Nigerian Princes were our hobby, me and Louise. Those assholes. Stealing money from old ladies and crazy people. They offended us. You had to be either profoundly naïve or mentally ill to get caught in their scam. You had to live outside the reach of human interaction, which on top of everything else would mean you’re also lonely. This is the demographic those assholes are after. The unfairness of it killed me.
Harassing the Nigerian Princes was something we could do together. Couples split up because they don’t have common interests, like surfing, or scrapbooking, or smoking weed. Until we started fucking with the Nigerian Princes, Louise and I were heading down that road. She had her bitter feminist book group and her beer-drinking rock climbers and I had my Neanderthal white guy football Sundays and my language poetry workshop. The Nigerian Princes brought us back to one another.
Louise has a wicked dark imagination and a pitch-perfect understanding of character development. Her knack for detail is astonishing. Meet me at Lufthansa luggage carousel number five in Oslo, she’d email a Nigerian Prince. I’ll be wearing a desert camouflage maxi skirt and a black pageboy wig. Africans make me anxious, so be sure to approach slowly and leave any tribal accoutrements (masks and spears and whatnot) back in your village. I’ll get my nephew to strap the cash to my upper thigh and will probably need your help retrieving it, considering my bulk prevents me from accessing certain parts of my body, lol.

http://www.munsterlit.ie/Southword/Issues/19/cain_shannon.html