Beware the “phishermen”!
Don’t Get Caught By Phishers | BrooklynCovered
Faxing is still a great way to “phish” for your personal information. Unsuspecting people, and not just the elderly, often fall prey to these types of identity theft attacks.
Following are the actual examples of “phishing faxes” used by possible identity thieves. Just left-click on each one to study them in detail.
Pookies tears streamed down my shoulder as we hugged at his father’s graveside. His Mom rose from her chair, came over and hugged me, saying, “Thank you for getting my man to write us that letter. I knew we had paid-up cemetery plots, but I didn’t know where. He never told me he had so much life insurance, and all of those investments.”
Growing up, one of my best friends, one of my main men (we didn’t refer to each other as ‘son’ or with the ‘n’ word. You see, we knew you gave birth to sons, and if anyone called you the ‘n’ word, well, somebody was going to die), was a great dude named Pookie Jones. What’s his real name? I forget. Back in those days, everyone went by their nickname.
I ran into Pookie a few years back and inquired about his family. His jubilant mood turned sad when he looked at me and said, “Mom is great. But Dad, he’s, well not so good. He’s got the Big P.”
Prostate cancer.
All I could say was, “Damn.”
“Mom is really worried man. You know how it is when people have those over-50-years marriages. Guys like Dad took care of everything, while Mom was taking care of us. She really doesn’t know too much about the mortgage, or the different bills.
“We don’t even know if Dad has a will. You know how those old men are. Either they think you’re asking because you’re waiting for them to die, or they think they’re going to live forever”
Man, don’t I know it.
“Yo, G, Dad always liked you, well except when he caught you and my sister kissing in the basement that time. Could you talk to him? Not for me, dude, for Mom?”
I told Pookie if his Mom would make me one of her special, blessed by the angels sweet potato pies, I’d force the old Marine into submission. For two pies, I’d make him scream uncle. Twice.
When I went to see his folks, the jubilation was soon tempered by Mr. Jones’ question, “So, after all of these years, my son must have brought you here for a good reason. You here for my wifes’ sweet potato pie or are you here to learn all about my business?”
I looked him straight in the eye (just as I did when he caught us kissing in the basement. I’d read in National Geographic that to stop a tiger from charging and eating you, well, you did just that. You look them straight in the eye) and said, “Yes sir. No sir.”
“What?”, he asked.
“Yes sir, I am here to collect my sweet potato pie. Two of them, in fact. And no sir, I don’t want to know all about your business. I’d just like you to write your family one last letter, the most important letter you’ll ever leave for them.”
“I don’t intend to die anytime soon, youngster. I am going to whip this damn cancer. It’s messing with my love life.”
“And sir, if I was your cancer, I’d of already left town. If I was Saint Peter, I’d ask for vacation when I saw you coming toward the pearly gates. And I know your family doesn’t want you to die, sir.
“Thank you for sharing that, sir. I’d just like you to leave them a letter, sir, a true love letter.”
He fixed me with the same steely glare which made so many young men have embarrassing accidents back in the day. (It never worked on me, though. I was too naïve to be scared.)
“All right youngster. What kind of letter would you have me write?”
I reached into my bag and handed him a copy of “Letter to My Loved Ones.”
“This is the letter, sir.”
“Looks like a lot of work, youngster.”
“Not as much as you family would have to do without you, sir. Just in case you only live another 20 instead of 50, years, sir.”
He flipped through the eight pages. Then, he smiled at me. Which, if you’ve ever been in the woods, staring at a Bengal tiger, is the most frightening thing in the world. No, more frightening. The tiger would’ve run home to its momma.
“I should’ve made you marry my daughter.”
“Sir, we were only kissing.”
“That was enough for me. And don’t get too happy, you’re only leaving with one pie.”
The cancer won.
Pookies’ tears streamed down my shoulder as we hugged at his father’s graveside. His Mom rose from her chair, came over and hugged me, saying, “Thank you for getting my man to write us that letter. I knew we had paid-up cemetery plots, but I didn’t know where. He never told me he had so much life insurance, and all of those investments.
“We’d have so much confusion now but for that letter.”
And then she really blew me away as she handed me a copy of the letter and said, “He put a special note to you in the letter.”
Shocked, I accepted my copy, and a huge smile appeared as I read the words:
“Just one pie at a time, youngster. Just one pie at a time.”
Unfortunately, chaos often ensues after the death of a loved one. Why?
They failed to leave instructions about their estate. Leaving their loved ones, at such a critical time to try to learn the answer to questions like;
The wrong time to answer these and many other questions is when someone dies.
To help you start your personal “Final Roadmap”, click here to access a copy of “My Letter to My Loved Ones.” This eight-page document assists you in generating the answers to the types of questions many families can’t answer when a loved one dies.
And please, feel free to share this “My Letter to My Loved Ones” with your family and friends.
The less confusion, the better.
Pookies tears streamed down my shoulder as we hugged at his father’s graveside. His Mom rose from her chair, came over and hugged me, saying, “Thank you for getting my man to write us that letter. I knew we had paid-up cemetery plots, but I didn’t know where. He never told me he had so much life insurance, and all of those investments.”
Growing up, one of my best friends, one of my main men (we didn’t refer to each other as ‘son’ or with the ‘n’ word. You see, we knew you gave birth to sons, and if anyone called you the ‘n’ word, well, somebody was going to die), was a great dude named Pookie Jones. What’s his real name? I forget. Back in those days, everyone went by their nickname.
I ran into Pookie a few years back and inquired about his family. His jubilant mood turned sad when he looked at me and said, “Mom is great. But Dad, he’s, well not so good. He’s got the Big P.”
Prostate cancer.
All I could say was, “Damn.”
“Mom is really worried man. You know how it is when people have those over-50-years marriages. Guys like Dad took care of everything, while Mom was taking care of us. She really doesn’t know too much about the mortgage, or the different bills.
“We don’t even know if Dad has a will. You know how those old men are. Either they think you’re asking because you’re waiting for them to die, or they think they’re going to live forever”
Man, don’t I know it.
“Yo, G, Dad always liked you, well except when he caught you and my sister kissing in the basement that time. Could you talk to him? Not for me, dude, for Mom?”
I told Pookie if his Mom would make me one of her special, blessed by the angels sweet potato pies, I’d force the old Marine into submission. For two pies, I’d make him scream uncle. Twice.
When I went to see his folks, the jubilation was soon tempered by Mr. Jones’ question, “So, after all of these years, my son must have brought you here for a good reason. You here for my wifes’ sweet potato pie or are you here to learn all about my business?”
I looked him straight in the eye (just as I did when he caught us kissing in the basement. I’d read in National Geographic that to stop a tiger from charging and eating you, well, you did just that. You look them straight in the eye) and said, “Yes sir. No sir.”
“What?”, he asked.
“Yes sir, I am here to collect my sweet potato pie. Two of them, in fact. And no sir, I don’t want to know all about your business. I’d just like you to write your family one last letter, the most important letter you’ll ever leave for them.”
“I don’t intend to die anytime soon, youngster. I am going to whip this damn cancer. It’s messing with my love life.”
“And sir, if I was your cancer, I’d of already left town. If I was Saint Peter, I’d ask for vacation when I saw you coming toward the pearly gates. And I know your family doesn’t want you to die, sir.
“Thank you for sharing that, sir. I’d just like you to leave them a letter, sir, a true love letter.”
He fixed me with the same steely glare which made so many young men have embarrassing accidents back in the day. (It never worked on me, though. I was too naïve to be scared.)
“All right youngster. What kind of letter would you have me write?”
I reached into my bag and handed him a copy of “Letter to My Loved Ones.”
“This is the letter, sir.”
“Looks like a lot of work, youngster.”
“Not as much as you family would have to do without you, sir. Just in case you only live another 20 instead of 50, years, sir.”
He flipped through the eight pages. Then, he smiled at me. Which, if you’ve ever been in the woods, staring at a Bengal tiger, is the most frightening thing in the world. No, more frightening. The tiger would’ve run home to its momma.
“I should’ve made you marry my daughter.”
“Sir, we were only kissing.”
“That was enough for me. And don’t get too happy, you’re only leaving with one pie.”
The cancer won.
Pookies’ tears streamed down my shoulder as we hugged at his father’s graveside. His Mom rose from her chair, came over and hugged me, saying, “Thank you for getting my man to write us that letter. I knew we had paid-up cemetery plots, but I didn’t know where. He never told me he had so much life insurance, and all of those investments.
“We’d have so much confusion now but for that letter.”
And then she really blew me away as she handed me a copy of the letter and said, “He put a special note to you in the letter.”
Shocked, I accepted my copy, and a huge smile appeared as I read the words:
“Just one pie at a time, youngster. Just one pie at a time.”
Unfortunately, chaos often ensues after the death of a loved one. Why?
They failed to leave instructions about their estate. Leaving their loved ones, at such a critical time to try to learn the answer to questions like;
The wrong time to answer these and many other questions is when someone dies.
To help you start your personal “Final Roadmap”, click here to access a copy of “My Letter to My Loved Ones.” This eight-page document assists you in generating the answers to the types of questions many families can’t answer when a loved one dies.
And please, feel free to share this “My Letter to My Loved Ones” with your family and friends.
The less confusion, the better.
Do I want to put an end to recreational cycling? No, not at all. There is, however, a time and a place for bicycle racing. And that shouldn’t be after 8 AM, or before 9 PM. When most of the little ones and their parents are home.
So, I’d like to make this suggestion, and who knows, maybe even have the NYS Vehicle and Traffic Law enforced in the park. Currently, Article 34, Sections 1230 and 1231, state;
“The regulations applicable to bicycles or to in-line skates shall apply whenever a bicycle is, or in-line skates are, operated upon any highway, upon private roads open to public motor vehicle traffic and upon any path set aside for the exclusive use of bicycles, or in-line skates, or both.”
Section 1231 further states:
“Every person riding a bicycle or skating or gliding on in-line skates upon a roadway shall be granted all of the rights and shall be subject to all of the duties applicable to the driver of a vehicle by this title, except as to special regulations in this article and except as to those provisions of this title which by their nature can have no application”
Cyclists are, by law, required to stop at red lights.
Period.
Plain and simple.
Failure to do so means they should be stopped and ticketed. Just as I in my car would be ticketed were I to run a red light, or even roll past a stop sign. Two behaviors I witness every day by folks on bicycles.
And, if they don’t stop, radio the patrol car down the road, just out of sight around the bend, to “make a meeting”.
Then double the fine. Perhaps even impound the bicycle until they take a Defensive Driving Class.
Do I want to put an end to recreational cycling? No, not at all. There is, however, a time and a place for bicycle racing. And that shouldn’t be after 8 AM, or before 9 PM. When most of the little ones and their parents are home. And let’s do this now. Summer activities in the park are in full swing, and it’s just a matter of time before someones child, or mother, or grandfather, is seriously injured.
Just remember the widow who just “celebrated” the five-year anniversary of her husbands death.
He was killed when struck by a bicycle messenger in Manhattan. As a pedestrian, he wasn’t wearing a helmet.
Eustace Greaves Jr., a.k.a. BrooklynCovered is proud to be a Brooklyn insurance broker and agent and a NYS licensed Point and Insuranc Reduction Workshop class instructor. And, he and his daughter enjoy riding their bicycles, legally.
Now, I share the roadway with joggers, walkers, in-line skaters, and cyclists. They have a buffered lane to use until the park is closed to vehicular traffic. I can’t tell you how many times I given Tour De France wanna-bes a gentle beep of the horn to let them know they are in the wrong lane, only to have them tell me to “Use the other f*****g lane, a*****e!” And that was from someone whom I’ll kindly describe as a lady.
…By someone who really thought they were in the Tour de France.
…In the writing of this blog. It is, however, only a matter of time before the headline reads, “Child Killed When Cyclists Fail To Obey Traffic Signals”, or “Cyclist Operating at a Reckless Speed Kills Innocent Child.”
As you may or may not know, Monday to Friday, from 5 PM until 7 PM, cars are allowed to enter Prospect Park using the Grand Army Plaza entrance and use the parks interior roadway to travel all the way to the circle at Coney Island Avenue.
When my schedule allows, I enjoy taking this route. It provides me with a calming respite from the days stressors as I travel through this beautiful primordial forest. I also enjoy driving at no more than 20 mph. Believe me, this is a time in the day when I don’t want to rush. (When our schedules allow, my daughter and I enjoy taking our bicycles out for a few leisurely laps around the park. Leisurely because we often stop for water and those heavenly ice cream bars sold near the bandshell.)
It is my habit to drive in the left hand lane. Doing this provides me with an extra microsecond of reaction time should someone dart out into the roadway. This is especially useful since so many people are enthralled by their I-Pods, I-Phones, Droids, and other distractions which could place them in great danger were I not looking out for them.
Now, I share the roadway with joggers, walkers, in-line skaters, and cyclists. They have a buffered lane to use until the park closes to vehicular traffic. I can’t tell you how many times I given Tour De France wanna-bes a gentle beep of the horn to let them know they are in the wrong lane, only to have them tell me to “Use the other f*****g lane, a*****e!” And that was from someone whom I’ll graciously describe as a lady. At least, it sounded and was shaped like a lady.
I’ve learned to let moments like this go, since, as a NYS licensed insurance agent and broker, I am well aware of the consequences of using my vehicle as a weapon to intentionally inflict damage or harm to a person.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, I am too pretty for prison.
The behavior which really angers me with these arrogant fools in spandex clothing is their complete disregard for the safety of pedestrians, especially little kids. On more than one occasion, I’ve stopped at the red light at the pedestrian crossing located near the baseball fields, only to watch as cyclists, too interested in keeping up their momentum, barely avoid hitting small children. On one occasion, a young mother was crossing with the light, and more than a few fools in a peloton nearly hit her and what appeared her child of no more than 2-3 years of age. Some dads leaving the baseball fields with their own children got into a shouting match with the offending cyclists, and I really thought they’d use the baseball bats to rearrange some heads.
While no one suffered any injury this time, I’ll never forget the look on that mothers face, a look of stark terror, knowing she and her small child were nearly hit, not by the cars which legally stopped for the red light. No, she and her little one were nearly done in by folk who think the park belongs only to them. Just imagine if they did ban cars from the park, anyone not speeding on a bicycle would have to leave too.
Tomorrow, Part II.
