The Punchlines are in the Story
People like this are true American heroes.
A California man has been indicted for an inventive scheme that allegedly siphoned $50,000 from online brokerage houses E-trade and Schwab.com in six months — a few pennies at a time.
Michael Largent, 22, of Plumas Lake, California, allegedly exploited a loophole in a common procedure both companies follow when a customer links his brokerage account to a bank account for the first time. To verify that the account number and routing information is correct, the brokerages automatically send small “micro-deposits” of between two cents to one dollar to the account, and ask the customer to verify that they’ve received it.
This is a slightly modified version of the legendary Salami Method of computer embezzlement, featured in several movies, including Superman III, Hackers, and Office Space, by Mike Judge.
Largent allegedly used an automated script to open 58,000 online brokerage accounts, linking each of them to a handful of online bank accounts, and accumulating thousands of dollars in micro-deposits.
Two things: First, it takes a 22 year-old to realize that Superman III isn’t required viewing at bank software companies and security firms. Second, it takes a 22 year-old with enormous balls to go ahead and do this, regardless of how ignorant he is.
Here’s my favorite part:
Largent’s script allegedly used fake names, addresses and Social Security numbers for the brokerage accounts. Largent allegedly favored cartoon characters for the names, including Johnny Blaze, King of the Hill patriarch Hank Hill, and Rusty Shackelford. That last name is doubly-fake — it’s the alias commonly used by the paranoid exterminator Dale Gribble on King of the Hill.
Dude stole Dale Gribble’s stolen alias! That’s right, the proprietor of Dale’s Dead Bug, brazen in his commission of identity theft on numerous occasions, has become a victim of the same crime. Karma’s a bitch, Gribble.
However, what did Hank Hill ever do to deserve this? This is as bad as the time that the video store accused him of failing to return a porn tape, and put it on his credit report.
And then there’s Johnny Blaze. Johnny’s the Ghost Rider, and made a deal with the devil. Pretty sure he could care less about what Experian says about him.
A May 7 Secret Service search warrant affidavit (.pdf) says Largent tried the same thing with Google’s Checkout service, accumulating $8,225.29 in eight different bank accounts at Bancorp Bank.
When the bank asked Largent about the thousands of small transfers, he told them that he’d read Google’s terms of service, and that it didn’t prohibit multiple e-mail addresses and accounts. “He stated he needed the money to pay off debts and stated that this was one way to earn money, by setting up multiple accounts having Google submit the two small deposits.”
In other words, it’s not a crime if the only victim is a $184 billion company. Funny thing is, almost everyone agrees with this line of thinking–except for $184 billion companies. And that’s a hell of a tiebreaker.
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Apologies to Mom
As a belated Mothers’ Day gift, I’m posting 10 apologies to my mom, on a blog she doesn’t see. Sure it’s pointless, but that’s kind of how this thing works.
1. I apologize for the fact that when you had me do dishes, I threw away some of the silverware that your grandmother gave you if it was too gunked up.
2. I apologize for the time that I ‘cooked’ the charge from a Roman candle in a pot on your gas stove. I probably should have known better by then. For what it’s worth, I regretted it for a number of reasons, most notably the harm I did to my hearing.
3. I apologize for the trips to the emergency room. I have no idea why I felt like drinking bleach or eating baby aspirin were such great ideas.
4. I apologize for telling the doctor that you gave me poison, and we had to wait outside for me to throw up, when in fact I was the one who consumed poisonous berries, and that the ipecac syrup you gave me wasn’t actually poison.
5. I apologize for torpedoing your Avon career by rubbing Crisco into the curtains belonging to a little old lady during one of your sales calls. In my defense, I really think she just wanted someone to talk to, and had no intention of actually buying anything.
6. Although it’s not my fault, I apologize for the unhealthy interest that my friends have taken in you over the years, culminating in Joboo’s professions of his undying love for you. I really can’t stop vomiting enough.
7. I apologize for one time that I beat up my sister. She deserved it the other times.
8. I apologize for the excuses I made to get out of school. The Boy is using them now, and they’re pretty ridiculous. Why did you ever let me stay home?
9. I apologize for the time that I locked myself in a closet, and screamed until I fell asleep. I appreciate that you remembered the mirror on the other side of the door before my grandfather took an axe to it.
10. I apologize for the stolen orange cone in my bedroom, with the bottle of tequila underneath it. You never did think to look under there, right? Uh, right?
Tags: mom, mother's day
April
With the month of April nearly behind us without a single blog post, I should probably go ahead and write something. At the expense of making excuses, I’ve been seriously busy. Since the beginning of March, we have:
1. Purchased a medical billing company, although I’m still currently working my old job as well.
2. Enjoyed my 33rd birthday. Manda totally surprised me with a cake and presents, and then I watched movies with The Boy after gorging on cake. I can’t remember having a better birthday.
3. Cringed over The Boy’s 12th birthday. Pizza. Foosball. Video games. The kid equivalent of a casino.
4. Impregnated Manda. Whoopsie. We’re hoping for a girl this time.
So, yeah, my plate’s been a little full. More soon (hopefully).
Uh, 911? My Girlfriend’s Sprouted Roots
Deputies say a woman in western Kansas sat on her boyfriend’s toilet for two years, and they’re investigating whether she was mistreated.
Ness County Sheriff Bryan Whipple says a man called his office last month to report that something was wrong with his girlfriend.
It took him two years to realize that something was wrong with her?
The sheriff says the woman’s muscles had atrophied and that medical personnel had to remove her from the toilet because she was bound to it by “natural means.”
Without going into too much detail, I was able to come up with a list of 12 “natural means” by which she could have become bound to the toilet. In related news, I hate myself.
Whipple says the woman at first refused ambulance service and “didn’t want to leave.” She’s hospitalized in Wichita, but is refusing to talk with authorities.
Whipple says his office is considering a charge of mistreatment of a dependent adult.
Wait, Mr. Whipple is investigating a charge involving a woman attached to a toilet? Isn’t that a conflict of interests?
Confirmed: My Dad Watches Porn
Yeah, that’s right. Let that wash over you. Ok, bad choice of words there…
Yesterday, we went to my dad’s house for dinner. As is often the case on such trips, Alien and The Boy went to the bedroom to watch cartoons on TV. For some reason, they ran into some trouble with the TV, and my stepmom asked for my help in resolving it. So far, so good.
At first glance, the TV appeared to be on the wrong input source. After cycling through a few of them, I found what looked to be either the satellite receiver, or the DVD player, but for some reason, the screen was rolling. I was able the make out the word ‘Natural’ on what seemed to be a DVD menu screen, so if anything, they were watching The Natural, and busied myself with the remote. Meanwhile, Manda and my stepmom both started nervously asking me to turn it off, while the kids wondered what the big damn deal was. Finally, I got the point, and turned it off. Later, Manda told me that along with the word ‘Natural’ she also saw the term ‘100%’.
Short story long, I pulled a muscle vomiting last night.
Taking a Sad Song and Making It Better
I needed this:
Sure, he’s probably drunk, but it’s the Beatles.
What. The. Fuck.
Somebody help me out here. What is this shit?
I think this might be art, but I’m not sure. Either way, I’m subscribing to it.
Pure lust!
I’ll admit it. I am in most every way a pretty straight laced guy. Many people might even say boring. I don’t drink. Don’t swear. I avoid porn & any movies with nudity, foul language, or excessive gore. I love, adore, & still get excited by my wife after almost 20 years of marriage. I even obey the speed limit. But there is one thing that stirs me up & makes me lose control. I want it & I won’t be happy until I get it. I makes me think of doing things that are wrong & even illegal. It’s….
a 1970 Plymouth Barracuda.
I have no rational thought when it comes to this. I will have one. And I really want to restore one on my own. Get my hands on it. Get inside it. Get it’s motor running hot. Work on it piece by piece with tender loving care. And then when it’s all ready, get inside & ride. And the best part is that my wife is all for it. What a woman.
So if anyone out there would like to find the perfect Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Ramadan/Holiday present for me, make sure that you get me one with a shaker hood & either a 383, 426, or 440 engine. Don’t worry about the color. I’ll take care of that. Thanks.
Trapped
The lady in front of me at the Wal-Mart checkout line is middle-aged, morbidly obese, and riding a Mart Cart. She’s also leading a second cart, pack mule-style, with 10 packages of Assurance Underpads. I really don’t want to know what she’s soaking up with them. All I know for sure is that I will never use a Mart Cart. I stare at them, practicing my poker face. A look of serene nonchalance washes over my face. It’s a look that says, “No ma’am, I’m not the least bit horrified by what’s in your cart, nor have I been attempting to determine whether or not I can smell urine right now.” I send The Boy to the electronics section to get the Super Bowl score. He returns with the correct score, but with the teams reversed.
The man in front of the obese woman is buying a 12-pack of Keystone. He also asks for some Skoal, and the cashier is apparently baffled as to where his particular flavor is located in the tobacco area. I want to disembowel him with a broken Keystone bottle, only instead of breaking it on a table, I want to crack it over his skull. I’ve never understood why that wasn’t done in TV & movies. Both are classic moves, but they’re never utilized together. If I make a movie, they will be, and a new level of awesome will be created.
Meanwhile, the man waiting for the Skoal has noticed the Assurance Underpads. He looks decidedly nonplussed. I know that I would obliterate him at poker, and this briefly makes me feel better.
The cashier is slow. She stops between passes on the scanner to chat with the customers. It doesn’t help that she apparently knows the morbidly obese lady. I resolve that I will not chat with her, that I will stare coldly into space, thus giving the customers behind me a break.
When I finally reach the counter, the cashier decides that the woman behind me, who isn’t carrying much, should go ahead of me. I agree, because she has been through just as much hell as I, and after all, she is only carrying 2 things. She asks for cigarettes, sending the cashier off on another odyssey in the tobacco section. My poker face cracks for a moment, but then I’m back to serene nonchalance. When my turn arrives, I chat with the cashier, answering her questions about my purchases. I’m such a pussy.
