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Chain Letters

Nieman-Marcus Cookie Recipe:
I have received this one dozens of times over the years. Please don't send it to me again. I don't believe it and I don't even think it's funny. And, there are like 2,800 people around the world who think it's so funny, they've plastered it across their own pathetic little websites like it's the next best thing to sliced bread (or cookies). What's more, I live in Australia and I don't even know what a cookie is. A biscuit, yes (and no, we call them things bread rolls). A cookie is something that sits on your computer, not something you buy from a fricken' shop at 5 bucks each and then try and convince the world, you actually got their secret recipe out of them. Next, you'll be trying to tell me you know what Colonel Sander's Secret Herbs (not 'erbs either dickhead) and Spices are, or what's in McDonalds Secret Sauce. I already know, and that why I'll never eat a Big Mac again.

Bill Gates is not going to give me a thousand dollars:
Not that he couldn't afford to give every man, woman, child and spazmoid who can hit the forward button on his email program a thousand dollars, but guess what, he is not going to do squat just because 'he' asks you to send a chain letter through the ether. If you do happen to believe that 'he' can track where emails are going through the internet, then all of that kiddie porn you've been downloading after the wife and kids have gone to bed can be tracked as well. So if you see a pizza van sitting outside your bedroom window at 2:00am, get a big hammer and smash the living daylights out of your hard drive ... before you send than damn email from 'Bill' through to me, again. Asshats.

No thanks, I believe my kidneys are exactly where they're supposed to be:
Oh, you know the one, where the reports are coming in thick and fast from 'your city' (conveniently left as 'your city', rather than naming your damn city) about the guy who woke up in a bathtub full of ice, after a hard night with some new found friends, and one of their kidneys missing. Trust me. If I were going after one of your kidneys I wouldn't be so kind as to actually let you try and recover in a bathtub full of ice. I would have iced your ass so you wouldn't be able to even remotely try and identify me to the cops. Even if this happened to one of your friends cousins, I would suggest that you change friends (or they change cousins), 'cos it simply isn't happening boys and girls. If you have ever, remotely considered that this is actually happening, after receiving a chain letter about it, then I've got a bridge (you know that famous bridge in 'your city') that I would like to sell you. Morons.

Any chain letter in general:
Let me let you in on a little secret. When you send an email to me and you haven't deleted the 800 pages of previous recipients and senders, then you and them are all going to be subscribed to one of the worst porn sites I can find. Jesus Christ on a fucking pogo stick people. If you think this crap is so fucking funny, then at least have the fucking decency to remove the 500 people who have previously ended up with this crap in their mailboxes who DIDN'T send it to me. You see, they are probably clever people who have their email program to automatically trash everything that comes from you. As I probably don't know you and you definately don't know me, stop sending this crap through the ether to me. You, your friend (and his cousin) and a pack of idiots.

Your phone company does not let other people make free calls from your phone after dialling 90#:
Actually I have no idea whether this is true, say, in some backwards friggen' countries where telephones are still considered a luxury and you have to book an appointment time in 3 years for them to come out. What I can tell you is that is in our western country, 90# does squat. Nothing. Diddly. Zip, ZIlch, Nada. Nothing at fucking all. It's bogus. But no, you have to be the fucking good citizen nazi and send this particular piece of crap through to me, not once, not twice, but three times over the last couple of weeks, simply because you are so terrified that you keep on hearing about it, it must be true. So, just you wait. I'll reverse lookup your number (from the CIA telephone directory) call you, tell you I'm from the phone company and we're testing your line, so could you please press 90#. And when you do (you idiot), I'll blow a fucking whistle down the line at you so you never have to answer the fucking phone again, thereby removing yourself from the little scam and from my life forever. Dickhead!

There is no gang that drives around at night with their lights off, just waiting for you to 'flash' them them so they can be initiated into the gang by blowing your head off:
Pity, really. 'Cos I think you would be a prime candidate.
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