Email scams? Must be an election year

It appears that I could be a millionaire several times over if only I would answer unsolicited correspondence from people I don’t know.
A flurry of emails from people with names like Mr. Nyejiowanaka Gogo, Mr. Bangu Mali and Mr. Kabore Umaru have informed me that all I need to do to collect is to provide all my personal information.
Mr. Gogo — a creative enough name but it would have been more believable if he had called himself Mr. Whiskey A. Gogo or Mr. Wakemeupbeforeu Gogo — is particularly adamant about getting my name, cell phone number, age, sex, occupations, city and country. If I provide that information, I can take home 40 percent of $25 million that was left to him by a relative who died in a plane crash in 2000.
Mr. Mali, on the other hand, went so far as to identify the relative in his email, one Andreas Schranner, who along with his wife died in what we left to assume must have been a different plane crash, this one on July 31, 2000. Neither Mr. Gogo nor Mr. Mali reveal the details of where the aforementioned tragedy occurred. (A Google search reveals that Mr. Schranner and his wife did perish in a tragic Concorde plane crash from Germany to New York that killed all 109 people aboard.)
But Mr. Mali, that shyster, is only offering 35 percent of $10.15 million.
Mr. Umaru is offering a 60/30 split on $10.8 million — again from the same plane crash — but is deducting the remaining 10 percent for his expenses. In addition to all the other personal information, he also wants my address.
And then there is Ms. Judy Jones, who would like to give me $1 million pounds from a United Kingdom National Lottery promotion. Ms. Jones isn’t asking for any personal information yet, but apparently I didn’t even have to buy a lottery ticket to win. The winner is chosen through a free email drawing.
These are all fun names being used on old email scams. But apparently some people think other people are stupid and gullible and that’s why these emails keep popping up. And with an election in November — which features a bevy of unqualified mopes and mopettes running for elected offices across several states who have been bamboozling the citizenry — they may just be right.

Lassoing a pardner for the rodeo proves elusive

I guess there just aren’t many real cowboys or cowgirls in the East Coast contingent of my family.
The Liberty Pro Rodeo was in town last weekend, sponsored by the LuLu Shriners in Plymouth Meeting. I have attended events at LuLu in the past, like the circus, and the group puts on fine shows.
So I thought the rodeo would be a fun event for the family to attend. It’s not something we normally get an opportunity to do.
See, I earned my cowboy chops growing up in the Midwest, where I once wore boots and a cowboy hat while serving as an usher at the wedding of a guy named Cletus, who was actually a rodeo cowboy for a time. So I’ve got outdoor arena cred.
“Hey, I’ve got tickets to the rodeo this weekend!” I announced to the family when I got home Friday evening from work.
“Me, go to a rodeo? You’re out of your mind,” said The Blonde Accountant, restating a common malady of mine which should come as no surprise to her.
Criminny sakes, looks like I may have stepped in it.
Daughter of Blonde Accountant was equally as adamant about not attending the rodeo. As it turned out, I had failed to take into consideration that the two people in the house who most consistently wear open-toed shoes might not want to be in the vicinity where the bulls and horses roam.
I think Son of Blonde Accountant would have gone with me to the rodeo, but with all the dirt and leather, he would have done so expecting that a ballgame would have broken out at some point in the proceedings.
The tickets were also offered to Older Daughter, who was born in Illinois and who I believe has at least seen a horse and a bull, but she was unavailable for the weekend. Younger Daughter, who has got a little country in her as well, passed on the tickets without comment. Apparently the aroma of fresh rodeo is not enough to entice a teenager to give up a Saturday night.
Alas, there were no takers and I had to eat the tickets. Now I’ve got a build-up of unused “yee-has!” and no appropriate venue at which to unload them.
Surely there’s an upcoming tractor pull within driving distance in my future?