The Languid Tale of Tina Louanne Sparkles
There comes a moment when every person has to serve his or her country. Sometimes you are hired as an elected official, sometimes you join the military, and sometimes you waste the time of a person you presume might be trying to get your passport for illicit purposes.
Our story begins way back in August 2013 where in a mysterious person randomly messages yours-truly on Facebook with a simple codeword: Hi.
What could it mean? What does he want? Is he about to blackmail me?
I rightly ignore him and go on with my life. Nearly two years later, two nights ago in fact, I receive another message from the same stranger. Let’s call him Lord Poopton VII. Lord Poopton relays another secretive message: Hi.
Damn him! I curse at the sky. Why must he torment me so?
With nothing better to do, and with a slight inkling of what this might be about, I weight my options. On the one hand, his Facebook profile picture is a guy holding a gun, and the only thing he has made available for public viewing is a religious statement made by a renowned Islamic scholar who advocates for Islam-Christian unity. Could go either way at this point.
To hell with it. Let’s see what he wants.
Being the classy broad I am, I respond with Uh… hi.
Thus the saga begins. Knowing full well that I must protect my identity at all costs (despite the fact that he can see at least the most basic information on my profile) I start telling him a series of elaborate lies to test him.
How old am I? 22. I live in Abbotsford, moved there from Halifax after my ex-boyfriend started stalking me on Whatsapp. Fortunately, as all Canadians know, the drive from Halifax to Abbotsford is quite short, so it was an easy move. Or at least that’s what he thinks. I am a bit of a shut in, I like cooking for my three elder brothers, and fixing their clothes. My father has a severe problem with the drink and has turned away from God. I am shy, and don’t get out much. I go to University but I don’t know what to do with my life.
Oh, also I am a stripper and I get paid $450 an hour. Is that a lot for a stripper? I have no idea. I was ballparking.
He tells me a bit about him.
He lives in Pakistan, but also just outside of Los Angeles (‘We are practically neighbours!’ ‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘I live very close to Canadian border.’) He works in a private institute as a manager/HR/admin. They produce textiles, women’s embroidered suits, sheets, bed covers. He likes music and horseback riding (my hero.)
He would also like to see a video of me stripping.
Had I the cojones, I would have found a youtube video of a man stripping paint and sent it to him. I can always use the money. Unfortunately I do have a small sense of self-preservation.
Oh, and I tell him I am lonely (he asks me if I am a virgin, which I nervously confirm.) I probably will never find a husband as I want to marry for love.
Lord Poopton proposes, not once but twice!
I will be Lady Poopton and we will travel the world!
‘I will take you to Pakistan, India, UAE. We will have fun.’
But I am hesitant. Over the course of the next hour he convinces me that I should come to the States; he will sponsor me. Oh happy day! But alas, it was not to last. My passport is held by my father. I may be able to retrieve it, I tell him, when father is passed out again from the drink.
‘I need a copy of your passport.’
Jingo-jango. Time to shut this guy down.
So, I tell Lord Poopton that I will return once I have my passport. I give it about fifteen minutes and return, declaring that everyone is dead. I have killed my father in an attempt to retrieve my passport. I am hiding in the cellar. My brothers are looking for me. The police are on the way. Why won’t Lord Poopton help me? I did this for him.
The rest of the story is best told through the following images:
Fortunately I was able to wash the blood off of my passport and provide him with this copy:
For whatever reason, Lord Poopton stopped replying. My Pakistani sugar daddy, abandoning me in my time of need.
I ended up calling the RCMP National Terrorism Tip Line, because quite frankly I find Lord Poopton’s constant request for my passport to be suspicious. After going through the whole story with the lovely man from the government, he asked how I ultimately dealt with Lord Poopton. This led to an interesting internal question:
How do you tell a member of the RCMP that your manner of dealing with a potentially dangerous man was by telling him that you murdered your entire family and are now on the lam?
Honesty, as it turns out, is the best policy, because the RCMP officer thought my tactic was hi-larious. I’m probably on a list somewhere now, but hell, as long as Lord Poopton thinks twice before screwing around with a Canadian, I’ll call it a win.