Uncle Bob's Diary O' Chuckles

UNCLE BOB ... THE HUMANITARIAN

As Uncle Bob, I get a lot of emails.

Sure, most of them want to help me enlarge the ol' elephant trunk or sell me viagra, but every now and then I get one that touches the heart. Or even the esophagus. The one I'm sharing with you today touches the latter.

My name is David Ibrahim, a merchant in Oman. I have recently been
diagnosed with Esophageal cancer, which has defiled all medical
treatment. Expert diagnosis has shown that I have few months to live.

The intention of this email is to employ the expertise of a business
entrepreneur, who can identify a viable investment and guarantee
reasonable returns on my wealth. This is to secure a future for my 4
years old son who lost his mother during birth. I cannot rely on his
closest relatives any more, as they did not show responsible behaviour
two years ago when I entrusted half of my wealth to them to invest on
his behalf. They thought I wouldn't survive the operation and then
used the money for their personal needs.

To prevent any more mishaps, my attorney will act as a check,
monitoring every aspect of the investment. Funds should be split in
half and distributed to charity organisation and the other half, as
investment for my son.

If this interests you, please reach me on the email address:
[email protected] to discuss terms and compensation.

Kind regard
David Ibrahim

Admittedly, this guy has had one totally messed-up life. His family, hoping he would die during surgery, had already started spending his fortunes while he was being prepped for surgery. He didn't die and now knows that his family is a bunch of scumbags and he needs ME ... UNCLE F'N BOB ... to come to his rescue.

I thought it only fitting that I wrote him back.

Yo Dave,

Dude, I'm so sorry to hear about your esophagus and all that cancer in there. People say that there's no worse cancer than esophagus cancer and I have to agree with them because they've had it and I haven't and it's usually best not to argue with someone who's going through cancer when you don't know shit about it. Nobody wants to come off as a pompous ass when it comes to cancer. I'll give you an example:

ESOPHAGUS CANCER VICTIM: "There's nothing worse than Esophagus Cancer."

ME: "I dunno, Baldy. How about the new season of Tyra Banks? That shit's Painful with a capital "P", dude. I'll tell you what man ... they need to bring back that Caroline Rhea show. That bitch was funny!"

See? That comes off as a little self-centered and not so sympathetic.

Anyway, sorry to hear about your cancer, blah blah blah.

Let's talk about this money situation you've got going that you need me to step in and take care of. You say you need a business entrepreneur that can control your finances.

Look no further, Diamond Dave. I am the man for you.

You may have heard about my DJ business, "Those Crazy DJ Guys"?? We liven up every party we play at. And I'm not talking with the party hats and inflatable air guitars ... we do it through music, clapping and call and response.

Now you're probably lying there in your hospital bed with all kinds of tubes coming out of your face and going "Call and Response?? What is that??" but your nurses are misinterpreting your words and think you're asking for more oxygen and a cigarette. Don't worry. I'll explain.

Call and response is when you play a song like "Mony Mony" and you turn the volume COMPLETELY off so that the audience can yell "Get Laid! Get Fucked!" during certain portions of the song that they're used to yelling that phrase at.

A lot of DJs don't do that anymore.

But I'm the ORIGINATOR of such an act. I was doing that shit in 1985 and people were tripping all over my mad skillz back then and they're still stumbling over them today.

So am I the man to manage your money??

Let me answer that question with another question.

Does the pope shit in the woods, Dave?

Damned skippy I'm the man.

Let's talk about these lowlife, urinal guzzling, giant vaginal sores you call a family.

Dave ... how do you put up with that shit? You're a MERCHANT,DUDE!! You don't need to take that shit. Your brothers and sisters, they've always been hatin' on you, homie. All because of your mad merchant skillz, yo.

I'm not exactly sure what a merchant does to be honest. I'm guessing it's a fancy name for a fisherman. Maybe you can clue me in somewhere in your next response.

Anyway, fuck your family. They're assholes who are only looking out for their starving selves. I'll step in and take care of your fortunes.

But ya know what? I searched through your email and I couldn't find anything that guaranteed me thousands of dollars for doing just that. What up with that, Dave? I mean ... if I'm going to go out of my way to make charity donations and set up trust funds for your little orphan brat, there's gotta be something in it for me. I mean ... I know you're dying and all but dude ... we've never even met. I like to think I have a heart of gold or silver or plywood, but I've got to be compensated for this shit if I'm going to take ten minutes out of my day to call banks and shit.

Little Davey Jr. will be just fine when you cross that last line off the Bucket List, Dave. You've chosen a wack DJ to take care of him. I'll send him CARE packages every Christmas full of crackers and cheese and buttons. Don't Oman kids like buttons? Like shirt buttons and shit? I think I saw that once on the Discovery Channel.

So hook a brother man up, Dave. Tell me which bank and I'll start withdrawing your money and distributing it the best way I know how. I can't imagine there's a shitload of banks in Oman, but I've never been there, so who knows. Still ... if you tell me which bank it'll save me about 30 seconds of Google time.

I hope you have a great day and for chrissakes ... give the ol' esophagus a rest today. You deserve it, you crazy rich old bastard.

Uncle Bob

P.S. You say your kid lost his mother during birth. Did anybody look behind the curtains in the delivery room? That's usually where new mothers hide in the delivery room. I bet if you make that trek back to the delivery room and pull back the curtains, ol' Mom will be standing there giggling away and she's yell "Surprise!!" and you'll yell "NNGGGHHH!!" because ... you know ... your esophagus is shot all to hell.