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.

2. 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!

3. 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.

4. 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.

5. I’m not educated enough, and I can easily enhance the strings of letters after my name by clicking on the provided link for agenuine 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.

6. And I must be desperately sick, because kind online pharmacies are eager to serve my medical, as opposed torecreational, 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.