SPAM FICTION

This is a cryptic SPAM repository. I have found fragments of FICTION. I have found poetry. I have found secret messages. I have found divinity. I am whole because of the unrequested messages that fall into my inbox. Seek truth. Seek SPAM. But first tell me, why am I wasting my life?

The quoted texts are probably copyright. I recieved them as junk filler in SPAM email, inserted to distract the filters that would otherwise kill the message. Rarely does it work, so I shuffle through the SPAM box and look for gems. Texts are included as editorial exerpts. I editorialize, or otherwise try to interpret their meanings or derivations. Tell me, why am I wasting my life?

Apparently I’m missing a “great low price on AD0BE S0FT ware” by passing up this bit of SPAM FICTION. Really? Am I actually going to buy from someone who spells the product name with a digit?

Place a needle on the table. Then, with your eye on the level of the table, look at it side-ways, and you see the whole length of it; but look at it end-ways, and you see nothing but a point, it has become practically invisible. Just so is it with one of our Women. When her side is turned towards us, we see her as a straight line; when the end containing her eye or mouth–for with us these two organs are identical–is the part that meets our eye, then we see nothing but a highly lustrous point; but when the back is presented to our view, then–being only sub-lustrous, and, indeed, almost as dim as an inanimate object–her hinder extremity serves her as a kind of Invisible Cap.

I did a little digging, Googling the odd, unique quote from the passage above and discovered that this is is a piece published about a century ago under the pseudonym H. M. Egbert. A little piece of fantasy romance that the original author (who died in 1960) couldn’t be bothered to publish under his own name. (And who am I kidding? SurverMonkey?) I always wonder what people like this would think of (a) the Internet, (b) their work being given away for free from public domain e-book archives, and (c) their work being exploited on said-internet to thwart SPAM filters. I guess that’s the whole point of this site, isn’t it.

I’ve never actually seen a polpettone tree, and since a quick Google search reveals only numerous proliferations of the SPAM FICTION collections of others, I’ll assume for the moment that they don’t actually exist. Rather, bulging fruit metaphors, references, whatever, are generously splayed to promote yet another VIAGRA ad.

Taking a different route from my usual one-then changed direction at random. Up ahead was a field of polpettone trees, laid out in neat rows and bulging with fruit. I jogged into a path beside the trees,

The narrator, fit as a fiddle no doubt, pulls this fragment along with a relatable jog through a forbidding forest of imagined vegetation. The closest understanding I could find between polpettone fiction and reality was a reference to italian meat loaf. I imagine it would be tough to go jogging amongst trees “bulging” with italian meat loaf. Distracting.

We’re all fans of the surreal magic of Harry Potter. Poor Ms. Rowling, however: her published works tend to fall victim to both piracy and — now — SPAM FICTION. Today, it seems, Harry is soliciting the virtues of a magic money making scheme, his tribulations tied to the intangibles of stock tips delivered via email.

whoa!” whispered seamus, and he, dean, and neville put their heads a little closer to hear what apparition felt like. for the rest of the day, harry was besieged with requests from the other sixth years to describe the sensation of apparition. all of them seemed awed, rather than put off, when he told them how uncomfortable it was, and he was still answering detailed questions at ten to eight that evening, when he was forced to lie and say that he needed to return a book to the library, so as to escape in time for his lesson with dumbledore. . braced this time, harry was ready for the apparition, but still found it unpleasant. when the pressure disappeared and he found himself able to breathe again, he was standing in a country lane beside dumbledore and looking ahead to the crooked silhouette of his second favorite building in the world: the burrow. in spite of the feeling of dread that had just swept through him, his spirits could not help but lift at the sight of it. ron was in there . . . and so was mrs. weasley, who could cook better than anyone he knew. . . .m5

I can’t say I know the books well enough to place this passage. Sadly, I think I know more than one person who could. Harry, obviously dropped from the end of yet another misadventure, is winding up his neatly packaged escapades with a step down memory lane. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.