Tag: fashion

White male gets blackmailed

Someone is trying to blackmail me and, quite frankly, I’m delighted. I consider it an honour and it shall become the latest addition to my heavily embellished curriculum vitae.

The blackmailers call themselves The Impact Team and their business is to extort money from subscribers who were exposed in the recent hack of the Ashley Madison infidelity website. Once again, let me reiterate that I signed up for research purposes.

The site has 36 million members so it must have been a very busy few weeks for the blackmailers. I was wondering when they’d get around to contacting me.

The thing is, though, I don’t believe they are who they say they are. The person or group who initially hacked the site call themselves The Impact Team and it seems highly unlikely that they did it for personal enrichment. In fact, the hackers said they would take on any target in the future that made money off “the pain of others, secrets and lies”.

The email I got, then, almost certainly comes from someone using The Impact Team’s name as a way of acquiring credibility. Blackmailers, as everyone knows, are five rungs below hackers on the ladder of evil. Besides, I picked up several errors similar to those found in emails sent by those lovable 419 rogues. Relax, my brudda, nobody has said anything about Nigeria.

After trying to scare me by naming the city I live in and accurately quoting the last four digits on my credit card, they said, “We are very pleased to announce you what will follow.” They gave me two options, which I thought awfully decent of them.

“We will publish your complete data (secret fantasies, conversations, pictures) and will match the data with your name and address on our new site. Your family, colleagues, friends will be informed. Many thanks to Facebook & Co. Email account contacts are a worthwhile information. You should better change the login data but it is to late.”

See what I’m saying? Anyone with the technological ability to hack into a site like Ashley Madison would probably be able to string a coherent sentence together.

So that was my first option, which, on reflection, wasn’t really an option at all. That was the threat. Option 2 was the option, and yet wasn’t.

“We are providing a chance to solve this case. You make a payment of 1.1 Bitcoins to …” Here, they provide a jumbled sequence of no fewer than 33 numbers and letters. No wonder Bitcoins have never really caught on.

Helpfully, they explain where I can buy Bitcoins and how to do the transfer. They also provide the exchange rate. One Bitcoin is worth $228 dollars. Fascinating. Then, as if in a James Bond movie, the clock starts ticking. “The time ends in five days. We will not publish your data and we will not inform your contacts.” In the event I still hadn’t got the message, they tacked on what appear to be terms and conditions.

“Reply is a waste of energy and time.

“We will never contact you again after you paid us. Our guarantee!

“You are ignoring us? We will not give you a second chance. Then we will inform your family and friends about you. Non-payment and we will destroy your life 100%.

“We do not make empty promises.

“Thanks. The Impact Team.”

In spite of their advice, I replied.

“Dear Sir/Madam. I have decided to reply because I have plenty of energy and time, as you’d expect from someone who subscribed to Ashley Madison. Here’s the thing, my brudda. Compared to my friends, I am a paragon of virtue. Revealing my ‘secret fantasies’ would only embarrass them, not me. Nobody wants to hang out with someone whose fantasy is to live in a world where animals can talk. As for my family, they couldn’t give a damn what I do, just as long as I don’t ask them for money. And when it comes to destroying my life, well, I’m doing a pretty good job of that without your help. I do, however, have a counter-offer. You give me two Bitcoins or I will publish your email and expose you for the loathsome, semi-literate filth that you are. Thanks. Ben Trovato.”




Application to Truworths for the position of Ladieswear House Model

Dear Madam,

I presume you will not reject me on the grounds that I am not a woman. To be honest, you would be a damn fool to do so. For starters, you would be opening yourself up to a legal battle that will rage all the way to the Constitutional Court. I am close to several of our top judges and I can assure you that at the end of the day, I will walk away with Truworths and you will be lucky to escape with the clothes on your back.

Having said that, let me also say that you won’t find a harder-working and more loyal employee than I. My wife, Brenda, is threatening to abandon me unless I get a job and I can honestly say that I have never worked this hard to find work. By the end of the day I am so exhausted that I have to sit down, put my feet up on the dog and quaff flagons of foaming lager just to be able to feign conversation when she comes in after a shift at the fish factory, or wherever the hell it is that she works.

I have always fancied myself as a bit of a model. When I was younger, I would dress up in my mother’s skirts and blouses, cover my face with makeup and put on a bit of a show for the family. Everybody would laugh, of course. But it was a year later, when I turned 21, that I realised they had been laughing at me and not with me. Sometimes it hurts so bad that I have to dip into the goodie bag and whip myself straight.

Your advertisement says that I will be “required to attend fitting sessions of sample garments”. When I first read these words, a frisson of excitement rippled up and down my spine all tingly and kundalini-like. The requirements of the job are redolent with memories of the precious moments I spent with the Marquis de Sade. I am talking about his writings, naturally, and not the Marquis himself. I am not that old.

I see you also require that I have a passion for fashion. Oh, but I do. And not just that, dear lady. I also happen to have a flair for hair, a lust for bust, a yen for men, a zeal for veal, a verve for lurve, a craving for slaving, an ache for cake, a quiver for liver, an urge to purge and a fever for beaver.

I notice that I will also be expected to juggle appointments, tasks and work to deadline in a demanding environment. Please. When I was on the border fighting the communists, I once walked across a minefield juggling a bottle of brandy, a grenade and a dead terrorist’s head. I find it hard to imagine that your environment would be any more demanding.

“To qualify for this role you need to be a size 10/34.” This pleases me. I am far more suited to playing a role than playing a human clotheshorse. However, I do not understand what 10/34 means. Men don’t attach numbers to their size. Well, some do, but I see no need to brag.

Let us look at the rest of my vital statistics.

Coming in at 1.95m, we can safely say that I surpass your height requirements. I have a small problem in the breast area, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a bag of silicone. Towards the end of the month, my waist is the required 69cm. However, after payday it has been known to balloon to around 104cms. My thighs are firm and well-rounded but, like other men, I do not have a top hip and a lower hip so I am unable to provide you with those measurements.

I am enclosing a photograph of myself modelling a little something that I whipped up last night. I expect that by spring, everyone in Pretoria will be wearing it.

Yours in fashion,

Dr Ben Trovato (Ph.D. Fash.)