I have a new friend

Not too long ago, I received this extremely important e-mail regarding an urgent matter:   Good Day, I am Ms. Yael Ronen; I am getting in touch with you regarding an extremely important and urgent matter. If you would oblige me the opportunity, I shall provide you with details upon your response. Faithfully,
 Ms. Yael Ronen   Being the munificent individual that I am, I naturally obliged and responded as follows:   Dear Ms. Yael Ronen, Please forgive my tardy response as I was diving for pearls off my yacht, which is moored near an exclusive and secretive isle. But that is just one of my many hobbies. Racing yachts is my passion, as is bullfighting and also eating Swiss chocolate and collecting Swiss watches. Do you like chocolate? It’s my most favorite food, next to octopus and gruyere omelets or perhaps hickory smoked veal topped with caramelized goat testicles. If you would please give me details of your extremely important and urgent matter, I shall respond to you forthwith and with due haste, as I enjoy helping people. I am well known for my philanthropic organization, as I am also well known for my bronze, tanned torso, which is quite muscular, I can assure you. Tomorrow shall find me yacht shopping or perhaps brunching with celebrities, such as Khloe Kardashian or Drew Carey, who I find to be excellent companions and who will most likely accompany me on a helicopter ride near Helsinki to tag narwhals for the National Geographic television programme. Nonetheless, I urge you to write me back. From which province do you hail? Do you like dominoes? Do you like Twister? I’m referring to the movie starring Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton, not the game, which I find boring, as I always win. You see, I’m a 12th degree Yogi, having earned my turquoise belt from the Master Obi Juan Valdez during a yearlong vision quest in the hidden strip malls of Orlando, Florida. Cheers. Bon soir. Do write, Your New Friend.   Though it took a few days, my new friend did indeed write back, thank goodness. It was quite a lengthy response, which I will sum up for you, dear reader. Ms. Ronen is an Israeli banker who contacted me regarding a matter that is very important and very legitimate. Though I was initially wary, the fact that Ms. Ronen pointed out her reasons were both very important and legitimate – “very legitimate,” actually – I was assuaged thusly. Ms. Ronen has been banking for 10 years and one of her clients died unexpectedly, leaving behind a $13 million estate.

His name is Kelvin Perry. My last name is Perry. So perhaps we can work something out? Ms. Ronen also further assured me that she couldn’t lie because of her religion. She wanted to know some personal information about me before we go any further. I felt completely at ease in providing her a brief synopsis of my life, which was this:   Ms. Yael Ronen, I can see this is indeed a very serious, very important and very legitimate matter. Please allow me to tell you about myself so that you can legitimately and legally bestow upon me a sum of $13 million U.S. that is rightfully mine. I was born in a whaling skiff off the Barbary Coast. Though I am a seafarer by nature, I often find myself excavating the swamps of Vermont in search of Plutarch’s gold. Or just laying in a hammock listening to Bread and drinking fresh maple syrup. Currently I am involved in a dangerous expedition to retrieve the secret formula of Coca-Cola, which is buried somewhere just outside Tucumcari, New Mexico, under an abandoned roller rink and munitions factory. Already we have lost three men but I feel we are close. So close. To fund my adventures and desire to collect yachts, I sell my plasma, which contains tiny particles of anti-matter. Though NASA desperately wants to get some, they will never get any! That is unless my demand of one (1) space shuttle equipped with a disco ball and wet bar is finally met. About 10 years ago, I invented fat-free ranch dressing, but the nefarious Dr. Kraft stole the recipe from me while constructing my underwater laboratory, which sits at the bottom of the lagoon surrounding the 17th hole at TPC Sawgrass. I wish I had foreseen how many Titleists were going to hit my roof! You wouldn’t believe how much duct tape I go through in the spring and summer! So that fat-free ranch dressing fortune was stolen from me, which has been a bitter pill, let me tell you. Enjoy your salads, you traitors. I now find myself eager to lay claim to the fortune of my dear deceased fourth cousin, good ‘ol Kelvin Perry. His parents, Celsius and Fahrenheit, were always so kind to me, and I to them. So here’s this: My blood type is Cholula. I’m 112 years old, but I’ve learned to bend time, which is not unlike a Twizzler left in a warm Oldsmobile. My middle name is T. No period, mind you, but it was the end of the sentence. Just T. Again, no period. Rhymes with tea. I’m unsure of my exact birth date because the Barbary pirates keep no record of such things and spend their days re-wiring Commodore 64 computers and playing minesweeper with actual mines. They also enjoy reading aloud to one another passages from the writings of Susan Sontag. Go figure. Enough about me. I’m eager to hear what it’s like in Israel. I understand it’s pretty mellow and everyone gets along nicely. Do you have Golden Corrals there? You should totally check out the GoCo. They have fountains of chocolate! Fountains, I tell you! I must now prepare my drone, which is equipped with surround sound speakers and which I will use to fly high above the estate of Don Henley, the least talented Eagle of them all, and blare Poco for 12 hours non-stop. Henley welshed on me after losing a $1 million checkers match in 1986 and I will have my vengeance. Sure hope to hear back from you soon. Cheers.


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