Filthy McNasty

"Somebody holds the key"

Thirty seven messages dripping oh so slowly into my mailbox –five of them are offers I can’t refuse to turn my Johnson into a Murggatroyd (have you met ‘The Extender’? Didn’t think so). Then the mortgage offers, about seven of them: you’d be glad to know, dear Ma’am, that your humble servant here has been pre-approved for a 402 grand housing loan (and I am particularly fond of the two thousand extra dollars they added there –this way I can feel safe regarding my well-earned superiority to the poor bastards in the 400,000 bracket). The guys from two banks I have no accounts with need me to update my data for security reasons (and one of them uses a “fireplug@gossipnet” return address). I’ve got a DVD player, an Xbox 360 and a lawn mower completely free of charge, and two foreign guys in trouble with their governments want my help to get access to lots of money stashed somewhere safe (‘you’re looking for trouble, you’ve come to the right place’, as the King used to say.) There’s also the usual assortment of Viagra and Ciallis derivatives (you blabbermouth! you tattletale!) discreetly delivered wrapped in brown paper, and very disturbing porn offerings such as ‘farm girls do it pig-style’. (Are you curious about pig-style? So am I, babe, so am I. And what about this strange obsession with farm girls? Why would a farm girl be a better you-know-what when compared to a city girl? Is it a veggie thing?)

Then there’s a magazine I dropped from my subscriptions around 1973 asking me for a new mailing address so that they can forward me some free copies –old soldiers don’t die, they just disappear, and old databases neither die nor disappear, or so my inbox seems to indicate. A so-called friend is still forwarding badly written jokes against whomever in DC or Brasilia to all the people in his address book, though I haven’t answered him in a year. Amazingly enough, three work-related messages came through amidst the dross. I check the message list twice and yeah, babe, this is the lot.

Do you realize we’ve been trading e-mails almost daily for, what, around 12 years now? (And, yeah, I still remember your Compuserve number-only addy, and the GEnie thing.) It’s not like we’re all Prussian about it, but a day without hearing from you is slightly more melancholy than it should. (‘Come on, punk, make my day’, as you’d very sopranino say, doing your utterly lame Dirty Harriet impersonation.) We were both much deeper when we were younger, or so it seems, Harriet dear, and of course enlightening messages such as “boffed. drunk. tomorrow.” won’t be part of our collected letters edition, but I still smile when I receive them. (In fact, I can hardly believe we used to talk highbrow stuff through the e-mail. What a donnish thing to do. Aw, shucks. Let’s drop this, shall we?)

So this is to lodge an official complaint, you skank, about not getting any from you today. As per the famous quote you used during you run for the Miss Princeton crown, tu es responsible de ce que tu as apprivoisé, or, as you so loosely and adroitly translated it, “you will forever be responsible for those you have ever boffed”. Now sit down that fat bahind of yours and get busy on the keyboard, Missy. Or else I’ll tell everyone about that persnickety nickname for your naughty bits.