Spam and Eggs

I wouldn't check my spam box every morning except some of the nicest people end up in there. I've even fished you out from time to time, floundering somewhere between Ladies Love Size and Release Your Inner Ellen Degeneres.

They say our social media purveyors, using some algorithm made up of facebook, blogger, friends, and comments, assemble and sell a profile of each of us to various spamitizers. Which I find rather unsettling, considering the contents of my spam.

I'm targeted pretty specifically; my ads come in four basic flavors: Weight loss, wrist watches, self-assertion, and orgies.

The weight loss clinics ("Don't Move and Get Thin") apparently eschew pesky old fashioned techniques such as diet and exercise. In fact, it seems, calorie reduction and exertion of any sort simply packs on the pounds. Should I at any point heave myself out of my Barcalounger and waddle across the floor, that, according to the Salma Hayek program, is a recipe for disaster. Success will come to she who sits and waits. Which in my case is preaching to the choir. It's a regimen I've followed for years, though maybe I fidget too much.

The wrist watch vendors, on the other hand, dazzle me with knockoffs, swiss-ish timepieces, custom designed for those in the market for the cheap and illegal.

And don't get me started on the self-assertion options -- Deepak, drums, screams.

As for the orgies my spam has on offer, we're not talking cozy little threesomes here, but parties, chock full of intriguing characters. And many famous faces (yeah, wouldn't you like to know).

Put it all together, though, and we get a disturbing picture. My profile spells fat nagging bitch clock watcher. The orgy wallflower, invited along because she's the only one who can tell the time. The kind of girl who at the appropriate moment will blow a whistle and shout, "Hey sport, that's four hours, so let's wrap it up and get some immediate medical attention around here."

Somehow I thought the cloud would see me as someone, I don't know, more glamorous or something. Although I am receiving a trickle of sleep deprivation spam lately, so perhaps the cloud thinks all is not hopeless. Thinks it's possible I am, after all, attractive to one of the orgy's more discerning movie stars -- the kind of guy who appreciates a woman who can both read a Rolexalike and rock a muumuu.