zesticle.com

Such is the subject of an email I just received. Not from anyone I know, of course. It’s one of the very rare spam emails that gets by the spam filter on my Gmail account, although I don’t think it slipped through the cracks this time so much as Gmail let it go by. I think it was sitting there, reading all of my junk email, and it was like, “Wow, this is actually pretty entertaining. I bet dude would want to see this. On you go, little spam message.” Here’s the email:

From: Harriet Broussard
To: zesty
Date: Aug 17, 2006 1:38 PM
Subject: hr. tampon

And he was afraid to tell his father that the horsewas too big to ride . There was a mixture ofcomedy and tragedy in the scene.
He was thinking that he had forgotten something; but what,he did not know. But it wasimpossible; a cart blocked the way; there were people passing.
They had been walking in the wrong direction.
It was difficult to concentrateon the news from Ireland; he looked up. The pink and white chestnutblossoms rode up and down as the branches moved in the breeze.
They were running smoothly downthe incline of Piccadilly. The fug, the warm meaty smell ofthe City chop-house, had suddenly become intolerable.
I havent seen her since herbaby was born.
They looked very snug, with teapots and bread andbutter on the kitchen table. Instead of full-grownpeople, children were now in the majority.
That fatman, he explained, who flung his arm out.
Green chairs were drawn up at the edge of theRow. Hehated talking to servants; it always made him feel insincere.
About the woman Im in love with, he said.
He wont suffer, I can assure you, said Mr Bishop, rising fromhis knees.
Here a lady passed them, talking to herself.
Cars withgay ladies in pale dresses were already passing in at the gates. He took his hat and stick and went out into the street. He wanted her to speak it: but she wassilent.
Then heturned his slate and looked on the other side. No, he thought, biting the stem of his pipe.
Martin listened to the story; he wrinkled his brow sympathetically.
He looked at the sleeping baby with its eyes sealed andits thumb in its mouth.

Pretty awesome, right? But, spam email, you’re supposed to try to get me to buy something. Right? Isn’t that why you and your brethren are unleashed upon the internet millions at a time? Like a flood of e-sperm that flagellate their way across cyberspace looking for the rare recipient that can be fertilized into a financial transaction of some sort? You’re supposed to entice me with promises of a significantly larger penis or the ability to earn thousands of dollars a week working from home. But this is just a poorly-crafted narrative. What the heck?

Then at the end I saw this image attachment that wants me to buy some stocks. Honestly, for just over $0.02 per share, I’m half-tempted to get some of it. I could get 1,000 shares for $24 and then act all smug as I walk around telling people that I’m a major player in the stock market. You know, mostly telecom.

However, any temptation I may have toward buying crazy-cheap stocks is nullified by my animosity toward spam emails of any kind. I certainly don’t want to reward the company responsible for whoring themselves out like that. Not in my inbox, jerks!

And to think, someone went to all the trouble of writing that nice little story, and now I’m not going to buy anything.