I really do feel for all the lonely people out there who have to resort to typing random email addresses in an attempt to find love. These poor people sit at their computers, probably in darkened sleazy hotel rooms, unable to sleep and just hoping to find a special someone.

The same is true for members of the former royal family of about eighteen African countries, people who need my help to smuggle their money out of the country.

Apparently, cute little Chinese girls who work as bank tellers also send out these desperate virtual message-in-a-bottle emails, hoping someone will reply and help them embezzle money from deceased account holders who died without an heir, digitally pulling the money out of the bank in exchange for a fifty-fifty split.

At least, all of that is how it used to work. There used to at least be some tiny spark of human connection as the Nigerian equivalent of a telemarketer typed your email address off a list they bought from that as-seen-on-tv thing you ordered online, then proceeded to tell you his tale of woe. Not anymore.

They’re not even trying. There used to be a whole sales pitch, a whole story about deposed kings and lost love connections. Some of them even offered up a prayer for your health and prosperity before asking if they could be your new online lover. Now, it’s a few crappy words about how I won some lottery somewhere. I received one yesterday that was even a fill-in-the-blank, like the telemarketer was new and didn’t know not to just cut and paste it from his playbook.

Is it too much to ask for you to make up some really outrageous story before you try to swindle me out of my life savings? If I’m going to turn over my bank account numbers, my Social Security number, and my blood type, can’t you wine me and dine me a little bit with some song and dance about a dead guy leaving $16 million unclaimed in his bank account? Maybe tell me all kinds of sordid details about what the government of China could do to its citizens if it gets its hands on his money? At the very least, could you try to rob me in English by taking that extra time to go to Google Translate and send me your sob story in a language I can actually READ???

I hate to be the one to complain, but it’s like there’s no dedication to one’s job anymore, no pride taken in one’s work. Even jerkoff thieves need to have some level of quality control.