I hope you receive this column in good faith. My name is Steve Hofstetter, son of the late Umbequeye Hofstetter, crown prince of the Nigerian Oil and Excess Money Council, and I need your help stealing some stuff.

If you've ever gotten an email like that, hopefully you deleted it without bothering to read the second paragraph. Nothing sounds more believable than a stranger e-mailing you about helping him funnel money out of the account of a deceased millionaire.

The basic scam is thus - they convince you to give up your bank account info so they can funnel money in it. Instead, they funnel money out of it. It's a high tech version of someone asking you to open your wallet and turn your back so that they can put a few bucks in there.

If you've ever fallen for this scam, put down this column and get immediate government assistance. Not to recover your money, but to protect yourself from your own lack of common sense. March straight to your local Stupidity Bureau and register your name immediately. If you are even smart enough to spell it.

The funniest part about someone falling for this scam is how excited they probably were when they first got the email. "This must be my lucky day! True, I've never heard of this guy. And if I type his name into a search engine, several hundred hoax websites come up. And yes, I'm female and he called me sir. But I really want to trust this man. And who among us hasn't wanted to screw the Nigerian government?"

My first clue that this was a scam was that I am a stand-up comedian, and there's no way any financial director is going to trust me with anything more than subway fare. My second clue was that I get 12 of these messages a day, making it very difficult to believe the authenticity of any one in particular. The likelihood that I can help with one Nigerian Petroleum company is slim. But 12? Now you're just talking crazy.

The third and perhaps most poignant sign that this was a fraud was its arrival via email. If you ever get a coupon, sweepstakes, bill, love letter, message from your mother, or anything else, if it came over email it's probably phony. If this guy is sitting on twenty-five million dollars, he can afford a 37-cent stamp to send an actual letter. Or even an 80-cent stamp if the guy actually does live in Nigeria.

I decided to write back to the latest guy, Christopher Adeniyi, to see what would happen. Okay, so I really did it because I needed a few more paragraphs on this column.

"Dear Mr. Adeniyi - I thank you to have written me. By coincidence, I am also operating an account for a deceased millionaire involved in the petroleum industry. Perhaps we can trade accounts? Sincerely, Dr. Hercules Rockefeller"

I never heard back from him. Perhaps he thought that my letter was a scam. I sent him another one just in case.

"Chris - Hey, I don't know if you got my last message, but this money is really burning a hole in my pocket. Hit me back with your bank account and stuff and I'll give you some. Peace, Steveo."

And since he STILL didn't respond, I tried one more time.

"My Dearest Christopher. It has been a fortnight since I have heard the sweet song of my email dinging to tell me I've received your letter. I yearn to read the grade-school grammar of your half-caps lock correspondence. Please respond soon, as I am tired of carrying around all of this money. Sincerely, your sweetness."

After still receiving nothing in return, I sent him 34 more letters later that day. I'm beginning to think this guy isn't the Financial Director of the Nigerian National Petroleum Corporation (NNPC) at all!

I do not feel sorry for anyone who has fallen for this type of scam. Just like I don't feel sorry for people who spill hot coffee on their laps, eat too much fatty food, or die bungee jumping. It is your fault. Take responsibility for your own stupidity. Use this incident to learn a little something about life. And send me your bank account info. Because I know this guy in Nigeria...

I don't normally include fan mail in my column. When a reader takes the time to write me a kind letter, I may notice the occasional errors in grammar, spelling, and judgment but I keep them to myself and a few of my friends or strangers. But I do not use this space to ridicule someone who takes the time to send me fan mail. Hate mail, however, is an entirely different story.

Three months ago, I wrote a column about an incident I had with Kinko's, where they lied to me about when they could finish my work, lied to me about when it was ready, had three out of three computers broken, had two of two color copiers "down," and loaded the wrong paper in a printer and blamed me for letting them load it. Clearly, this was all my fault.

Or so says my new internet friend, who goes only by the name of "Plato Reborn." That's right - now that one of the greatest thinkers of all time has been re-incarnated, he's working at Kinko's. We've got to do something about this economy.

"Plato" recently sent me a message informing me that I "came off as an a**hole, and we charge a**holes for everything possible." This I did not have a problem with, since that's a sound policy. It's probably why coffee costs $7 at Starbucks. Because to pay $7 for coffee, you've got to be a bit of an a**hole.

Plato went on to explain that he's been a part of the evil empire for the last seven months, and has grown increasingly "bitter" at arrogant people who think the world revolves around them. I imagine these people are so arrogant, they refer to themselves as "Plato Reborn." Oh, wait.

In Plato's denim-clad republic, "mostly all of our customers do not know how our technology works." Which is true, but that's because it doesn't work at all. I wrote my column about a day when every computer and color copier were "down." Regardless of my knowledge of the copying process, it would have been just as effective to stay at home and try to print something with my toaster.

Plato pointed out that a lot of the damage is caused by "ignorant people who load paper that is not meant to be used in laser printers" which is particularly amusing since my column detailed how that was done by one of the Kinko's employees. He also complained that parents "let their children put rubber cement on our computers," apparently upset that there wouldn't be enough to take back to the break room and sniff before the start of the next shift.

The worst insult he doled out (and trust me, there were many) was that I "obviously do not know how businesses work." "How should you," he continued. "You are a stand up comedian." Ouch. I was tempted to fire back by describing the economics classes I've aced and the companies I've started. Instead, I will merely point out the business savvy it must take to spend the last seven months working at Kinko's.

Plato closed his letter by explaining that he may be coming off harsh, but he was at Kinko's when he wrote it and was overworked since the location that employs him is quite understaffed. That's right - he read an 800-word column and crafted a 300-word response while his store was understaffed.

"Excuse me, sir? I need help with this copier."

"Would you shut up? I'm busy writing an indignant letter to this columnist. Mmmm"¦rubber cement."

Plato II, I thank you for your vitriolic tirade, which proved everything I'd previously written about my Kinko's experience.

Not everyone who works at Kinko's is incompetent, and perhaps some of the stores even have employees that know how to do the jobs for which they are paid. Maybe some stores don't ruin your original, don't yell at you for their errors, and actually respect you as someone who is giving them money to provide a service. And maybe, just maybe, there are even stores out there that fire employees who use company time to reply to newspaper columns. But until I see one, I will continue to assume that all Kinko's are just as poopy as the ones I've visited.

My favorite line in Plato's e-mail was that Kinko's "can do things with a copy machine that most people cannot even realize."

Oh yeah? Let's start by making a freakin' copy.

When I perform, I ask the audience to applaud if they watch reality TV. I have yet to hear more than three people clap for this. I used to think that a lot of people watched reality TV and just didn't admit to it. Then I realized that the majority of people who watch reality TV don't have the wherewithal it takes to make both of their hands meet repeatedly.

At some point, they're going to run out of ideas for these shows. Networks have already exhausted the different ways they can jam people together - on an island, in a house, with a mouse, in a box, on Fox. The idea of eliminating characters is also getting stale since we never get to see these annoying people eliminated in the true sense of the word. Now wouldn't that be a good show?

"Well, we all voted, and you're going to die. However, if you complete this challenge, we'll only maim you and you can go on to compete another week right here on the Anna Nicole Smith Show."

The recent trend has been towards professions, with upcoming shows following the staff of a restaurant and a competition to see who can be Donald Trump's personal assistant. I expect next season to bring us "The Reality Reality Show," in which writers vie to see who can come up with the best premise for America's next televised proof of cultural depravity. No matter who wins, we lose.

The inherent problem with reality TV is that it's not real at all. The premises are so farfetched that even Fox executives are starting to doubt them. Take Joe Millionaire - yes, guys often lie about what they earn to impress women. But those claims are usually made while sharing French fries and not a French mansion. I want to see real reality TV - shows about what actually happens in the world.

How about a program called "The Jersey Weekend," where a carload of teenagers drive around desperately looking for something to do. The drama mounts as the kids creep closer and closer to curfew until they finally end up at the same diner as they did last week.

If city life is more your thing, why not watch "The Rush Hour Commute," where hundreds of irate New Yorkers grapple for subway seats, breathing room, and a place to stand that's suitably far away from the smelly guy. An alternate version of this show would be shot in Los Angeles, where the entire hour is spent sitting on the shoulder of the 405.

Or how about "The Actual Bachelor?" A 30-something man chooses between 40 women, none of whom return his phone calls. The dramatic season finale features him beating it to Internet porn.

The point here is that real people are really boring. And if you don't believe me, think about your life for a second. You are a real person. And you are really boring. When you get a phone call and someone asks what's up, how often do you answer with anything other than a version of "same old?" Occasionally someone you know gets married (hopefully to someone sans mask), and sometimes you actually go to a ballgame or a museum or somewhere that isn't the same bar with the same people you've been hanging out with for the last several years. Next time someone asks me what I've been up to, I'm going to tell them my life has been pretty real lately.

"Yeah, we all voted that Dave can't drink with us anymore. Oh, and Susan ate a whole bunch of spiders. And then John got a record contract."

When you watch reality TV, you are living vicariously through people who are living fake real lives. At least when you watch a sit-com, there are no promises of reality. On a sit-com, the majority of the characters are quick-witted with biting senses of humor, and that doesn't exist in real life. If we were all that quick-witted, we'd also be clever enough to change the channel.

Ever since Real World III, I've said I wanted to be on the show, if for no other reason than to make fun of the freaks with whom I'd be living. And with all these new shows, I still stand by that desire - because I would be able to admit how ridiculous everyone was for being a part of it. I may even get raucous applause for doing so.

If only the people watching knew how.

Could you imagine what it would be like to have gone to school in Georgia's Taylor County 50 years ago, where your choice of prom was determined by your race? Well, you don't have to - as a special tribute to ignorance and racism everywhere, that fabulous tradition has returned!

Thanks to the parents and students at Taylor County High School, you too can know what it is like to be separate but equal. Gone is that pesky punch bowl interaction with people of a different skin color. In its place, good old fashion 19th century oppression. Yeehaw.

If you can't tell I'm being sarcastic, you're probably one of the people dumb enough to think this is a good idea. And by "this," I mean a rural Georgia high school propagating racism like David Duke in an election year.

Since Taylor County High School does not fund the prom, parents and students get together and create one. Or two. Last year, the prom was integrated, much like the rest of the country has been for the last few decades. But this year, there will be separate white and black proms. And what bothers me most is not this year's reversion. It's that last year was the only integrated prom since the school stopped funding them in 1972. That's right - racism and close-mindedness have been proud traditions of Taylor County for over thirty years.

My family is white, but my sister is adopted and black. And growing up with her taught me both not to judge people based on race, and that unfortunately some other people do. When I see my sister, I don't think about her skin color - the same way she doesn't think about mine. Besides, I'm too busy thinking about how glad I am not to live in Taylor County.

Taylor County is located about 150 miles south of Atlanta, a city best known for being burned to the ground during the civil war. But this week, Taylor County is 150 miles and 40 acres south of Atlanta, and the only way to get there is by mule (see history book, yours).

And though there are two proms this year, only one is segregated. The prom hosted by the parents of many of the black students is open to everyone - as both of them should be. However, the second prom (though organized first, it is second in class) is open only to white people. And if you don't want to rent a tux to attend, I hear Bed, Bath, and Beyond is having a white sale.

There are 439 students at TCHS, 232 of whom are black. That's right - the whites are the minority, and somehow, they're still busy segregating. Can you imagine the meeting it must have taken to organize a whites only prom?

"I really like the idea of 'Zack and Kelly's Prom' for the theme. But what about if we replace 'Zack' with 'White People' and 'Kelly' with 'More White People.' I think that will really jazz it up."

"So you're saying you want the theme to be 'White People and More White People's Prom?'"

"Um, yes."

"Cool, me too."

The defense for why there's a need for segregated proms is perhaps the most ridiculous part of this story. According to a writer from the Associated Press, "they wanted to avoid problems arising from interracial dating." Halle Berry, Lenny Kravitz, and Tiger Woods arose from interracial dating, and I don't see much of a problem with any of them.

I am embarrassed to be an American when we allow this to happen. Yes, private parties are private parties. But that fact that this has been going on since 1972 and just now made the papers is as ridiculous as it happening in the first place.

I am very patriotic, because I believe in the ideals set forth for us in our Constitution, Declaration of Independence, and other such old and yellowed things. So if anyone in a position of power is reading this, as Americans (and humans), we need to make sure we stick true to our own ideals before we go imposing them on other people.

Imagine then, a country where people stick to those ideals. Imagine a country where people stand up for what they believe in. And imagine what this country could be like if we actually kept our promises.

It's easy if you try.