Email
2004-06-04 - 3:08 p.m.

before/after
strangely non-functional guestbook

I checked my email this morning to find one message.

I am a slob when it comes to email.  According to Audrey, I am just a slob.  This is beside the point.

I keep hundreds of email messages, both sent and received.  I am a pack rat for email.  Not sure why.  I dont often go back and read any of them.  Sometimes, with some correspondence I think I'll go back, print them all out and bind them together.  But I never do.  I'm like a tortise with a shell he cant understand.

So, my hundreds of email messages were suddenly gone.  To be replaced by one.

Valuable User, 
We apologize for the problems you have been experiencing while
attempting 
to access your e-mail account during the past few days. We have
restored access 
to e-mail messages you have received since Fri, 4 Jun 2004 16:15:39
-0000 and are working 
to restore all of your data that was stored prior to that day. 
Do not worry NO DATA HAS BEEN LOST. We are working extremely hard to
resolve 
the problem and once it has been resolved, we will be able to restore
your 
account to its original state. ALL your stored e-mail messages and
Address 
Book entries are SAFE and will be restored to your account within the
next 
few days. 
We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause you. 
Sincerely, 
Member Services 

Ive been down this road before, and these sad-sack motherfuckers will probably lose every one.

Sometimes divestitiure of clutter is a good thing.  Then again, I lost a host of email addresses.  Which sucks.

But I like my address.  These bastards have got me, and got me good.

Anyway, I can deal.  Then I get my second letter in my inbox.  It was dick spam.

"Want your dick to be hard all the time?!"

Well...no, quite frankly.  It would make life even more strange and unpleasant.  There are times its cool to walk around like that, but in the main, I think it would lead to injury.

That's right up there with "Turn your rod into a monster!"

Again, no, I dont think so.  The last thing I need is to turn my rod into a monster.  It would chew through my pants, always want to talk up at meetings and at the bar.  Roar when I'm trying to shoot pool.  I just cant have it, and it doesnt sound enjoyable at all.

Sure, in the short term it might be cool.  A novelty. 'Hey, whip out that monster you have in your pants, that's always a good time,', but after awhile, it would just become degrading.  And I would become disaffected and lonely, pining for the love of a good woman who could understand that underneath it all, the monster rod, the quiet manner of a man humiliated by the twists and turns of spam email into his life, I'm just a guy who needs love.

And one day, I would find that girl.  And she would stroke my green, fork tongued godzilla headed prick and look up at me with love.  And we would join the circus, where she would be my carnival barker and draw people into the tent with cries of, "SEE THE MONSTER!  THE AWFUL ONE-EYED MONSTER! THE ONLY ONE OF ITS KIND IN ALLLLL THE WORLLLLLD!", and people would file in and sit in benches in the dark tent, where I would thrust my monstrous phallus through a hole in a purple velvet curtain, and they would gasp in awe and fear as it growled and snapped at them with giant fangs, breathing fire on the Bearded Lady.  (who then would retire from the circus and die penniless and alone, repetitively trying to sue the circus for Workmen's Comp, but unfortunately, travelling circuses have no return addresses)

And I would mope back to my trailer, victim to a thousand indignities, develop a heavy smack habit, and write about it for swanky magazines like Vanity Fair, and Rolling Stone, by-lines like "HOW SMACK AND MONSTER RODS RUINED MY LIFE".

Afterschool specials would follow, "How TIMMY learned to avoid SPAM!"  ('No, timmy, you dont want a monster in your pants like I do...look what happened to my PANTS.")

Eventually I would cook up two last shots. One to deaden the pain.  And they would find me in some $150 a month dive in el Barrio in Denver, my face pale and blue, a sharp knife covered in blood lay in one hand, the head of a green scaly severed trouser monster in the other, its yellow and black eyes rolled into the back of its head, purple forked tongue lolling from its mouth.  A syringe still stuck in my arm. 

And mothers everywhere would remind their children not to open spam, lest they turn into "that freaky asshole they saw on T.V."