Spamversations #2

I’ve been talking to my Spam folder again. It never ceased to amaze me how these old friends of mine always hit the right nerve.

Take my old friend Brandon Turnerio. Brandon and I used to spend an imaginary summer hiking the Inca trail, pillaging villages and vomiting on ancient artefacts. He gets me, you know. Anyway, so right now he wrote me last night saying that I could "acquire" a whole new "member" that would make all my nights different from all previous nights. You may think he’s being a bit peculiar (or sexual even), but no, he was just referring to that one time in the jungle, where he got high on tapir droppings (why? Err…….when in Rome…?…I guess… – I didn’t join him, though – and even if I did, I wouldn’t be telling you). Of course, he was embarrassed about snorting tapir faeces, so we agreed that we’d call that shit "member" from then on. And it’s true, though, he was never the same after that. He became addicted, but of course had a terrible time kicking the "member" when we came back. The ancient Bagoohu tribe have a saying "once you go tapir droppings, you just can’t go back to snorting coke off your iPad" and they should know. His e-mail led me to believe that he had acquired some new "member" through some animal source, so I gave him an imaginary call and sure enough, it turns out he had been given the job of tapir cage cleaner at the local zoo. He sounded happy, so I didn’t try and change his mind. 

Who else have we got?
Ah yes, Lusy Dodson! She always hated the name her parents gave her, Lucy, but it was only after extensive testing that psychologists found out that it was due to the fact that she was C-phobic, which is a phobia for the letter C. I met Lusy when both of us were in therapy. I was there to overcome my addiction to bedwetting (or was it an "inclination to bedwetting"? Semantics, schmemantics!). We did get along really well from the start, not really intellectually, but more like imaginary; she told me she really liked me because my name contained no Cs. I remember feeling so flattered. The thing is, she kind of misinterpreted my signals when I had rewritten Dostojevski’s ‘Crime and Punishment’ for her without her most hated letter (not easy, I would think). Lusy fell in love with me and was really spiteful when I told her that I couldn’t (I had been careful not to use c-words with her, but ‘can’t’ slipped out and then she slapped me in the face – out of a reflex, I punched her on the nose – ever since then her nose has been a bit crooked and she has been sending me these almost vengeful e-mails about how I "should not accept my current situation" and that I "can fix my problem so it will become an eternal passion rod". I asked her to stop a while back, telling her it’s really childish what she’s doing, but then she drunk-dialed me and started screaming wildly. I admit I lost my cool and I made her stop with a barrage of Cs to make her go mad. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends again. 

Oh look! Curdkudck Vrwsgt has also written! Apparently, he’s got a trick for me: "Hey, I have got a guide for you today that we discover (SIC) you’re to amour!’ Curdkudck was always the helpful type. Both of us met during our days as Pro Women Mud Wrestlers. The funny thing about that was that both of us had been cross-dressing for years just to enter the women’s tournament, but of course when we found out, after grabbing each other’s genitalia during a championship fight, we soon became partners-in-crime. He always had the support from the lesbians, but I could count on a respectable following of lorry drivers. Marketing wise, we thought it’d be great to start a fake lesbian relationship, so we’d have both supporters groups on our side. Those were the days! I did quit the scene a few years later, though. I just didn’t feel like waxing those legs every day… there’s only so much a Pro Women’s Mud Wrestler can take…
I do wonder why Curdkudck is also trying to sell me Lady Gaga tickets (…and Viagra), though. Guess it must be a joke. The guy’s got the weirdest sense of humour…

Red Rum Red Rum

I saw no escape route. The big green EXIT sign had only been put there for show, I found that out when I tried going in the direction of where it pointed. Banging my head against a wall with a door painted on it. And a second time just to be sure.
Why would I bump into doors head-first, you ask? 
Well, my reply would be: ‘Do I tell you how to open your doors? No I don’t, so shut it!’
I wondered how I ended up here. This room seemed to have no discernable point of entry. I thought, maybe there’s a hidden button somewhere over here.
I started feeling the walls with my tongue, hoping to find that hidden button (again, do I tell you how to search for hidden buttons? NO, I DON’T!), but after filling my mouth with enough leaded paint to make my potential offspring retarded for generations to come, I concluded that there may not be a button after all. 
The room was too big to be a prison cell, too dilapidatedly urban to be a container for humans on an alien spaceship with the inevitability of anal probing just around the corner. 
I quacked like a duck to attract attention (stop asking why, will you?!), but to no avail. I quacked a bit louder, but for all I knew, nobody could be listening.
I considered this option: a crack in the space time continuum might have created this space and placed me in there, a parallel universe where I spend all eternity in this timeless red painted room without doors. It made a lot of sense at the time (though that might have been an effect from the lead overdose I had ingested), but ultimately I had to conclude that it couldn’t be for eternity, since I suddenly felt the urgent need to micturate. This was proof of time passing, and also of me having drunk some liquid or other in the not so distant past (I missed my calling to become a detective). 
As I did not know how long I would be here, I chose one of the corners and designated it as my toilet (survival skills at work; you have to create order in stressful situations). 
After micturating and destroying even more of the already-not-so-fresh paintwork, I continued my search for the exit. Instinctively, it felt a bit safer knowing that I had marked my territory, knowing that anyone coming in after me would have to subjugate to me. The rules of the jungle also apply outside the jungle.
I still was none the wiser, though. Questions remained unanswered, unless you count the answers I gave myself to those questions, in which case they were answered, but maybe not with the right answer (must you be so anal about all these things?).
I put myself in the middle of the room on hands and knees and howled. The sound bounced off all walls simultaneously and back to me in a four way echo….
Well, at least I had something to do until I wait for starvation…

On my way to…

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Now that billions have been spent to once again reaffirm the existence of dust and red rocks (though they could be black-and-white) on the planet Mars, I think it is time to formally announce my candidacy for a manned space mission to Mars and beyond.

Naturally, I have always been a big fan of space. Well, apart from that one time space abandoned me, causing me to black out and wake up in a prison cell – space pleaded innocent, but everyone knew who really was to blame.

Anyway, I remember where I was when Neil – I can call him Neil – forgot his indefinite article on the moon. I was in my father’s testicle, though I cannot be fully sure which one; they looked so much alike.

I feel I’d make a great candidate for an extended mission to Mars. The reason is simple. In the age of short attention spans – look, a YouTube cat! – we need to cast someone who has the ability to keep those ratings up. We don’t want people to switch over to some other channel when I plant my first foot on Mars, do we?

I do suggest my fellow space travellers be quite competitive, none of that 1960s “it’s a team effort”, “you go first, no, you go first” kind of thing, no way. We should perform challenges to determine who can be the first to set foot on Mars. As with any good reality show, we need losers who get sent off the show. Too bad for the loser that there’s just a whole lot of empty space outside the ship. This will ensure that everyone will give 101% at every challenge (it goes without saying that I cannot be sent off the ship, since I have immunity because I came up with all of this).

Is there a chance that everybody will just try to kill each other after two weeks?

Of course, but that’s part of the appeal and it offers huge advertising opportunities. If crew number 1 gets killed off, you can use the advertising money to build a second rocket for season 2. It’s that simple! 

So, I guess I’ll start packing… *grabs handgun*… wait? Do guns work in a state of weightlessness? I don’t why they shouldn’t, since you can urinate while being weightless, but I’ll have to ask Google…

Shackled

I have been forcing myself to write something tonight to only end up writing this about not being able to write, even though then, my statement is false, since I am writing now.
It’s like the riddle ‘what gets wetter as it dries?’ *
But then again it also isn’t really like that, because the content of what is said is ultimately irrelevant.
I could be writing about how I fell from the sky without a parachute, landed on both feet (it’s all in the landing), right in the middle of an ongoing orgy, but none of it would not really be happening.
Anyone who writes is a masochist by definition, some in the more literal sense than others (though I will leave it to your imagination to decide how literal it would be in my case).
I am focussing my thoughts on a bigger piece of writing these days, that’s true, though it is mostly in my head.
If I have my lapped top on top of me, distractions are easily within reach. Then research quickly turns into a video on youtube of a cat falling over (this is of course an overdramatized statement – I have never watched a cat video online, may Da Lord strike me down right now if I am lying *looks up with a hint of religious fear* because of course I watched some: I even made a cat video myself one time – to date, it remains my most succesful work of art, which I guess is understandable, since its message is more accessible to the majority of internet surfers who need a break from all the porn (there’s only so much onanism one can do in a day…). The critique on society is perhaps more palpable than with any other piece of art ever made in the history of the world. I bet if Assad and other despots would spend a bit more time watching cat videos, they might realise the error of their ways and hand out free ice cream to make up for it.

My hands are shackled to my keyboard. Carpale and his Tunnel Syndrome are tempted to make their way into my fingers. But fingers refuse it, like they refuse to be soaked in water for longer than ten seconds (whenever I am taking a bath, the tips of my finger I always keep above the water – wouldn’t want to drown and/or to get wrinkly skin). Like an escapologist, we try to struggle our way to freedom. Unlike the escapologist, however, it won’t be with a key that lies hidden in his lower intestine (I know this because I used to date an escapologist – or maybe the boy just had issues, it’s hard to be sure of these things), it will be by beating the board of keys underneath our fingers. Sometimes I think it would just be easier to go fetch a key down “there”, but I can’t be arsed (pun definitely intended) to go along with it. Sometimes the hard way out can also be the easy way out.

And we ride along on our imaginary horses with our imaginary friend in an imaginary wilderness of balloons and flying monkeys. There is no alternative but to ride that horse downstream, because that way we reach the end of the world (not the end as in “destruction”, but the literal end of this flat surface of land). We never asked for reasons any more, we stopped doing that a long time ago.

Reasons are SO 2004 anyway. Best nobody should bother with them for as long as we all may live.

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* = A towel!