Hello. I’m a real Nigerian prince, and I’m sending you this email in order to point out that I’m much, much, much richer than you.
I also have no intention of depositing any money in your account whatsoever. I mean, why would I? I’m incredibly rich. In fact, you probably don’t have any concept of how rich I truly am, do you? Well, let me assure you that I’m quite staggeringly wealthy. And you’re not. Hurts, doesn’t it? Well, it should. You pathetic poor people sicken me. I bet you’ve never even tried caviar, have you? And even if you have, I bet you said “Urrrgh, I don’t like it. It tastes all salty and rubbery.” Peasant.
So how rich am I? Well, I live in a house that makes your pathetic hovel look only slightly better than a hole in the ground filled with medical waste. I shouldn’t even call it a house, really, because it’s much more than that. It’s a palace, a stately pleasure dome, housing hundreds of scantily clad maidens who cater to any sordid fantasy my depraved mind can summon up.
Can you imagine that?
No, of course you can’t, because I’m rich and you’re not. You probably feel lucky to be able to hire whatever toothless prostitute you can afford on your meager wage, from whatever pathetic job you do in order to forget about the imminent approach of death, because I’m a Nigerian prince, and you’re probably just some hick who works in an abattoir, or a sewage farm, working under people who are nowhere near as important as me, even though to you they must seem like the gods made flesh!
Frankly, even sending you this email makes me feel slightly dirty. The idea that something that has been cooked up by my affluent brain, as I sit here in my jewel-encrusted throne being fanned by a platinum-dipped ostrich feather, makes me want to be carried into my bathroom (which, believe me, is about twenty-five times the size of any house that you could ever afford) and wash away the stench of your poverty in a bath-full of ass’ milk.
Have you ever tried ass’ milk?
What a stupid question. You’ve barely tried soap. By the way, I’m not even writing this email. It’s being written by my slave, and he’s made of solid gold.
You were probably expecting this to be a scam, weren’t you? You arrogant, obnoxious prick! Well, I’m a Nigerian prince. Do you hear me? A NIGERIAN PRINCE! Do you seriously think that I have any interest in gaining access to your bank account? Give me a break! I have so much money that several accountants have taken their own lives rather than even attempting to count it! There is not a bank in the world equipped to deal with my collection of gold bullion, or my mountain of precious jewels, and you think that you’re going to help ME with your little local branch of First National? GET A GRIP!
So how does it feel, huh? How does it feel to get a genuine email from a Nigerian prince, you self-obsessed loser? I hope you know that I’m laughing at you now, as I gaze out of my expansive windows at my 2,000 acres of land, watching my collection of rare animals wander across the horizon; animals that are considered extinct by those too poor to have been able to capture them and keep them as pets. Hey, do you know what? Later on, I might even wander out there with a large gun, shoot every single one of the fuckers and then email you the pictures, just so that you realize that I’m rich, and you’re not, and that you will NEVER be in a position to help me. EVER.
Me, however, I do happen to be in a position to help someone as pathetic as you. Therefore, I’ve used your email address to send you the princely sum of $1.25 via PayPal. Why don’t you go and treat yourself to some horrifically cheap processed snack, and then think about me dining on swan, lobster, and the meat of exotic beasts you’ve never heard of, while the greasy remnants of that cheap, filthy sustenance drips down your several unwashed chins.
Goodbye forever, and do NOT try to contact me.
Loser.
P.S. Would you like to buy some Viagra?