So I'm sitting on my recliner reading "Skinny Dip" by Carl Hiaasen when I hear such screaming outside that dogs start howling, kids are running to their moms, and moms are dialing 911. I went to the window to see what possible reason there could be for so rudely interrupting my leisure.
I saw a woman at a stop sign being loudly berated by Leroy the junk man for some offense, real or imagined. Leroy has trouble distinguishing between the two. Instead of just driving off and leaving him to rail at the heavens, he being on foot, she sat there behind the wheel of her car and just stared in disbelief. I wondered whether I should make an appearance on my porch as sort of a deterrent to potential violence. I envisioned how it would go down....
"Whut the hell you lookin' at?"
"I don't know. I didn't major in anthropology."
"Whut? Anthro-whut? I'll come over there and kick yore ass!"
"Then you would truly be as stupid as you look."
"Whutchu mean, stoopid? You'd be the one stoopid, all lyin' on the ground bleedin' and stuff."
"Just out of curiosity, how'd you go about kicking my ass? I'm at least a head taller and 100 pounds heavier than you. You look like a refuge from a concentration camp, like Joe Walsh when he was doing drugs."
"Maybe so, but I'm also about forty years younger and a lot faster." Here he might demonstrate his hand speed and perform a little Ali shuffle. "I'll put yore ass in the hospital in a body cast."
"Yeah, but see, you'd still lose. Who you gonna brag to about beatin' up a 71-year-old man? Plus, they have laws here in Florida that are especially harsh on redneck crackers like you who beat up on seniors."
"Well, you'd still be in the hospital."
"Maybe. But I know where you live. I'd get out of the hospital before you got out of jail, and when you do get out, everything you own will be gone. Disappeared."
Everyone knows where Leroy lives, which is a couple of blocks up and around the corner from me. His house is surrounded with enough junk to make a landfill operator proud. He collects his "objets d'art" by driving his pickup truck around the 'hood and picking up whatever homeowners have put out by the curb. He's gotten around attempts at code enforcement by claiming his pieces of scrap are "lawn decorations."
"You know, Gomer, you really should be more selective in picking your fights. Last time you went all postal on a driver, he pounded you into the pavement. My 11-year-old granddaughter could whip your scrawny butt. Your neighbor across the street told me you threatened her one day, and when she invited you to take just one step across her property line, you backed off. 'He won't mess with me,' she said." (Truth be told, I wouldn't mess with her, either.)
"Whut the hell you flyin' that Georgia flag for, anyways? Man lives in Florida, he ought to fly a Florida flag!"
"That 'G' stands for Green Bay, Forrest. You know, the Pakcers?"
"Oh. Yeah, I know. I'm a Bucs fan, myself."
"Gee, I never would have guessed."
I decided to lend moral support to the beleagured driver. By the time I reached for my can of Wasp killer--mace and probably pepper spray being illegal--Leroy had exhausted his spleen and had gone stomping off down the street. Luckily for him. He'd have come with 20 feet of me, he'd have needed a guide dog to get home.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Saturday, July 20, 2013
A Queen Dethroned
Some time ago I shared with you faithful readers, who now number in the tens, the story of Tampa's own Rashia Wilson, 27 and the mother of three, who managed to scam the IRS out of $3 million and change. It has since gotten worse.
How did Rashia, who looks like an emaciated Snooki, pull it off? Simple. Using wire fraud and identity theft schemes, she e-filed easily prepared incom tax return forms and then waited for the refunds to be deposited into her bank accounts. These refunds enabled a lavish lifestyle, which included a $30k birthday party for her 1-year-old and $90k for a new Audi.
How was she caught? Bet you think that due diligence on the part of the IRS and a follow-up FBI investigation tripped her up. Ha! Silly you. Instead, she bragged about what she had done on Facebook. Someone saw what she had written and tipped off the feds.
"I'm Rashia, the queen of IRS tax fraud," she posted. "I'm a millionaire for the record, so if U think indicting me will B easy it won't, I promise you! U need more than black and white to hold me down N that's to da rat who went N told, as if 1st lady don't have the TPD under her spell. I run Tampa right now."
When the federal government's bloated budget involves juggling trillions of dollars daily, $3 mil is pocket change. Its loss was certainly not enough to distract the IRS from its Inspector Javert-like doggedness in thwarting applications for tax-exempt status from pesky right-wing organizations. After all, one must set priorities.
But losing money is one thing; losing face is quite another. So when Rashia publicly thumbed her nose at its ineptitude, the IRS finally rallied the troops. In a joint effort that would have made Eliot Ness envious, the IRS Criminal Investigations division teamed with the Secret Service, US Postal Inspection Service, Hillsborough County Sheriff's Office and Tampa Police Department to bring her down.
Rashia's attorneys worked out a deal wherein she pleaded guilty to wire fraud and identity theft. Came then the sob stories and the psycho-babble.
Psychologist Valerie McClain testified that Rashia, a seventh-grade dropout and daughter of a cocaine-addicted mother and incarcerated father, suffers from bipolar disorder, dysfunctional upbringing and manic-phase behavior. What looks like audacity on her Facebook posting, the Jennifer Melfi wannabe analyzed, is simply a manifestation of her illness. Clearly her devils made her do it.
The judge, his common sense uncompromised by the aberrant DRD4 gene that afflicts Valerie, didn't buy the bleeding heart diagnosis. "I cannot ignore the fact that she stole over $3 million from the government," he said. He sentenced her to 21 years in the slam and ordered her to pay restitution in the amount of $3.1 million.
"What a joke," you're probably thinking. "How's she going to pay back $3.1 mil?"
Ah, but see, the plea arrangement had been signed off on before it became obvious that the total amount with which she made off was closer to $20 mil. Nevertheless, the judge honored the agreement. Assuming she has the remaining $17 mil stashed somewhere, having the cash is not Raisha's problem. Her problem is trying to spend it. If she dips into her "savings" for the $3 mil the feds will be all over her like a wetsuit on a SCUBA diver.
I bet you're also thinking, "Well, Uncle Dave, at least she's going to prison for 21 years. That's the rest of her youth spent locked up in the slam."
Aww, that's sooo cute! You actually believe she'll do all 21 years. How precious! She'll be eligible for parole after serving seven. Even if she doesn't cut a deal for a reduction in sentence in exchange for whatever is left of the unaccounted for $17 mil, there's no way she's going to do 21. No one does 21 for nonviolent crimes.
There are even murderers who don't do 21 years.
How did Rashia, who looks like an emaciated Snooki, pull it off? Simple. Using wire fraud and identity theft schemes, she e-filed easily prepared incom tax return forms and then waited for the refunds to be deposited into her bank accounts. These refunds enabled a lavish lifestyle, which included a $30k birthday party for her 1-year-old and $90k for a new Audi.
How was she caught? Bet you think that due diligence on the part of the IRS and a follow-up FBI investigation tripped her up. Ha! Silly you. Instead, she bragged about what she had done on Facebook. Someone saw what she had written and tipped off the feds.
"I'm Rashia, the queen of IRS tax fraud," she posted. "I'm a millionaire for the record, so if U think indicting me will B easy it won't, I promise you! U need more than black and white to hold me down N that's to da rat who went N told, as if 1st lady don't have the TPD under her spell. I run Tampa right now."
When the federal government's bloated budget involves juggling trillions of dollars daily, $3 mil is pocket change. Its loss was certainly not enough to distract the IRS from its Inspector Javert-like doggedness in thwarting applications for tax-exempt status from pesky right-wing organizations. After all, one must set priorities.
But losing money is one thing; losing face is quite another. So when Rashia publicly thumbed her nose at its ineptitude, the IRS finally rallied the troops. In a joint effort that would have made Eliot Ness envious, the IRS Criminal Investigations division teamed with the Secret Service, US Postal Inspection Service, Hillsborough County Sheriff's Office and Tampa Police Department to bring her down.
Rashia's attorneys worked out a deal wherein she pleaded guilty to wire fraud and identity theft. Came then the sob stories and the psycho-babble.
Psychologist Valerie McClain testified that Rashia, a seventh-grade dropout and daughter of a cocaine-addicted mother and incarcerated father, suffers from bipolar disorder, dysfunctional upbringing and manic-phase behavior. What looks like audacity on her Facebook posting, the Jennifer Melfi wannabe analyzed, is simply a manifestation of her illness. Clearly her devils made her do it.
The judge, his common sense uncompromised by the aberrant DRD4 gene that afflicts Valerie, didn't buy the bleeding heart diagnosis. "I cannot ignore the fact that she stole over $3 million from the government," he said. He sentenced her to 21 years in the slam and ordered her to pay restitution in the amount of $3.1 million.
"What a joke," you're probably thinking. "How's she going to pay back $3.1 mil?"
Ah, but see, the plea arrangement had been signed off on before it became obvious that the total amount with which she made off was closer to $20 mil. Nevertheless, the judge honored the agreement. Assuming she has the remaining $17 mil stashed somewhere, having the cash is not Raisha's problem. Her problem is trying to spend it. If she dips into her "savings" for the $3 mil the feds will be all over her like a wetsuit on a SCUBA diver.
I bet you're also thinking, "Well, Uncle Dave, at least she's going to prison for 21 years. That's the rest of her youth spent locked up in the slam."
Aww, that's sooo cute! You actually believe she'll do all 21 years. How precious! She'll be eligible for parole after serving seven. Even if she doesn't cut a deal for a reduction in sentence in exchange for whatever is left of the unaccounted for $17 mil, there's no way she's going to do 21. No one does 21 for nonviolent crimes.
There are even murderers who don't do 21 years.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Different Strokes
Ohio is rather oddly sorted, geographically. Montgomery, for example, is in Hamilton County, not Montgomery County. Hamilton, on the other hand, is in Butler County, while Butler is in Richland County. Warren is not in Warren County but in Trumbull County; Trumbull is in Ashtabula County. Almost amusingly, Ashtabula is actually in Ashtabula County.
But all of this is really not apropos of anything connected with this sad tale of unrequited love. Hmmm. On second thought, maybe it is....
At 1:20 p.m. on June 17, Hamiltonian Edwin Charles Tobergta, 34, stepped out of his home clad in only his skin and proceeded to have sex with a pool float which the neighbors had set out by the trash. The neighbor's 10-year-old daughter, who had witnessed him doing the nasty with the float, ran to her mother yelling, "Mom, Edwin's doing something weird out there!"
Edwin was arrested on a charge of public indecency. In accordance with the provisions of the Freedom of Information Act, I was able to obtain a transcript of the arrest interview.
"Well, here we are again, Edwin."
"Huh?"
"Remember two years ago when we busted you for having your way with a neighbor's pool float?"
"Well, I...."
"And in 2006, while you were in the slam for public indecency, you exposed yourself to a corrections officer, for chrissakes!"
"That was a guy thing, you know, like a junk measuring thing."
"Then, back in 2002, a neighbor complained that you had sexually assaulted one of her inflatable Halloween decorations. What was that, Edwin? A witch? Ghost? Let me guess--a skull?"
"Don't rightly recall what it was, officer. Must not have been a memorable experience, is all I can say."
"You ever think of dating, oh, I don't know, maybe women, Edwin? Or, hell, even guys. I mean, it seems to me that'd be better than molesting inanimate objects."
"Lord knows I've tried. Don't know what it is 'bout me that puts women off."
"Well, gee, Edwin, you think it might be the fact that you run around outside, bare-assed, coupled with your predeliction for violating plastic toys, that's turning the ladies off? I mean, you gotta figure that sort of behavior is not enhancing your status as a prospect."
"But them blow-up thingies have their advantages, know what I mean? They don't need to talk all the time--what is that about women, anyways--they're really flexible, and I can use them in whatever position I want. They don't complain, 'cause there ain't no pain. Plus, they don't cost me nothing; no dinner, no show."
"Well, couldn't you at least get yourself one of them anatomically correct, life-size dolls instead of raping the neighbor's inflatables?"
"Hell, I do that, I might as well spring for a date. I'm trying to save myself some money, 'kay? And it ain't like I'm hurting anyone. I even wipe off the mess when I'm done!"
Edwin was indicted on the public indecency charge. Bond was set at $25k. If convicted, he could get 12 months in the slam.
Perhaps he will score a conjugal visit with one of the objects of his affection.
But all of this is really not apropos of anything connected with this sad tale of unrequited love. Hmmm. On second thought, maybe it is....
At 1:20 p.m. on June 17, Hamiltonian Edwin Charles Tobergta, 34, stepped out of his home clad in only his skin and proceeded to have sex with a pool float which the neighbors had set out by the trash. The neighbor's 10-year-old daughter, who had witnessed him doing the nasty with the float, ran to her mother yelling, "Mom, Edwin's doing something weird out there!"
Edwin was arrested on a charge of public indecency. In accordance with the provisions of the Freedom of Information Act, I was able to obtain a transcript of the arrest interview.
"Well, here we are again, Edwin."
"Huh?"
"Remember two years ago when we busted you for having your way with a neighbor's pool float?"
"Well, I...."
"And in 2006, while you were in the slam for public indecency, you exposed yourself to a corrections officer, for chrissakes!"
"That was a guy thing, you know, like a junk measuring thing."
"Then, back in 2002, a neighbor complained that you had sexually assaulted one of her inflatable Halloween decorations. What was that, Edwin? A witch? Ghost? Let me guess--a skull?"
"Don't rightly recall what it was, officer. Must not have been a memorable experience, is all I can say."
"You ever think of dating, oh, I don't know, maybe women, Edwin? Or, hell, even guys. I mean, it seems to me that'd be better than molesting inanimate objects."
"Lord knows I've tried. Don't know what it is 'bout me that puts women off."
"Well, gee, Edwin, you think it might be the fact that you run around outside, bare-assed, coupled with your predeliction for violating plastic toys, that's turning the ladies off? I mean, you gotta figure that sort of behavior is not enhancing your status as a prospect."
"But them blow-up thingies have their advantages, know what I mean? They don't need to talk all the time--what is that about women, anyways--they're really flexible, and I can use them in whatever position I want. They don't complain, 'cause there ain't no pain. Plus, they don't cost me nothing; no dinner, no show."
"Well, couldn't you at least get yourself one of them anatomically correct, life-size dolls instead of raping the neighbor's inflatables?"
"Hell, I do that, I might as well spring for a date. I'm trying to save myself some money, 'kay? And it ain't like I'm hurting anyone. I even wipe off the mess when I'm done!"
Edwin was indicted on the public indecency charge. Bond was set at $25k. If convicted, he could get 12 months in the slam.
Perhaps he will score a conjugal visit with one of the objects of his affection.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
A "Ghost" Story
Recently, a friend of mine had to visit her bank. Coincidently, my ubiquitous bugbot happened to be sequestered unobtrusively under the branch manager's desk and transmitted this conversation to my laptop.
"May I help you?"
"Yes. My name is Bobbie Bosocket. My husband, Bobby, recently passed away, and I need to close out our joint accounts and open new ones in just my name."
"Sorry for your loss. I'll be more than happy to take care of this for you. Would you also require new credit and debit cards?"
"Oh, I guess. I'd rather not, but you just can't do anything without them, anymore."
"I know, right? Give me a couple of minutes to verify your credit rating and I'll be right back with you."
"No problem."
My bugbot, alas, is not equipped with video capability. However, from the gist of the conversation it is not hard to imagine the banker's facial expressions when he returned with the credit reporting companies' information.
"I'm sorry, Ms Bosocket. We won't be able to issue you a credit card."
"I don't understand. Our credit scores have always been in the mid-700s. We've never had so much as one late payment or default, no bankruptcies, no liens."
"Yes, but one of the requirements for obtaining credit is that the applicant be, well, alive."
"But my late husband is not applying for credit; I am!"
"That's the problem. Apparently, you're dead."
"Say what?"
"All three credit reporting companies have you listed as deceased, mort, room temperature."
"Well, clearly I'm not. I'm sitting here talking to you."
"Are you? Are you really? I mean, I see you and hear you, but are you you, or just an apparition, a hallucination brought on by that breakfast burrito I ate this morning? Oh, why did I eat it? Why did I eat it?!"
"Look. Here's my driver's license, my social security card, my military spouse ID card, and my husband's death certificate. I'd show you my passport if I had it with me, but I didn't know I'd be crossing into Beetlejuice territory, here."
"I'm sorry, Ms Bosocket. My hands are tied. I can't process your paperwork because of your, uh, status."
"I'm Bobbie, not Bobby, you myopic twit! I'm obviously not the one who's dead!"
"Well, yeah, you say that, but the credit reporting companies say you are, and credit reporting companies are never, ever, wrong."
"Okay, Sparky, I'm outta here. But understand--I'll get this mess straightened out, and when I do, I'll be back! You might prove to be harder to find than Jimmy Hoffa by the time I'm done."
"Uh, Ms Bosocket, when you leave would you mind opening the door to exit instead of just materializing, or transmogrifying, or whatever through it? We wouldn't want to alarm our other customers now, would we?"
"May I help you?"
"Yes. My name is Bobbie Bosocket. My husband, Bobby, recently passed away, and I need to close out our joint accounts and open new ones in just my name."
"Sorry for your loss. I'll be more than happy to take care of this for you. Would you also require new credit and debit cards?"
"Oh, I guess. I'd rather not, but you just can't do anything without them, anymore."
"I know, right? Give me a couple of minutes to verify your credit rating and I'll be right back with you."
"No problem."
My bugbot, alas, is not equipped with video capability. However, from the gist of the conversation it is not hard to imagine the banker's facial expressions when he returned with the credit reporting companies' information.
"I'm sorry, Ms Bosocket. We won't be able to issue you a credit card."
"I don't understand. Our credit scores have always been in the mid-700s. We've never had so much as one late payment or default, no bankruptcies, no liens."
"Yes, but one of the requirements for obtaining credit is that the applicant be, well, alive."
"But my late husband is not applying for credit; I am!"
"That's the problem. Apparently, you're dead."
"Say what?"
"All three credit reporting companies have you listed as deceased, mort, room temperature."
"Well, clearly I'm not. I'm sitting here talking to you."
"Are you? Are you really? I mean, I see you and hear you, but are you you, or just an apparition, a hallucination brought on by that breakfast burrito I ate this morning? Oh, why did I eat it? Why did I eat it?!"
"Look. Here's my driver's license, my social security card, my military spouse ID card, and my husband's death certificate. I'd show you my passport if I had it with me, but I didn't know I'd be crossing into Beetlejuice territory, here."
"I'm sorry, Ms Bosocket. My hands are tied. I can't process your paperwork because of your, uh, status."
"I'm Bobbie, not Bobby, you myopic twit! I'm obviously not the one who's dead!"
"Well, yeah, you say that, but the credit reporting companies say you are, and credit reporting companies are never, ever, wrong."
"Okay, Sparky, I'm outta here. But understand--I'll get this mess straightened out, and when I do, I'll be back! You might prove to be harder to find than Jimmy Hoffa by the time I'm done."
"Uh, Ms Bosocket, when you leave would you mind opening the door to exit instead of just materializing, or transmogrifying, or whatever through it? We wouldn't want to alarm our other customers now, would we?"
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