Normally, I find it futile to pontificate (read: bitch and moan) about most internet related items. I accept them as an inevitability, and find that if I don't even bother expending energy on them, they'll just go away. Besides, that negative energy can go towards hating obnoxious drivers who shoot down the exit only lanes only to cut in front of you, people who try to convince you that "The Secret" is awesome, and Rachel Ray.
(I mean, really, you can't just go and create a word like "Stoup" that covers the grey line between soup and stew. C'mon, lady! Who are you trying to fool? It's not like you took two words and made them bossome! You're describing a culinary miscarriage, where you're really too damn proud to admit you made the stew too thin.)
It's ok, I just took the meds.
So, normally I check my email a good sixteen, seventeen times a day. And I get a lot of spam because of my prediliction towards porn sites when I was much younger. (No such thing as free porn, I tell you.*). Yahoo is kind enough to provide my age old account with a "Bulk Mail" folder, that most spam mail goes to, but sometimes, a few slip through the cracks and I get to see who's trying to sell me on great investment deals or trying to milk me out of my paypal account. (which is non-existent, but sometimes I have to remind myself about that).
Sometimes I read them, especially the ones where the deposed prince needs MY help to bring funds into the country. I wonder how many people have actually fallen for that. Then I think about those hapless thieves who have to sift through the hundreds of responses from idiots who don't even have $20 in their bank account. I guess the world really is about balance.
Yesterday, I received a very interesting spam mail. It's not so much the content of the message (although that adds an extra added level of wackiness juice to the proceedings). It was who it was from. It said it was from one Allison Engle. Fully aware that about half the readership of this site will find it humorous instantly (which is sad because that number is 4), I shall enllighten.
Allison Engel was a girl I went to grade through high school with. I actually had quite a large crush on the girl that I never made public, pretty much to anyone until much later in life. (Even she doesn't know). I was all set to ask her to junior prom when Jessica Rice snapped me up first with an offer I couldn't refuse. (Seriously, people, we saw Die Hard after prom. Try and tell me your prom was better). Later in life I saw her run out of my local pub back in Montclair one night, but thought chasing after her was kinda creepy. I tried to see Allison at the high school reunion back in October, but she was in Arizona. (Although, in a weird, Celestine Prophecy-esque coincidence, I saw my friend Bill "Balls" Bradley back home, and his lady friend was really good friends with Allison.)
Wait a minute, is Arizona closer to LA than New Jersey? Hmmm......
So, when my eyes spy a message from Allison Engle, I got a little excited. It was only after I realized the headline "Bigger then Its better parlay aid" wasn't exactly friendly that crushing disappointment would rear it's ugly and all-too-familiar head. Humiliation soon set in, as I discovered that my high school crush Allison was trying to sell me on Male enhancement aids.
It's oddly fitting that a girl I once had a crush on would be sending me email about my lack of manhood. Especially in these trying times. It just lends more credence to my ongoing theory that even my dreams are turning against me. Which would be frightening and all the more tragic if it wasn't so damn funny.
So, thank you Allison, for reminding me that I am not a man at all. I sigh in your direction.
(But if you should read this, feel free to give me a call, I really have no problem whatsoever in that department. It's the TALKING to girls part I have the problem with).
*Ok, there is such a thing as free porn. Want proof? On my deliveries throughout LA, I managed to get myself to deliver to Playboy Entertainment. It doesn't sound nearly as cool as one would think, but this time around, upon delivering to the reasonably cute receptionist, she asks me if I want a magazine. I say sure. So, I did, in fact, receive free porn. Of course, her handing me a magazine of naked women was not the greatest segue into me asking the girl if I cuold use the bathroom, but as we all well know, my awkwardness knows no bounds.)