Friday, 24 June 2011

The Cheque Is In The Spam

One of the ways I entertain myself is to analyse the spam I get. In contrast to actual mail, which is small to almost nonexistent, my spam folder gathers anything from five to twenty scrapings from the bottom of the cyber-barrel per diem. Before I delete them, and if time allows, I usually take a look through them, and recently I’ve noticed an evolving pattern.

Used to be that I’d get a lot of offers from credit card companies offering low-interest loans, and from online pharmacies trying to sell me V1agRa – or even \ /!Agr@ – at bargain basement prices. Recently, those seem to have given up in despair. Nor are any more electronic repair shops in Afghanistan begging to fix up my equipment. Hell, now that I think of it, I haven’t got any offers from lovestruck West African ex-officials’ daughters desperate to marry me in months either. My looks must be slipping, damn it.

So what have I got?

Well, going by my recent recurrent spam, it seems:

  1. My penis is in urgent need of lengthening, and I can’t satisfy any woman unless I buy the absolutely safe medication that will lengthen it. I tell you, my penis shrivelled up in shame when it heard how tiny it was, and at any moment I expect phone calls from past conquests demanding their orgasms back.

  1. I must be the luckiest man alive, because once a week on the average, I win millions (almost always in British pounds) in lotteries selected from random email addresses. With such luck, why aren’t I rich? It isn’t fair!

  1. I must also be the trustworthiest man alive, from the number of rich women dying of cancer who want to give me the money their husbands left them, of which I have to donate a part to any true Christian church of my choice. My standard response is to reply asking why the person doesn’t donate the money directly, and I have never received an answer. Must be one of life’s unsolved mysteries.

  1. I must have lost millions, without knowing it, to 419 scammers, and a department of the Nigerian government, in its infinite goodness, is determined to refund my lost millions. OK, now I know why I’m not rich, despite all those lottery wins.

  1. I’m not educated enough, and I can easily enhance the strings of letters after my name by clicking on the provided link for a genuine online degree. And then I suppose I’ll land that professorship at a premier dental college, the one I was always hankering for, even though I didn’t know I was hankering for it, myself.

  1. And I must be desperately sick, because kind online pharmacies are eager to serve my medical, as opposed to recreational, needs. I’m disappointed, I tell you; heartbroken at the lack of offers to sell me LSD. Or something.

OK, so this means that your favourite blogger (which means me, right? Right?) is appallingly ugly, so badly-hung as to be incapable of pleasuring the ladies, undereducated, sick, and (while lucky and trustworthy) also incurably gullible.

So I suppose I’d better go and kill myself now.


1 comment:

  1. Looking at advertising is always interesting - if for no other reaosn than it clues me into what the freemarket thinks I ought to be paranoid and self-conscious about...

    Best I can tell, I'm supposed to be self-conscious about friends. Lots of folks I have never heard of apparently email me wanting to be my friend. Their emails have awful agrammar (and their links often don't work), so I don't bother usually trying to return contact.

    Ah well.


Full comment moderation is enabled on this site, which means that your comment will only be visible after the blog administrator (in other words, yours truly) approves it. The purpose of this is not to censor dissenting viewpoints; in fact, such viewpoints are welcome, though it may lead to challenges to provide sources and/or acerbic replies (I do not tolerate stupidity).

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