TheBanyanTree: Spamalama

[Maria Gibson]

Got this sentence in an email as well as some others just like it in
some emails just like this one, but this one caught my eye.  Now, I
don't like getting spammed.  I feel...greasy, speckled with fat and
molded into an oddly rectangular shape which is more square than that.
I am left with a pink gel around my edges and am powerless to stop the
insanity.  Still.  I have looked at the junk but not because I was
interested in internet pharmacueticals or having a better sex life.  I
am trying, albietly unsuccessfully, to discern a modecum of the person
behind this personal intrusion.  Who is this fiend behind the littering
of my email landscape?  Is she dainty or he masculine?  Does he/she
think about cows not wearing fedoras, such as I myself have been known
to ponder on, or make oat bran because it reminds them of cream of
wheat?  Such as myself...?

Is this a parent, a person trying to make the bills?  Is this a preditor
trying to make the rent and gas payment?  Why, why must they be so
damned concerned about the size of my penis or if I have had a
vacation?  The funny thing is, in the lackluster earnestness with which
I have approached this task, I have found myself reading the junk under
the ad.  Some of it is pretty interesting while other bits of it are
downright incomprehensible.  Like this one, the aforementioned:


> The greatest happiness you can have is knowing that you do not necessarily require happiness. I
> always wake up at the crack of ice. Exile as a mode of genius no longer exists in place of Joyce we
> have the fragments of work appearing in Index on Censorship.
>

HUH?  Who on God's green earth is *Joyce*?  Does she know she has been
violated in this manner, being shoved into my inbox with brute force
abruptness?  Maybe she's a bit preoccupied by the whatever whatever
about the index of censorship.  Which, by the way, the author of these
emails should have a little voo-doo censorship shoved up the bum.
Perhaps they will be so busy picking bits of the index from where the
sun don't shine they'll be too busy to bombard me anymore.  I really
want out.  My email address with a number has been cracked, the whole
genius plot to keep me safe has been foiled.  Probably by some
pimply-faced punk which is a whole lot more preferable to a pimply faced
preditor.

Anyway.  Running out of steam, as usual, I just want off of the penis
enlarging, sex life embettering, pharmacuetical buying, vacation
planning merry-go-round.

Someone please tell Joyce for me.

Maria