Meet My Spammers, Part One

Dear Gmail:

I think the honeymoon is officially over. I was lured by your sexiness, and God knows I live by Google, but you've really let me down. I left my safe little Hotmail account because it was spamming me to death. And you told me you had a better filter. So I pulled out of Hotmail, lickety split, and imported all my contacts and sent out 3 zillion emails saying "I have a new account." So it's too late to go back now; I'm stuck with you.

In the last four days, I've gotten 32 emails from people who apparently think I need discounted prescriptions, cheap computer upgrades, and a, and I quote, "big wee-wee." I don't need any of these things, G (you don't mind if I call you G, do you?). And I don't want your recipes for Spam Fajitas or Vineyard Spam Appetizers. I just want these people to stop emailing me.

I'm keeping a list, G. And since these people are obviously my friends, I've decided to give them each a personality, a face, a story. Read 'em and weep, G. Look at what you've forced these people to do.

I'll start with Lucas Dooley.

Lucas Dooley began his career working at a feed store in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, right out of high school. A freak accident involving 13 rats and a bag of Purina Oat Chop for cattle rendered Lucas unable to continue in this line of work, so after his recovery, he began to sell Hummel figurines on ebay. His feedback score was deplorable, since he lived nowhere near a UPS pickup location and had to haul the figurines in a wheelbarrow up the long dirt road that led to the double-wide trailer he shared with his ailing, chain-smoking Great Uncle Ken.

So G, I'm sure you remember the day he showed up at your office, reeking of Marlboro Reds, wanting a job so he could afford to fix his glasses and buy Great Uncle Ken an iron lung. You didn't hesitate to offer him a job selling miracle, non-invasive face lifts online and sent him directly to mimrtgpqgfrkagsjkcfrzldmiim.celldera.com to find out more information. Lucas Dooley was hooked, G, and soon he began emailing me, asking me to also visit mimrtgpqgfrkagsjkcfrzldmiim.celldera.com and get rid of my crow's feet. "It's cheating--but it works!" read the subject line of his email.

Well, G, I don't really care. Neither, apparently did poor Lucas Dooley, who has since emailed me twice, telling me about amazing deals on Florida vacations and a sure-fire way to enhance the size of my breasts. Have you no shame, G? Don't you think Lucas Dooley was far better off fighting off rabid rats and walking through cat shit in the back room of the Cedar Rapids Agway than he is asking a 37-year old man if he's really happy with the size of his tits?

I hope you're happy, G.