ADVENTURES IN SCAM BAITING, PT. II: 

THE LEGEND OF BALLSACK GIRL

Well, at least he's not pretending to be Rod Stewart, but he's still a trolling POS. 

This one messaged me out of the blue under the pretext of "Nice Guy looking for love." If you haven't seen my Instagram--and there's not much reason for you to follow it unless you know me in real life--it's just photos of my cats, John and me, and whatever else I feel like posting. This guy obviously didn't look at my Instagram before messaging me, which is typical; I've deduced that most scammers just message several random women without looking at their profiles, then wait to see who bites. Lucky for robert_paul124, it was me. 

This is where I decided the theme for this one would be lyrics to John Mellencamp's Small Town, hence my name-checking Seymour, Indiana. 

It's pretty clear from my Instagram pics that I'm married. Lazy ass can't even be bothered to check. But whatever, I'll play along with some confusing responses. 

I think this asshat just copied and pasted a bunch of words. That's still no excuse for that hideous sentence structure.

Below: yes, I used "Nail Polish Tester" as my job title again. I pulled that out of my ass, thinking it couldn't possibly be a real job. Then I Googled it and turns out that it actually is, according to spammy clickbait site Mashable. 

ALSO, note that he claims to be a badass bomb disposal specialist in the army. What is it with these jackasses pretending to be in the military? 

Yes, I have a special man, you nipplehead. He's called MY HUSBAND and if you'd bothered to scroll down on my Insta, you'd see the evidence. And nice question about whether I rent or own. That's not obvious at all. 

Below: buckle up for the best part, "I invented Post-Its"! It's a reference to Romy and Michele's High School Reunion, because that movie is fabulous as all hell and I happen to love it. 

If you haven't seen it, a bit of background: Romy and Michele are two ditsy L.A. girls who travel to their hometown for their 10 year high school reunion. At the last minute, they decide their lives are not cool enough to impress the popular douchebags who harassed them back in the day, so they cook up a story about how they invented Post-It notes and (presumably) became multi-millionaires. No one at the reunion buys it, of course, but the girls still triumph in the end, and it's awesome. There's also some flashback scenes with everyone sporting hilarious '80s hair and clothes, an insane dream sequence, and a choreographed dance to Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time."

via GIPHY

via GIPHY

via GIPHY

via GIPHY

Word to the wise: never trust anyone who can't have fun watching Romy and Michele's High School Reunion. 

And now, back to our story.

And here are some more Mellencamp "Small Town" references. I love the notion of someone becoming hugely rich off their invention and choosing to stay in a cow town like Seymour, IN. "Welcome to my estate. It's so peaceful here, most days you can barely smell the hog farms! Would you like to see the tennis courts?" 

There are some quaint, picturesque towns in Indiana--Ferdinand, for example, and James Dean's hometown of Fairmount--but Seymour ain't one of them.

***BTW, that song is misleading, because Mellencamp didn't stay there as the lyrics imply. I know he's got a place outside Bloomington, Indiana, and probably Beverly Hills or somewhere, too, but not Seymour. But anyway....

"Dancing to the oldest music." Yeah, I don't know what the fuck he means by that, but it gave me something to riff on.

Re: "Shadow Chant" below--that was an autocorrect gaffe--the oldest known song is actually the "Shaduf Chant." I learned this from Duran Duran's "Planet Earth" video. (Everything I needed to know, I learned from Duran Duran.) 

Sure, Wayne Newton, Nine Inch Nails, and The Osmonds. I'm wasting all my smartass answers on this guy, he's not even reading them. 

Asking for a photo of me because, AGAIN, he hasn't looked at my photos on Instagram. That's really a good thing, though. I don't think I want him rooting around in there.

So I Googled "weird model photos" and found this meme:

I cropped out the poor girl's hair, trying to make it look like a "selfie" (although it still doesn't look like a selfie, the angle is all wrong). 

And here's where the story ends. He never replied after seeing this pic, like he's too good for Ballsack Girl? It's not her fault some asshole hairstylist decided to give her that nasty 'do for a runway show. I feel strangely protective of Ballsack Girl. Sure, her hair sucks but she's got nice skin and her bone structure is poppin'.

I got news for robert_paul124. Ballsack Girl wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire. She is still miles out of your league, with or without ballsack hair. Besides, she heard from her sister's ex-boyfriend's brother that you have gross backne and your breath smells like French onion soup. 

So there. 

Oh yeah, this is also the point where I blocked this guy and reported him for spam, natch. 

***OMG, you guys, I just remembered that John Mellencamp is dating Meg Ryan. What a weird, random celebrity coupling that is, no? Although, I can see their '80s versions hooking up: 

Oh yeah, DEFINITELY. 

ADVENTURES IN SCAM BAITING, PART I:

FRAUD STEWART

John and I went to see Rod Stewart last Saturday night. I'm a huge Rod Stewart fan. John, not so much, but he took me and he endured it because he's an awesome husband.

Rod doing his thang at the Reno Events Center, 11/3/18

The next day while I was still buzzed on post-Rod concert vibes, I found out that Rod has an official Instagram account, so I followed him. 

FUN FACT: Apparently when you follow a celebrity's official account on Instagram, you might unwittingly become a target for fake accounts claiming to be said celebrity's "secret" Instagram. I wasn't aware of this phenomenon, because the only other famous people I follow on Instagram are Beth Stern (wife of Howard, whose Insta is dedicated to pics of cats and kittens that she fosters) and Lena Dunham. Well, there are a few other "famous, but not really that famous" people like Michael Des Barres and Apollonia Kotero and Kevin Allison that I follow just because they're fun. But none of them, in my experience, have been the type to attract scammer trolls who impersonate them and try to con their followers. 

But then I followed Rod Stewart's official Instagram page, and within five minutes I had an account that called itself "sirrodstewart0fficial" following me. Then I got a message from, ahem, "Rod." 

Now, I may be a bit naive at times (see Reid, Simon), but I'm not brain dead, and I'm astute enough to know that Rod Stewart isn't going around following randoms like me on Instagram. In fact, it's likely Rod Stewart has never even seen his own Instagram and probably employs someone with an official title like Social Media Technician to maintain his account.

As I said, I'm no dummy, but I am a bit of a smartass. So I decided to have a little fun with "Rod."

   

A quick explanation: Rod Stewart suffered a soccer injury a few weeks back and performed his two-hour concert Saturday night with his foot in a cast (because he is a total badass), hence my question about his foot. 

That part about me being a Rod Stewart fan since I was 12 is 100% true. I wanted to maintain some authenticity.

And he really did grab my hand for a second after I saw him in 2007. So that's true, as well. There's also a nugget of truth in my answer about my favorite songs. It's a very short, simplified answer, though, because the long answer about my favorite Rod Stewart tracks would require a two hour PowerPoint presentation, followed by a lengthy Q and A, which is why the real Rod Stewart would probably never ask a fan about their favorite song(s). But, of course, this is not Rod I'm communicating with. This is Fake Rod, or "Fraud" Stewart. 

And here's the point in the conversation where I just start throwing out lyrics from Rod Stewart songs. The ones in the excerpt above are from his 1986 Top 40 hit, "Love Touch." More on that in a moment. (Oh, and the "it's me, Margaret" is a Judy Blume reference, but if you're an oldster like me, you already know that.)

More lyrics from "Love Touch." A bit of background....Rod Stewart famously hates that song and refuses to play it live. But it's a cute, fun little tune and I've never understood why he detests it so. In fact, my friend Marcus and I have had that very discussion. (Marcus hates "The Motown Song," so that's a shout-out to him. Hi, Marcus!)

So below I switch from quoting "Love Touch" to throwing out lyrics from "Do You Think I'm Sexy?" which is probably Rod's most well-known song, and this numb nuts has NO CLUE. You see, this is where the scammer's laziness really started to disgust me. I mean, do your fucking research before you start impersonating a celebrity, you assclown!

Gif above is of a girl fanning herself. I'm pretending to be flattered, you see. Also, notice how desperate he is to get me off of Instagram and onto a more private platform like email or text. I choose to ignore his requests. This eventually pisses him off, as you will see.

Also infuriating: he doesn't know "Maggie May." This guy is the absolute WORST.

Yeah, I had to throw the "knob polisher" joke in there, because I'm immature like that. 

Now I go back to more lyrics. The ones I quote below are from "Young Turks," a song I name dropped several posts ago.

Rod was photographed with his son Sean in L.A. on Sunday, the day after I saw him live. Apparently The Daily Mail thought it was an event worthy of an in-depth article. (The Daily Mail paid me cash for the Simon Reid story many moons ago, so I guess I shouldn't rip on them.)

Yes, Saturday night marked the ninth time I've seen Rod live. Again, just me keepin' it real.

Below: more lyrics. I quote Credence Clearwater's "Have You Ever Seen the Rain," which was recorded by Rod in 2006, thank you very much, you're welcome. And then, like a boss, I segue right into "Tonight I'm Yours." I'm unstoppable!

And then "My Heart Can't Tell You No," right back into "Maggie May." I'm on a roll!

Okay, below is where he starts to piss me off. I mean, sure, insult my intelligence by pretending to be Rod Stewart because that's the game and I've agreed to play it. But question my status as a Rod Stewart fan? I've only been obsessing over the man's music since 1986, which is probably several years before this dickhead's parents ever met and broke a condom together. EAT MY ENTIRE ASS, JUNIOR!

                                                                   

                                                                                                                                                                 
The lyrics quoted above are from the excellent "Farewell," from Rod's 1974 Smiler album. It's a beautiful song, very mandolin-y and reminiscent of "Maggie May" and "You Wear It Well." But since this guy didn't even recognize "Do You Think I'm Sexy," he sure as hell isn't going to know this one.

Notice below (excuse the duplicate message, such is the nature of screenshots) that I chose to end my correspondence with a gif of the Dos Equis guy laughing his ass off. I thought it a fitting conclusion to this ridiculousness.

I didn't bother to block the guy after that point, because I was done playing and I figured it was the last I'd hear from him. But I made the following post on my Instagram of a Rod Stewart shirt design I found online, and guess who decided to chime in?

                                                                                          

                                                                                   
No, no, no, I didn't mean "You barely speak English" in a Deplorable Republican Trump kind of way. I am not one of those fascists. I was simply pointing out the obvious: that this asshole is sitting in some cyber cafe in Nigeria or Tajikistan or somewhere, purporting to be a world famous British rock star (for no apparent reason) when he can barely string a coherent sentence together. In short, he is a failure as a scammer and as a human being.

Then I blocked his ass and reported his account to Instagram as spam. Bye Felicia!

And finally, here's the video for "Farewell," because it's a damn good song and I love it.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

NICE TO MEAT YOU

Now, run along and wipe that face off your head. You're getting rancid.

Last night my husband and I had his friend and colleague Bob over for dinner. I hadn't met Bob before, but we laughed and slapped a gleeful high-five when we discovered we were both vegetarian.

Let me clarify. There are a few sub-types of vegetarians. Bob is a pescatarian (no beef, pork, poultry, just fish). I am an ovo-lacto vegetarian. No beef, pork, poultry, fish, or anything in between. Occasionally I'll eat cheese made with vegetarian rennet, and sometimes cage-free, organic eggs (and I still love ice cream). If you want to get really specific, I don't eat anything with a face. 

Except for these guys. Yum!
(Source: Happiness is Cookies by Clawson Cookies.)

If this information makes you want to scream and punch a wall, that's fine by me. I'll admit--it is a bit confusing.

Related: I've lived all over Indiana, Minneapolis, Baton Rouge, and now Reno, NV. Over the last eighteen months, I've traveled to NYC (twice), and to Tulsa, OK (more than twice). 

Of the six locales mentioned above, can you guess where I was hassled for being a vegetarian? I'll give you a hint:

1. Indiana
2. Minneapolis 
3. Baton Rouge
4. Reno
5. NYC
6. Tulsa

Yes--my beloved, progressive, Earth Day-founding Minneapolis and the Seat of the Empire, A-#1, King of the Hill, top of the heap: New York, New York.

I'll back up a bit.

I grew up on the north side of Indianapolis, just blocks away from an adorable vegetarian restaurant called The Stillwater. 

I couldn't find a photo of The Stillwater, so here's a yearbook photo of Dave 
Letterman, graduate of Broad Ripple High School, class of '65. He looks like my Dad!

My mom took me to the Stillwater once when I was ten years old, and I was baffled by the concept of a meat-free menu. You see, I was raised on a very meat-ful menu, which was down to my father, a big Irishman who loved his meat, his potatoes, and sometimes sausage for dessert. To this day he still prefers corn beef, meatloaf, and pork chops, but won't touch chicken since he was raised in Illinois during the Great Depression, when chicken was all anyone could afford.

When I was away at boarding school during my teen years, I developed a taste for beef tacos from Taco Bell, Burger King Whoppers, Big Macs, and greasy pepperoni pizza--stuff I wasn't allowed to eat at home (my parents divorced in 1983 and I was mostly raised by my mom, a health nut who ate chicken, turkey, and a ton of veggies. She now eats fish and veggies). I gave up fast food at the age of twenty, but continued stuffing my face with processed meat products--frozen cheeseburgers, Italian sausage, and corn beef--well into my twenties. 

In 1995, when I was twenty-two years old, I got very sick and discovered that red meat made me projectile vomit. I couldn't even stand the smell or sight of it. It wasn't difficult for me to quit red meat. 

For the next two years, I ate only chicken (I never cared for turkey) and the odd vegetable. In mid-1997, I decided to try going vegetarian. It fit with my belief system (I'm a hardcore animal lover) and I knew it was healthier than fried chicken, the only meat product I found it hard to live without. The last time I ate meat of any sort was Labor Day, 1997. My last carnivorous meal was a half-order of white meat chicken from KFC. I thought "well, I might not be able to do this, but here goes nothing." 

To my surprise, I was able to quit meat altogether and I never looked back. In the last sixteen years, I've haven't had a craving for anything besides--again--fried chicken, and that was during my first year of being meat-free. I even found a healthier alternative: fried cauliflower. Same texture as chicken, wonderful when fried and breaded. It's still one of my favorite dishes ever, along with vegetable pakora. 

 Above: Fried cauliflower. It's de-lish.

       

In my mid-twenties (ca.1998), I had lunch with my Mom once a week (I miss that). She introduced me to India Garden in Broad Ripple, and I decided right then that I could probably live off nothing but their potato samosas, palak paneer, tikka masala, dal, Basmati rice, and, of course, vegetable pakora (pictured above).  

India Garden spoiled me for Indian food. I was unable to find an Indian restaurant in Minnesota that came close to their perfection. I couldn't even find anything comparable in England, either. India Garden is the BEST. The next-best curry house is a cute little restaurant in Baton Rouge called India's.

John and I have already found an Indian restaurant near downtown Reno, called India Kabob and Curry and it is YUM (still not as good as India Garden, but relatively close. And they have great pakora.)

Okay, wow. I never intended to write a food blog. That market is saturated, so now I'll just bitch about dumb things that were said to me in Minneapolis and NYC in regards to my vegetarian diet. 

The Minneapolis comments were made by acquaintances that I'm no longer in touch with. The NYC comments were those of an oddly curious waiter in Hell's Kitchen. 

I'll start with the Big Apple, then I'll take a bite out of the Mini Apple.

ON-DUTY WAITER: "You're a vegetarian? Oh my god, really? So...no turkey on Christmas?"

Oh hell no. As I mentioned, I was never fond of turkey, because turkey is prepared two different ways: Bone-dry (roasted) and slimy and wet (deli). I won't be having either, thanks.

I wish I could properly convey the astonishment in the guy's voice. He was a native English speaker, so there was no language barrier. And he waited tables in Manhattan, so he had to at least be familiar with the concept of vegetarianism. But he didn't act like it. In fact, he seemed utterly mystified, like I'd just told him I was a Roman Catholic nun and I loved the feel of old lady pantyhose against my skin. (I'm not. And I don't.)

MINNEAPOLIS, HALLOWEEN PARTY, 2009.

FRATTY-LOOKING "BRO" DUDE IN A TRUCKER HAT: 
"So, do you eat asparagus all day and then sit around and fart?"

Let me just blow your mind: I rarely need to make time in my schedule to sit around and fart. I can multi-task. I do like grilled asparagus, though.

FARMER'S MARKET, ST. PAUL, SOMEWHERE IN 2004

CUSTOMER: "Oh man, vegetarian? I could never do that. My grandfather was a proud truck farmer (or goat hoarder, or bullshit wrangler, or dog snatcher, or whatever)." 

Truck farming. Yep, that exists.

Good for grandpa. Sorry that you lack the mental resources to imagine a different lifestyle. Still, those trucks ain't gonna farm themselves....

THE GREEN ONION RESTAURANT, ST. PAUL OR MINNEAPOLIS, SOMETIME DURING PREMIER BUSH'S TENURE.

SOMEONE: "I wish I could be vegetarian. But I'm Latvian/German/Hungarian/Icelandic/Spanish/Brazillian/Italian and I need my meat."

Don't loan your meat out to anyone else, then. I'm Irish/English/Choctaw* and I will continue to eat whatever I damn well please, including (but not limited to) a metric shit-ton of kale.

*For years, I mistakenly believed that my maternal grandfather was Cherokee. It turned out that no, he was Choctaw. But he grew up in rural Oklahoma in the 1920's, a time when people didn't exactly broadcast their Indian heritage or care to know much about it. Unlike my dad's family, who will tell anyone who doesn't run away screaming all about the awesomeness of the Emerald Isle and its people. (I do love them Irish.)

SYNAGOGUE, ST. PAUL, 2005 (I worked in the admin office).

CONGREGANT: "No meat? Is that a religious thing? What are you, exactly?"

Ummmm....a Democrat?

MINNEAPOLIS, UPTOWN, MY APARTMENT, 2010:

ACQUAINTANCE #1 (EDITED FOR CONTENT): 
"Oh, I looooove meat. How can you not love meat? That's ridiculous because....BACON!"

Enjoy being an unpaid shill for the pork industry. I'm sure they appreciate your efforts.

MINNEAPOLIS, THEIR APARTMENT, 2010

ACQUAINTANCE #2 (APROPO OF NOTHING):

"Real girls eat meat!"

Congratulations. You're in fine company. Check it out: 

Go cram a cheeseburger in your head, dipdouche.

I just need to stop and have a mild rant here. What's with the T-shirt manufacturer's creepy aversion to the word "women"? "Real girls" sounds all underage and icky. It's probably from Abercrombie and Fitch, proud proprietors of all things underage and icky. 

Sadly enough, the bizarre comments I've listed here are just the tip of the iceberg. I'm still perplexed that I heard brain barf like this from randoms in one of the coolest cities I've ever seen. Also, 95% of the people I knew in the Twin Cities: friends, neighbors, countrymen, urban cowgirls, etc. were--naturally--open, sympathetic, and usually vegetarians themselves. 

The rest of 'em got more brains in their stomachs than in they heads.  

NOTE: Thanks to my John for coining the term "dipdouche" when we were out in traffic the other day. I just felt privileged to be in the presence of the original Master of Brookovian Wit when he spontaneously busted out a new drollery, one that he doesn't mind me borrowing when the situation calls for it (see above).