Note to readers: We recently received this email via firstname.lastname@example.org. While we have taken pains to address its veracity, and believe it is indeed from Satoshi Nakamoto, Decrypt accepts no responsibility for its contents.
Time to put this shit to bed. Craig Wright isn’t me. Every time you give air to claims that he is, it cuts a year off my lifespan. My lifespan, you’ll note. Not Wright’s.
It’s easy to see why some of you are getting so confused. In 2009—halycon days—Craig Wright and I were attending the same spin class.
I was working my glutes—always my glutes—while Wright, because he is a degenerate Australian, was ogling the lady at the front of the class. Visibly drooling. Saliva was actually pouring out of his mouth, like from a tap.
Now, the one thing I regret omitting from the bitcoin whitepaper is that I am a staunch feminist. I will not abide men drooling at women on my watch. So, intending merely to clip Dr. Wright’s ear, I went full kilt at him and damn near disgorged his left testicle. Well that’s how Sir Clement Freud put it, in his celebrated memoir.
Needless to say, I fled the scene. Swiftly. Unfortunately, in my haste, I left behind all my possessions: a slip of paper bearing my private key, a first draft of my eulogy for the dear departed (but then alive) Alan Rickman, and, most devastatingly, my trademark tastefully ruffled checkered shirt.
Thankfully, I’d already moved all my bitcoins to an offshore Panamanian hardware wallet. Nevertheless, Wright, driven entirely by the kind of petty vindictiveness only Australians can muster, stole these cherished belongings and has been posing as me ever since. Down to the last sexily undone collar button. But, alas, Wright just doesn’t have the neck for it.
So, here’s what I say to those of you swindled by this unloveable larrikin’s continuing deceit: Do the research. Join the dots. Read Sir Clement’s memoir. Most of all, never trust an Australian. And leave me out of it. I have better things to do.