin to express my outrage at the outright fraud being perpetrated here.  I am grateful, of course, that you've brought this vital matter to my attention, that I may attempt to correct it before things get any more out-of-hand than they already are.  This is a travesty, and I demand that all proper and necessary steps be taken to address this injury and insult to my interests.

It is impossible for me to wrap my head around the fact you're even having to address this matter to me, personally.  I would have thought it was utterly obvious what is going on here.  I would have thought any decent human being in the world would have seen all of the red flags raised here and directly addressed the problem.  I must conclude, then, that someone here is a fool, or thinks that I am.

Fine, then.  Let's get this over with.  You know as well as I do, Dr. Mensa, that your government owes me EIGHT MILLION, FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND UNITED STATES DOLLARS AND THIRTY-FIVE CENTS.

"EIGHT MILLION, FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND UNITED STATES DOLLARS ONLY," you write in your missive.  "ONLY"?!  Hardly.  Hardly "only".  You owe me EIGHT MILLION, FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND UNITED STATES DOLLARS AND THIRTY-FIVE CENTS.  I shouldn't have to point out the profound difference between EIGHT MILLION, FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND UNITED STATES DOLLARS AND THIRTY-FIVE CENTS and EIGHT MILLION, FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND UNITED STATES DOLLARS ONLY.  You know as well as I do, or you wouldn't have had to add the qualifier.

There are some people out there who might become cognizant of our dispute and wonder, "Eight-and-a-half million dollars is a lot of money--is thirty-five cents that big of a deal?"  These people are, of course, cretins.  We have a small thing in this world called "civilization", and this thing, this civilization, is a thing of laws and principles, a thing of ethics, something your government, Dr. Mensa, has lost sight of.  Without laws, principles and ethics, we are nothing but animals.  Animals who have airplanes and nuclear bombs and reality television, yes, but take away those things and tell me you can distinguish one of us from a baboon.  Without looking at the ass, I mean.  Obviously, baboons have a red ass and humans often don't, but I think you see my point.  A chimpanzee could pilot an unmanned drone deep into the heart of an ostensibly neutral country and fire its payload of heavy explosives at a civilian funeral as well as any human could, although you might have to install some kind of microchip in his brain or something, but would he do it ethically?  We are told that a million monkeys, sitting at a million typewriters for a million years would inevitably some day type up the complete works of William Shakespeare: I say, that sure would be something to see, though I hope there's somebody who comes through and cleans up the vast mountains of monkeyshit that would accumulate far more quickly than the Bard's immortal words.  The point of the observation being, of course, that the difference between William Shakespeare and a million monkeys is that Shakespeare had principles, never actually used a typewriter because Mr. Typewriter wouldn't be born until many centuries after Bacon's death, and Shakespeare only wore a diaper as an adult that one time and he never it did again after Queen Elizabeth chastised him (something she never would have done to a million monkeys, because she would've immediately seen the necessity of making sure the monkeys didn't leave feces all over the whole of Europe like a bunch of Spaniards).

Q.E.D., Dr. Mensa.  Q.E.D.

As for Ms. White, my dear friend: yes, I know her quite well, and she has correctly represented my interests as posthumously directed, for I am, indeed, dead, as she so correctly informed you.  She is, in point of fact, quite well aware of my demise as I have it on good authority she was present at my autopsy, where she repeatedly asked the Medical Examiner if he really thought my cause of death was heart failure when the only part of my body recoverable for my exam was the charred and mangled end of my left arm from just below the shoulder to (three of) my fingertips, recovered from a swimming pool many miles from where several hundred survivors observed a rather large and frightening explosion.

"Are you sure it was heart failure?" Jeanne asked.

"Ja, ja!  Who ees ze Herr Doktor here?" replied the Medical Examiner.  "Who hast ze Doktor mooostache in ze room, ja?"

It is, of course, not my place to argue with science, least of all science articulated by a gentleman with such an undeniably fine doctoring moustache as the Medical Examiner's, which is either waxed or oiled, and which frames a marvelously well-manicured Van Dyke.  (Indeed, I am given to understand that this Van Dyke has led to all the Medical Examiners in the world declaring our local Medical Examiner their true liege lord and king of their faerie realm.)  Thus I regret to inform you of my death by heart failure.  Our Ms. White's information is absolutely genuine and correct, and she has full authorization to act on my behalf.

But surely you already knew that.  I mean, she showed you the arm, right?  She was supposed to show you the arm.  And wave it at you and hit you with it if you tried to cheat her out of my thirty-five cents like you obviously tried to do.

I would like to be absolutely clear on this point: I am not prepared to be reasonable about this thirty-five cents nor do I see why I ought to be.  It is, as stated previously, a matter of principle.  And principal, but not interest, though it ought to be and I'm obviously interested in my thirty-five cents.  I will have my whole sum or I will have nothing.  I may be dead, but it hasn't affected my sense of right and wrong.  (Mostly just my sense of direction, as I no longer have semicircular canals.  Or eyes.  Really, I'm just basically an arm at this point, or most of one.  Most of a dead arm.)  I will not be cheated: I deserve thirty-five cents, and I will have thirty-five cents.  At this point, frankly, the thirty-five cents is probably more important than the eight million, five hundred thousand dollars, because we agree on the eight million, five hundred thousand dollars; but as to the thirty-five cents, I am right and you are wrong and I will be vindicated.  Don't even think I won't be.

I realize that a business matter between gentlemen would normally be pursued in private correspondence between the parties, but I am publishing this as an open letter so as to let the whole entirety of the world know what cheap and rotten chiselers you are.  A country that would take advantage of a disembodied, burned and (if we must be frank about all our faults for the sake of fairness) rather past-its-"sell-by"-date arm is a country lacking in decency and honor.  (As to that last bit, it's basically a figure of speech, because really nobody would buy a charred and disfigured arm even if it were fresh.  If you're looking to procure arms, you really want to go with something that hasn't been set on fire and catapulted several miles to land in a swimming pool where it bobbed around a bit for several days, which wouldn't have happened if someone cleaned the pool more often, but possibly I digress at this point.)  You should be ashamed, Dr. Mensa, ashamed.  A man with a medical moustache and no principles, what kind of man is that?  It probably isn't that good a moustache to begin with--yes, this is an unfair attack ad capillum, but what can a man expect when he's siding with villains, cheats and knaves who would deny a man what's due him?  (He can expect to have his moustache insulted.  Just in case you didn't see where I was going with that.)

The list of your treacheries seems endless.  You would cheat a man of his thirty-five cents.  You'd hassle a bereaved and grief-stricken woman.  You'd rob an unarmed man.  What chicanery might be next?  Kicking an orphan?  Leaving a burning bag of poo on a blind nun's doorstep?  Hamster-baiting?  Vile iniquity!  Iniquitous vileness!

You, sir, shall be hearing from my attorneys.  As soon as they finish typing Troilus and Cressida and their handlers change them.

R. Eric VanNewkirk,


Warner Friday, March 7, 2014 at 2:27:00 PM EST  

Citibank routing number is:


TimBo Friday, March 7, 2014 at 4:04:00 PM EST  

George sat up suddenly. He'd been dreaming again. The Dream. Wasn't real life strange enough that he had to endure The Dream night after night? It had been another hard day at work. Shouldn't having a doctorate in in Commerce should make working in Accounts Disbursements a cake walk? Apparently not. A lot of unfair things seemed to be happening to him.

He listened. Was that it, or was it just the neighbour's gate moving with wind? Probably the gate. It had come only yesterday and he could usually depend on at least two nights between visits. Nothing, no sounds at all. Good. Maybe he'd finally get a good rest. It seemed like years. It had been better when Amy had still been with him, but she'd taken Ali, their three year old along when she' left. God, he missed them, but he couldn't blame them.

Wait … what's that? Lying very quietly now George listened for the “scritch, scritch”. Yes, it was here. In the hallway just outside Ali's room. It would soon be in his bedroom. There was no sense hiding, he'd tried before, even going as far as flying to Australia. The arm always followed and somehow made things worse. How the arm got into the house was a mystery. He'd had pest control come several times to block any holes, but the arm always came. Once he'd hired a security guard but old Mr. Schmidt was never seen again.

“Scritch, scritch”. Outside the bathroom now.

Nothing seemed to work. Not the garbageman. Not the Priest. Not the Voodoo lady, she'd frightened him almost as much as the arm did. He'd even tried the full force of the law, but the arm had been a shyster lawyer before losing its body and was able block every move his own lawyer could come up with.

“Scritch, scritch”. At the bedroom doorway now.

Only one thing to do. Give it the damn thirty-five cents. It would only take all pennies or three dimes an a nickel. Giving it anything else was a waste of time. That's why he always kept the coin purse with him at all times.

“Scritch, scritch”. At the foot of the bed.

“Here's you thirty-five cents”, he said reaching for his purse. Reaching, reaching. Where was it?

“Scritch, scritch” The arm was crawling onto the bed now. There was no sense running. Just an accounting error. Really, just an accounting error.

Eric Friday, March 7, 2014 at 6:15:00 PM EST  

Well-done, Tim, and thank you.

::applauds--but it's only the sound of one hand clapping::

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