A telephone scam trying to coax money from gullible grandparents just won’t go away. The scammers have hit ol’ Nevah and me three times in recent years and the most recent wuz just yesterday. I call it the “pseudo-grandson” scam. Just for everyones’ information and warning, here’s how the scam works.
Each time our cell phone rang and a “pseudo-grandson” begins a sad tale of woe and he desperately needs good ol’ grandpa and grandma to send him money to get him out of his jam. He’s pretty convincing and an accomplished telephone phony.
The first scam 3-4 years ago wuz supposedly from a grandson — and the scammers knew his name — who told me he had gone to a stag party before a friend’s wedding in Oklahoma City. The grandson lived in Tennessee, which raised the first red flag for us.
The scammer bemoaned that he’d drank too much and hit a car and wuz now in jail for DUI. And he needed bail money. The only way to get the money to him fast enuf wuz to wire it to him. It wuz about this time in the story that we decided to end the scam and we hung up on the scammer and told the sheriff about it. Of course, nuthin’ happened.
The second scam wuz supposedly from a grandson in Denver who had a similar sad story and earnestly pleaded for money immediately. Again, we hung up on the scammer.
Well, yesterday the pseudo-grandson allegedly had a car accident, cracked his jaw, and had stitches in his lip. That’s why he mumbled and sounded so much different. He continued with his tale of woe until I decided to end the scam in a different manner.
I broke into his fake-tale-of-woe and said something like this: “Hey, buddy. you’re an immature, careless, irresponsible little punk. Your dear old grandpa isn’t your automatic ATM. I’m tired of your too-regular begging for cash to get you out of jams you got yourself into. It’s time you grow up. This time you can pay the price for your carelessness and get out of this jam yourself. Don’t call again!”
I didn’t need to hang up yesterday. My scamming psuedo-grandson did. I hope the scammer got the message this time — but I doubt he did.
***
Let’s change the subject to something funny that happened to me real life back when I wuz an elementary school kid. My maternal grandma, Anna, wuz among the most happy-go-lucky folks on planet Earth. I eagerly looked forward to her annual summer visit for a couple of weeks.
During her visit, we played card games, went fishing for both fish and crawdads, and in general had a great time together. Grandma wuz such an out-going, happy person that she could make even the most onerous, miserable work fun. And, that’s what she did on the day set aside to butcher the White Leghorn cockerels that my pappy, ol’ Czar E. Yield, bought every spring. As I recall, he bought 100 straight-run chicks, which meant we had to butcher around 50 chickens.
Grandma and mom sat up a chicken butchering “disassembly” line in the shade of a big elm tree. The line began with the cockerels in a chicken cage near a stump and a wooden box. An axe leaned against the stump. A pot of scalding water sat next to the box. Tables were lined out for plucking the chickens and eviscerating them. A big container of cold water waited to cool down the carcasses.
We each had a job to do. Grandma chopped off the heads and dropped the headless chickens into the wooden box to bleed. I wuz the cotton-picking chicken plucker. I yanked the chicken carcasses out of the bleeding box, stuffed them into the scalding water, and then plucked the feathers. Mom gutted the chickens, singed off the pin-feathers, and plopped the carcasses into the cold water.
It wuz a perfect set-up — until it wuzn’t. Here’s what happened. Grandma became too casual about lopping off heads. I know this is the truth because after I withdrew one chicken carcass out of the bleeding box, and scalded the carcass, and had the chicken about half plucked, I happened to look down and saw the chicken’s eye blinking at me. And its head wuz beakless. Grandma had missed the mark and chopped off the poor chicken’s beak, but not the whole head.
Of course, I screamed. Then grandma screamed and grabbed the chicken from me and finished the beheading job she’s blotched the first go around.
That little episode changed the atmosphere around the chicken assembly line. From that moment on, it wuz just another disgusting summer job.
***
My son-on-law works in the sun, so he’s no fan of high temperatures. However, last week he showed me a map of the U.S. showing the all-time, one-day high temperature in July all 50 states. Here are the single July day record temps and the year for the states where my column is read: Kansas, 121 degrees, 1936; Missouri, 118, 1936; Oklahoma, 120, 1936; Arkansas, 116, 1901; Colorado, 115, 2019; Wyoming, 115, 1988 and Nebraska, 118, 1934.
Note that not one of the all-time July high temps have occurred during the current global warming discussion. Know one knows for sure, but perhaps Mother Earth is just going through another of her perpetual climate changes and it’s nuthin’ new. I looked at the upcoming weather map and saw the next five days are predicted at more than 100 degrees. I will admit that’s hot and I’m not looking forward that string of hot days.
***
I met for the first time a faithful reader who happened to drop by our morning old Geezer GabFest at the Short Stop. He’s Wynn D. Bidd, a retired cattle buyer from Green, Kan. He said he wuz glad to join the “Riley CAVE Men” group for the day. He said CAVE men stands for “Citizens Against Virtually Everything.” That pretty well describes our group. And his comment will stand for my wise words for the week. Have a good ‘un.
