Ode to Spam
A pâté of misbegotten messages, fake in their meatiness, though meatiness is often the subject. Sandwiched between those messages, I yearn for a bite of something less concocted, something more nutritious—an interesting, lucrative editing main course, say, or a delicious tidbit of news from a long-lost friend.
Pressed from the bits and pieces of life that some of us don’t want and some of us don’t want to want, spam clogs my filters with its promise of cheap pain relief and sweaty bedroom fun. It is always easiest to toss the unopened offerings away, quarantine the offal, as it were, but just occasionally a new client or inquiring artist has wandered onto the conveyor belt of chatter, hard-pressed to get out. And so with a stab of the electronic fork, I rescue the dissertation or the request for a coaching session.
You can filter out an address but you cannot filter out a word or a phrase, even ones as unmistakable as penis, Viagra, or my beloved in Christ.
Be a general in your pants! You’ve won! Activate your ardor hoister! Free shipping! Cheapest anywhere!
C-rations of the 21st-century Internet soldier