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spam doesn't play well with others
the worstest writing on the web explained here
by michael d. driscoll

A few weeks ago I sat at my computer for one hour deleting unsolicited email. I can’t even cancel my subscriptions to these services for one very important reason—I never subscribed. And that hurts.

Spam Is Raping My Inbox
I feel dirty. I’m tired. I want it all to be over. And just because I blatantly show off my silky address in public doesn’t mean I deserve to be treated this way. I like to feel sexy, but it’s no excuse for being forced into reading something against my will.

My inbox is distended.

On a daily basis I receive unsolicited e-beatings with subject headings ranging from "Hot Young Girls CUM for you" to the loathsome sneaky trickery of "Re: information you requested." My addy is hot property these days, but all I’m served with is a cold spam platter.

Spammers want me, and I can’t help that they’re attracted to me. They want my full-bodied contact information, but they never want me, you know, for me. The upside: those rotten spammers do call back the next day. The biggest downside: they won’t cuddle after they’re done.

I should just kill my alias.

Spam Isn’t For Lunch Anymore
It’s altogether appropriate that unsolicited emails are named for the food item rarely touched by humans except to replace it on grocery shelves when the old batch expires. And if you try to tell me people eat that stuff, I won’t believe you. I won’t. I won’t. I won’t.

What makes spam worse (if possible) is when it comes from someone you trust. Take one of my siblings for example. He sends me jokes, petitions, movies, executable files, and then does something I have yet to understand. He collects everything he has sent me and then proceeds to plop them into one summarizing mass of cruelty to email only to forward them to me one last time. He needs more guava in his diet, and he knows it.

You could make the argument that because I know the aforementioned spammer it’s not really spam, but instead a delightful offering from a fellow family member. Good point, now go away you retard. Ohmigosh, I’m so sorry, I lost my head…post-traumatic spam disorder is a real bummer—it sneaks up on me.

Take Back The Night[Spam]
Because I like you, and I really do, I think those who share story should help me strike back against this modern day Mothra. You know what I’m asking…it’s time we fight spam with spam. For every unsolicited email you get, forward it back 86.28 times. Sure it might take a few minutes (especially that .28 part), but I find this response much more effective than "please get off me, you’re squishin’ my inbox."

And no one should be exempt from spam on spam crime.

My beautiful mother is a very spiritual woman. I respect her for it, and I respect her faith, but after receiving a great many E-mails with inspirational scriptures and quirky God anecdotes, I felt I should be creative in my counterspam attack. Not only is she a wonderful person, but she’s got a great sense of humor to boot. Given this, I felt comfortable rewriting some of her anecdotes.

Mom forwarded:
Going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than going to McDonalds makes you a hamburger.

I responded:
It is true that going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than going to McDonalds makes you a hamburger. However, going to a strip club does mean you’re a minister or a minister’s daughter.

Mom forwarded:
Friends are those who, when you feel you’ve made a fool of yourself, don’t feel you have done a permanent job.

I responded:
Real friends are those who, when you feel you’ve made a fool of yourself, expose you and make you cry in public.

Mom forwarded:
There are two things I’ve learned: There is a God. And, I am not him.

I responded:
There are two things I’ve learned: There is a Cher. And, I am not she.

Mom forwarded:
Life is like an onion; you peel off one layer at a time and sometimes you weep.

I responded:
Life is like an onion; you use half of it, leave it in the fridge too long and then throw it away in the spring.

Mom has yet to respond to my counterattack. I think I’m in trouble (ooooooooo!).

So, take it from me: spam tastes bad no matter how it’s forced on you. On your bun or through your inbox, you need to seek professional help. Call your minister (he’s at The Wet Spot on 10th) or share your secret with a friend. Break the silence before spam breaks you.

Contact your local spam crisis center for more details…because you can.


Curious about everything, Michael plans to do it all. A ruffian by day and a lover by night he's managed to go where no one else has gone. His slight forgetfulness means he is curious about everything and plans to do it all. A ruffian by day and a lover by night he's managed...

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