An email tells me that I have won 700,000 GBP. It seems that my email address has been randomly selected for this cash prize “and other consolation prizes in the Irish lottery” (I have to be honest, if I really have won seven hundred grand then I won’t actually need much consoling).
The email is from Doctor (nice touch, that) Roonwyn James, who sounds like a Prop Forward from the Welsh rugby team. He is apparently a Web-eMail Information Manager, a job title which could mean absolutely anything, but which I think means that he can tell you what e-mail is.
Interestingly he does not ask for details of a bank account into which he can pour this largesse. Instead, listed and numbered as below, he asks for
- Sex (when I say he asks for sex, that doesn’t mean what it sounds like, or if it does he can keep his seven hundred grand);
- Country: Mr. River Campbel,
No, I don’t know what that last bit means either.
Now I know that all of us have received emails like this before, so I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m bothering mentioning it. Well, the reason is the email address it came from:
It all becomes clear now. NASA serves no function anymore. The space shuttle program is over. Their astronauts have to hitch lifts on Russian ships to get to the International Space Station, which in any case is just the world’s highest revolving restaurant. Their satellites are dropping like flies, if there are flies that are the size of a bus and weigh six tons.
There is talk of Space Tourism, but they’re not even going to bother. They know if they offer did to fly you to the moon Ryanair would just come along and charge half the money to fly you there, or a least to a small meteor just two thousand miles from it.
Cape Canaveral/Kennedy/Canaveral is deserted now apart from David and his assistant Roonwyn, who have been given the job of disposing of everything, including the cash in the NASA bank accounts, by giving them to random people all over the world.
So if you get an email from either of them offering you moonrock, or a spacesuit, or one of those capsules that simulates G-Force (it’d make a great rocking-chair for your front porch) please do accept whatever they offer.
They’re stuck there until they get rid of it all.