Remember the days when Spam was just a hunk of pink, ground-up, generally-animal-but-partly-latex parts stuffed in a blue tin can and marketed as something edible? Now it stands for a hunk of pink, ground-up, generally-animal-but-partly-latex parts stuffed in your computer’s inbox masquerading as inedible email from maybe 397 of your closest Facebook friends you’ve never heard of.
I have enough trouble wading through my legitimate emails let alone spam, which, I’m warning you, will stick to your shoes and legs if you should try wading. While waist deep in pink mush, I was fortunate and observant enough to spot and open one urgent unsolicited email (spam) because by following the outlined instructions therein, I would soon become a millionaire. All I have to do is help out a South African gold mining company by immediately sending them my bank account number so they can transfer $4.5 million to my account for a short time. For this simple favor, I’ll get to keep 25% as a commission. Apparently I was referred to them (it must have been by my cat) as an honest person with an I.Q. slightly above that of a grapefruit and, even though they’ve never met me, they could tell I wouldn’t be tempted to take more than my 25% since grapefruits usually don’t spend a lot of money shopping at malls or online. So once I get my money, I’ll be off to Hawaii and won’t be writing inane blog posts anymore.
As of this moment, I have —and this is no lie—16,465 messages in my Inbox dating back to before New Mexico was a state. Don’t tell my wife! She already thinks I’m a pack rat and this information could push her over the edge, forcing me to remove all sharp objects and explosive devices from our house. That number doesn’t include the 16,465 messages I deleted almost immediately because they were obviously spam, identifiable by the grease mark and pink residue they left on the inside of my monitor’s screen. I figure if I start reading the remainder now, I’ll be finished by the time I get 16,465 new messages to replace them or Abu dhabi becomes our 51st state. So I’d better get going.
But wait! Comcast says I’ve only used 7% of my email storage space. That means I have room for at least 213,928 additional emails before my inbox bursts destroying my monitor, spamming my lower extremities and a good part of my office.
Nevermind. I’ll go sit in the Lay-Z-Boy and, with alcoholic beverage in hand, dream about my millions.