I Harte Spam Emails, Part 4

Some spam emails clearly have been written out in somebody else’s native language first, then run through some online translation tool, and then cut and pasted directly. I can imagine them as they brainstorm their latest spam masterpiece, ‘I want to say that the women will line up because my drug will turn them into a major romantic figure from history.’ Which then gets translated into, “Women form queue, when you got as much night energy as this Don Juan maker gives!” I mean, really, why did they insert that comma there after queue? Or, on this other one, they must have been thinking, ‘I want to say that their penis will look so sculptural that it will be as if it were created by a much known, contemporary designer.’ Which, in turn, gets translated into, “Your tool will be so well designed like from Dolce & Gabbana.” This, to me personally, is a poor choice because I would be afraid that Dolce & Gabbana might fashion my penis into some kind of effeminate eyewear and then what? Or, on this other one, they were probably thinking, ‘I want readers to think that by taking my drug it will elevate their experience in bed and it will guarantee them an erection.’ This gets translated into, “Heave your bed event with aid worthwhiled meds. Saluting effect assured.” Will this create an erection or a Marine? What will my girl think if my erection starts saluting her? That does not sound like it would be a turn-on. Here’s one that also seems translated, but the author was just lazy, “Feeling useless worthless in bedroom? We can change it to opposite feeling.” They couldn’t even imagine what the opposite would be. That’s just sad.

Alphabet People - Letter H

“H” was my creepy landlord for many years. He was an older man in his late forties who struck me as the kind of guy who was gay but never came to terms with it and never came “out,” as if revealing so would have diminished his supervisory status somehow. Or maybe he had come to terms with it and it manifested itself in ways I’d prefer not to know about involving leather-clad role-playing with ball gags and blindfolds, or paraphilic infantilism and diapers. Of course, it may have just been my overactive imagination, since the guy was just a nice, doughy man with a goatee. But, it was my perception about his sense of purpose that had me on guard. He was serious most of the time, but other times he chuckled at the wrong things. H thought he was funny, but he really wasn’t. Fortunately though, H lived two blocks away and was not in the same building as me. However, I was not spared from other, more colorful characters in my building. One asshole that lived above me came down one night and accused me of raising the volume of my stereo in response to the volume of his television, as if I would rather engage him in some kind of perverse “my stereo vs. your TV” volume war than come knocking on his door and ask him to turn down his TV. I never even heard his TV, he was just a paranoid prick. And, as a result of his paranoia, I became paranoid myself in that “I’d-better-watch-my-back-or-my-neighbor’s-going-to-knife-me” kind of way. There must be a correlation between loneliness and paranoia. It seems that the deeper a person’s loneliness, the more elevated their levels of paranoia. That the ever-present “man” is always out to fuck them.

Alphabet People - Letter G

“G” is me. At age 3, my father took me out to teach me baseball and we started by playing catch with a real hardball. He saw that I was picking it up quickly and he kept taking steps back and throwing the ball harder. One of his tosses missed my glove and smacked me right in the nose and knocked me on my backside. I was crying and my father was mortified. He figured I’d never want to play baseball again. He said, “Sorry about that, Bud. You okay? You want to go home?” I sniffled and said, “No. I want to keep playing catch.” My dad was so proud. I ended up playing baseball through college. At age 5, a dog nearly bit my nose off. I was running through the neighborhood with a blanket tied around my neck pretending to be Batman. I saw the dog on the neighbor’s porch and I had pet it before, but only when the neighbors were there too. I didn’t know any better and as I slowly approached, it leapt off the porch on top of me and took a bite into my nose. My nose was hanging there barely by a flap of skin. I ran home screaming to my mom who was horrified. She took me to the hospital and a surgeon stitched me up. I had to have gauze shoved up my nose for a month, just to make sure the nostril kept its shape. You wouldn’t even know anything happened unless you move in really close and I point out the faint scar. My mom thought I would be fearful of dogs the rest of my life. I’m not. I love dogs. When the property owner heard about what the dog did to me, he promptly shot the neighbor’s dog dead in his yard with a gun.

I Got This Gift

It all comes around to me. And while placing my carefully picked grocery items on the belt, I notice that I seem to be partial to grocery items colored yellow, orange, and red. Egg Bagels. Home Pride Bread. Nacho Cheese Doritos. Single-Size Celeste Pizza. Safeway Cola. Carl Buddig Ham. Bud Light. All yellow, orange, and red like a fire marching slowly down the beltway. This makes me think, I wish I would start seeing the smoke before the fire, because I owe the IRS 1,000 dollars and I owe the state of Maryland 600 dollars and I owe GEICO 240 dollars and I owe my car 1,800 dollars (well, 250 dollars deductible anyway) and just to put life into the recently deployed air bag alone will cost 600 dollars. I am dazed by the fire but am shaken from my thoughts because I now owe the lady 28 dollars and 39 cents for placing my yellow, orange, and red into blue plastic bags. It all makes sense to me as everything marches down the beltway and comes around to this. I only wish that I’d start seeing the smoke before the fire so I can avoid the blues in my future. I give the woman I owe 28 dollars and 39 cents to, an even 34 dollars. She takes it and gives me a puzzled look and I just nod at her and think, “Just punch it in there honey and you’ll see what a four-year college education made me capable of calculating.” She reluctantly punches it in. And then she understands as she gives me one five and some change. I pick up my blues and walk away, alone. Just me and my blues. And my ability to calculate change. (Excerpted from my book, Loser Makes Good, available here.)

I Harte Spam Emails, Part 3

The search for a wiener continues. I am still looking for the best subject line as it relates to penis enlargement spam. So many choices, so hard to choose. “One big instrument is much better than two small ones.” If you have a small one, are you relegated to a category that requires you to partner with another guy who also has a small one just to satisfy your woman? Are you forced to share your woman with another man? Essentially, what the email is saying, if you acquired a big instrument, you would then be permitted to forgo being forced into unwanted threesomes with another small-instrumented man. “The bigger the tool, the further it can reach.” Is this about farming? Yes, as compared to say a hand trowel, I could probably reach much further with a garden shovel or a hydraulic hole digger. “Women will be singing odes to the majestic monster in your pants.” Odes? I mean, odes are nice, but I’d prefer an oral dissertation or an aria. “Odes” sounds so medieval. Plus, I’m not sure I want a majestic monster. That sounds like a cross between a pretty sunset and Shane MacGowan. I would not want that going on in my pants. “You can wear your swimming trunks like a crown.” I can do that now. Not impressed. Now, try fashioning your swim trunks into an origami flamingo and that would be something. “You can break the ice by having bigger size.” Awesome! Say you’re at a party and the moron responsible for bringing ice brings an ice block instead of cubes. You could be a hero and say, “Step aside please, I got this,” unzip your “icebreaker” and start chipping away with it in front of everyone. That might even spark a conversation.