It’s a bad sign when you’re mimicked by spam

Are they mocking me? Is it a corporate joke on all the struggling poets of the world?

Or should I be flattered that the Small Pond™ method of senseless rambling has infused itself into the latest techniques of internet spam?

I present the evidence, delivered by a certain, fictional “Karina Black”:

That computer programmer isn't enjoying swimming behind the post office right at this time.

Those janitors aren't missing sleeping right now..

Paul's grandson disliked studying for six weeks..

Jackie has disliked writing since five weeks ago..

Ashley disliked reading between the two buildings..

Does Joe hate laughing over there?.

Brian was a boy with Down's Syndrome. He was taking several medications. Brian came from a nurturing family and extended family who provided him with every opportunity. His mother was a teacher and wanted what was best for him. He exhibited no language and was considerably behind his other friends with Down?s Syndrome. We set up a noun program at school. At first he seemed disinterested. He looked at the pictures and sucked his thumb. The more we encouraged him to engage the keyboard, the more he sucked his thumb. We then paired him with a child who was very interested in the noun program. Suddenly the two were fighting over who was next to pick a picture. He worked several times a week at the computer. At his 3-year IEP, the team shook their heads. They didn't understand. Despite the track record of many students with Down?s Syndrome, Brian's language was his best skill. I smiled and his mother winked at me..

EDWARDS: But what have we seen? Relentless negative attacks against John. So in the weeks ahead, we know what's coming, don't we?.

Does Joe hate laughing over there?.

Ashley disliked reading between the two buildings..

Then I started 'teaching'. You know, I'm a good teacher. (Well, maybe just an average teacher, but you get the jist). I know what good teachers do. Or I thought I did. I sat with the children at the computer. When they pressed the IntelliKeys' keyboard or the Touch Window' and the computer said the word, I repeated the word and then expanded on the word. After they had pressed the same word several times, I said, "That's right, that's a cat, can you find the dog?? Suddenly, I would see the child's back get stiff, and before you knew it, he got up and left the computer. I didn't understand. Just a few seconds ago, he loved it. What happened?.

Jackie is missing jogging by the sea at present..

Did Anthony miss running?.

I am missing working right now..

That farmer is not missing reading..

I am missing working right now..

Later,

Bernardo Kennedy

Which begs the second question: is it unethical to use the unaltered names of spammers as literary characters?

Leanna Christensen

Derick Bassett

Benita Z. McCarthy

Vanessa Gallegos

Manuela Wilkins

Ardulfo Fowler

Linwood Boone

Yesenia Means

All selling Cialis, Rolex, Wall Street insider information, or drinks with me at the Canlis.

Aren’t they all great names?

Have you been solicited by them as well?

What should we do with them?

I’m going to write a novel about child molesters, grade-C Satanists, oil tycoons, Ann Coulter/Michael Savage wannabes and uninspired psychopaths who turn to the WB for instructions in life, and all the names will be taken from purveyors of spam.

Maybe that will stop them!

That’s just my observation of the day. Hope you’re doing well. Send me a pic. Thanks.

Help me Craig! Opinions Needed!

Dear Craigslist,

So, there’s the girl I know, like I actually know her in the real world, y’know, not in cyberspace, and I kinda like her and she’s really cute and I think she likes me too cause she talks to me as well. And she’s got big green eyes and tiny teeth and the physique of a Ecuadorian stick-bug, but I wouldn’t say that to her face.

I see her every Tuesday for about an hour –our paths cross, like in a waiting room or on the bus or reporting to the Madame or, y’know, it doesn’t matter how, I ain’t gonna tell you how I know her, that’d be too revealing.

So my hour with the big eyed, tiny-toothed nymph was a bad one yesterday, not because of her, but despite it actually –I can’t imagine how it would’ve been without her, I probably would’ve turned into the hulk and destroyed Mayan temples or something; OR I would’ve put on my spidey-suit and gone out to thwart a madman’s plot to rule the world or create a tax loop for oil tycoons and SUV owners- or…

What was I saying?

Oh yeah, it was a bad day.

Actually, it was a bad hour, but I’m not gonna get into that either. Then we parted ways –I had to go battle the ninja queen and negotiate (yet another!) peace treaty with Kim Il Sung (goddammit, Georgie, don’t blow it again this time! Or I’m just gonna let him shower east Texas with bird flu!), and THEN I had to prevent a nuclear meltdown from burning a hole to the core of the earth because my secret power is impervious to radiation and the WORST PART, when I got home, I found my apples had gone to rot! I was going to make a pie again, and now my apples were rotten! Do you know how many collegiate neighbors I had to seduce and feign enthusiastic sex with just to get those apples? We’re talkin’ DOZENS! Triple Digits! An entire sorority’s worth (though I refuse to stoop so low as sorority girls. Now in saying that, I have this feeling that my inbox will be flooded with irate hate mail from brokenhearted sorority girls. “Why you such a hater? Why won’t you have sex with us? You don’t know how it feels being ostracized and loathed by all the nerds, artists, and drug addicts in the world! We are people too! We have feelings! We cry! Together! Naked! In a train! And we don’t care about our overuse of exclamation marks! Please, small pond guy, don’t perpetuate the societal stigmas unjustly affixed to sorority babes! You’re passionate about justice, and weekly rescue Sudanese refugee children from pillage by governmental henchmen –while weakened by a cold! And you dug out an orphanage from earthquaked rubble in Pakistan, with your bare hands! AND you inoculated lost tribes in the Amazon from small pox and diphtheria! AND you resolved the electoral dispute in Madagascar from the “Association for the Rebirth of Madagascar Party’s” candidate Didier Ratsiraka and his political rival/college roommate/step-uncle-in law Marc Ravalomanana of the “I Love Madagascar” Party! AND you were third in line for four Nobel prizes in five different categories at least TWICE! So don’t you go on picking on sorority girls ANYMORE!

And just cause these please DO INDEED fill inbox, I’ll change my mind. So go ahead and try. If there’s a sorority that needs to be vindicated with artsy nerdy angst-releasing orgy with an unemployed homeless, toothless, poet/physicist, tonight’s your night.

But wait, where was I? My goal here wasn’t to have sorority sex (ok, ok, those of you who actually know me will cry out in objection: it’s true, my continual, yet-fulfilled goal in life is to have sorority sex, and lots of it. But not here, not in this email).

OH YEAH, I REMEMBER: THE CUTE GIRL!

Yeah, we parted ways after out hour –an hour of bliss, looking into each other’s eyes, licking our lips, filling each other with lustful thoughts –or at least filling ME with such thoughts- we would’ve smashed like magnets, obliterating clothing, if we weren’t in the middle of that press conference.

“Tell us, Mr. Senator, is it true you are going to single-handedly indict the president on thirty-eight accounts of really bad illeg- wait, Mr. Senator! What are you doing with your intern! Is this an attempt to follow the Paris Hilton path to talentless celebrity fame, wealth and your own reality show?”

Goddamm tangents.

Ok, I met this girl. I failed at getting her number. She’s sweet and I could read her body language like the palm of my hand. It said, “ask me for my number, I want to talk to you.”

Should I google her?

Ok, I already have.

Should I google her for the email address I found?

I know it’s her, there ain’t too many Poly Wolly-Diggly-All-Day’s living in Enumclaw.

Or should I wait until Tuesday?

Tell me Craig, you’re my only hope.

All my thoughts have evaporated

Like a sieve –though I don’t really know what a sieve is. All knowledge of technicalities have been mechanically disabled. Those neurons and units and pheramones have ceased their atomic bombshelling mosh pit slamdancing and sit there, listless, much like I on a humanist scale.

A Barbie doll dyed in purple, and discarded limbs of fourteen bicycles, tortured and neglected by technological advances.

A sickly green light glows at dusk, dissipates with dawn, hibernates for the rest of the day.

It’s cranky from hunger, there are no souls to feast on in its abandoned abode, only skinny mice and rejected rats –the clueless, socially inept loser loners of the rodent popularity contest, can’t even compete in the million dollar mansion so they’re ostracized to the pseudo-haunted farmhouse. Their souls are too miniscule to warrant soul-sucking by the sickly green light to ease its crankiness, soothe its cantankerous curmudgeoning, give the fucking thing a break.

Same with the eagles –that’s why they’re the national symbol, cause they really have no soul either and are vicious, blood-thirsty bullies of the raptor world. Saw one take down a blue heron once, innocently soaring across the bay – “SCREECH!” Screeched the eagle and took off after the eloquent, peaceful, Grenada-esque blue heron like a sci-fi fighter cliché. A five minute cat-fight in the sky with those ripping talons –did you read about it on AP? Early man was prayed upon by huge raptors, predecessors of the bald eagle. The raptors picked them up by the head, dropped them onto sharp rocks from high in the sky, punctured their skulls with those talons, and used the fines curves of their shapely beaks to pick out the brains from the hapless early mans’ eye sockets.

Ain’t that cool?

I wish there were such raptors here, I’d capture a couple and use them to do my evil bidding, like returning my library books on time, fixing my flat tire, pick up some organic half-n-half from the corner market, and successfully assist my seduction of that barista I’ve been thinking about, or the check-out girl at Trader Joe’s, or the sly, coy, bookseller at 3^rd Place.

I wanted to liberated the tortured, partially dismembered bicycles from the yard under the cranky gaze of cantankerous green light, but I’m weary of being a bad neighbor and getting all sorts of passive-aggressive bad vibes from this discomforted soul.

I need someone to distract him.

Maybe a couple of Mormon missionaries from Rexburg, Idaho, can disappear into the door after some gentle, hopeful, overly-cheerful knocking.

Maybe the sickly green light can suck out their souls (it’ll take at least two Mormons to satisfy his hunger, and then only partially) and turn them into beautiful, Aryan zombies to do his evil bidding –like starting a neighborhood compost bin, or donating the discarded furniture in the yard to Goodwill, and paying solumn homage to the spirit of the stump of the fallen oak tree that was savagely dismembered in the ‘70s to make this a 2.3 instead of 1.9 million dollar view.

Maybe the Aryan Mormon Missionaries will be beautiful and sculpted like Michaelangelo himself and the carcinogenic green light that controls their physical actions will convort them to do very un-Mormon like things, like vote Democrat, skip a dentist appointment, buy sweat-shop free clothing, and engage in non-procreative yet very creative sexual activity, upstairs, under the sickly gaze of the green light, through the window, which is viewed from my room, which I will take pictures of, and post on my blog, which you should visit, and click on the little ad, cause it’ll give me a cent, with which I can pay rent and continue this little peep show we call life.