*Remembers old email story he wrote once long ago that talked about spam, among other things*
*Decides to dig it up and post it*
The room was large and looming. Well, maybe not looming exactly. But it was large, sort of. The second largest room in the house anyway. Of course, it was a small house, so it wasn't really all that large, and the pale yellow walls, numerous pictures and flowers, and pleasant furniture arrangement made it actually kind of nice and cosy without seeming cramped in any way. Now the basement bedroom, that was another story...
The basement was inhabited by the guy currently at his computer in the not-so-large-and-looming living room, and his bedroom is of no consequence to this story, at least not yet. He sat on a chair stolen from the dining room, wearing a pair of comfy pants and an old sweater. Occasionally he scratches his freshly trimmed head. He is attempting to write an email, in the vague hope that he will at last get a reply from someone, anyone. You see, this is an email addict in withdrawal.
He checked his inbox again this morning. Like every day for over a week now, he found nothing there but spam, letters from impersonal internet con-artists attempting to swindle him of the money he sweats each day to earn, offering him get-rich-quick schemes, cheap viagara, and internet lottery tickets.
Spam is considered one of the darkest, most annoying aspects of the information age. It is insidious and relentless. It defies all attempts to block it out. It laughs at legislative attempts to hinder it's spread, laughs at them and sweeps them aside like so many vain unsubscribe notices. It is also extraordinarily stupid. Really, who in their right mind (or their wrong mind, or left mind, or any other mind of their choosing), would be in the slightest bit interested in most of the stuff advertised in spam? Moreover, absolutely no one with an IQ over 63 is going to trust a spammer with their credit card number. This is why spam has proven to be successful with those who watch the Home Shopping Network.
The email he is writing is addressed to a friend whom he has hasn't written to in a while, primarily because he accidentally deleted her last email to him and couldn't remember afterwards what she'd written him, or even for certain if she'd written to him. The email contains news about how life is more or less the same old same old, except that he had the flu this week and had to come early from work two nights this week and missed another night entirely. He caught the flu form his little brother whom he saw while visiting his mom last week during a forced, unpaid vacation. He also tells her about an upcoming interview he has regarding a position at the Niagara Casino.
A casino is a very, very good place to work. It is a good place to work to work for a number of very important reasons. These reasons, in this country, may come singly as small, gold-coloured discs, or in groups as little slips of paper. At a casino, one is generally provided with many reasons to work there, mostly to prevent one from taking the casino owner's reasons for having a casino. Our emailer is very excited about this interview, as he is someone in desperate need of reasons for paying his hefty tuition fees.
Having run out of things to talk about, the guy from the basement decides to dispatch the miracle of communication technology he has been using and return to his dank lair, where he will attempt to do battle with the law of entropy. He must do this because his stepmother simply doesn't understand that you can't fight chaos, and that to clean his room will only produce more disorder in the universe, not less, and will moreover contribute to a process that will eventually result in the heat death of the cosmos.
