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  • When SPAM Stops Making Sense…

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    SMEAT - SPAMlike movie propUsually when you find me talking about SPAM, I’m babbling (and drooling) about my favorite pressed, canned, pork leavin’s. That lovely ham-like, mystery protein that can be found in any market, lasts a little bit of forever, and is considered a near delicacy in Howarya (Hawaii).

    I’ve never really had a desire to visit that little cluster of islands, to be honest, however, I do happen to like pineapple, coconut, and SPAM, so maybe I should give it a go sometime…

    But, I digress…

    This particular time I am not here to drool about food. I’m actually going to talk about what everyone under the age of 30 thinks of when they hear the word SPAM… Yes. Unwanted email solicitations from somewhere out in the ether.

    Having spent many years as an Internet Systems Admin for an ISP, I am intimately familiar with the electronic version of SPAM. Of course, even if I hadn’t had such a job I’d still be familiar with the stuff because anyone with an email account is deluged with it daily. SPAM filters try their best to weed it out, but the crafty little beggars behind SPAM weasel their way around the virtual assassins whenever possible.

    junk_mail_mailboxNow, the thing is I can actually understand SPAM to some extent. It’s just like junk mail that shows up in your mailbox in front of your house. Stuff addressed to Resident, or Occupant… You know, the things you give to the 4 year old who is desperate to receive some mail just like mommy and daddy. The thing about said SPAM/Junk Mail, however, is that it has an overarching purpose. It is trying to sell you something.

    Siding…

    Windows…

    A really bitchin’ set of shelf speakers…

    An amazing device that when attached to an average canister vacuum will ionize (or deionize, whichever is necessary) the air in your home automatically, making it smell springtime fresh and adding 10 years to your life…

    Know what I mean? It gives you a sales pitch, pretty pictures, and an order blank… Sometimes even a coupon for 50% off on orders of two or more.

    Over the years, the electronic cousin of Junk Mail, that being SPAM, has done the same thing, albeit for different products. In the case of email junk I am usually getting an offer for a Russian Bride, a breast enlargement, Acai Berry Juice, or Generic Viagra.

    stil-1Annoying, yes. I mean, after all, E K would kill me if I brought home a Russian Bride (not to mention the bigamy consequences)…

    I don’t need a breast enlargement – (hell, I had gynecomastia reduction surgery a few years ago, so why would I want to reverse it? I’m not made of money, ya’know, and besides, it hurt like hell… And not the good kind of hurt either if you know what I mean – wink wink nudge nudge- Even E K felt sorry for me.)

    I can get Acai Berry at the supermarket. It even comes mixed with Apple Sauce – how cool is that? AND, I have coupons…

    Finally, Wee Willie Winky has no trouble saluting whenever instructed to do so by the Evil Redhead. At least, at this point in my life he doesn’t. E K sees to that, thank you very much… But, if I end up needing the little blue pill later down the road, I will consult my physician and go see my local pharmacist.

    Still, as annoying as it is, it all makes sense. Color pictures, provocative wording, and even coupons… It’s a sales tacticIt’s direct marketing.

    I get it… Really, I do.

    Or I did, up until just the other day. I think maybe this has something to do with the SPAMmers tactics in order to get around the filters, but here’s the thing – if the SPAM doesn’t make any sense, what good is it?

    For example, the particular email that showed up in my inbox the other day and proceeded to spark this particular missive is as follows:

    Subject:  AAA Christian sex Premature Ejaculation Cure
    Body:  A Christian sex Premature Ejaculation Cukrre www. via65. com.
    When Aliens tAtack Pormotional Trailer


    This was followed by another email:

    Subject:  Female Orgasms From a Woman - 11 Thing She Does When You
    Are Not Lookiing
    Body:  Female Orgasms From a Woman -- 1 Thilng She Does When You
    Are Not Looking
    www. via65. com. Woman Trying to Cheecat on Drug Test Asks Clerk to
    Microwave Prosthetic penis Device
    

    Can any of you tell me what I’m supposed to be buying here? I mean, I sure as hell have no clue…

    Oh well, I guess it’s just one of those things, and I’ll just have to accept it.

    Besides, I’m already late for my Christian Drug Test at the theater where they are showing the promotional trailer for the new Alien Attack movie, and I still have to microwave my prosthetic penis device, otherwise I won’t be able to prematurely ejaculate on the cheat sheet when the clerk isn’t looking.

    You know… I think I’ll go make myself a Spam Sammich…

    More to come…

    Murv

  • Dude, She Doesn’t Have Any More…

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    I have a hobby.

    No… Not the one where I dress up in my wife’s lingerie and sing “I’m So Pretty” while playing badminton with the mushroom tripping squirrels in the back yard.

    Errr… Ummm… Forget I ever said that, okay?

    But seriously, I do have a hobby. A couple of them, in fact, and if book sales don’t pick up soon the IRS is going to consider my profession a hobby as well. But, that a different story…

    The particular hobby in question here, however, is Home Brewing. Yeah, the making of drinkable fermented beverages such as Beer, Wine, and Mead. For someone who enjoys cooking as much as I do, well, brewing seemed like a no-brainer in the hobby department. Now, the truth is I don’t get to engage in my hobbies as much as I once did. This whole writing, touring, promotional marketing of oneself thing takes up far more time than I ever imagined it would. But, I still brew up a batch of Beer or Mead when I have some downtime and I’m looking for a fun activity.

    Before we go any further here, I suppose I should define Mead for Brainpan Leakage readers who don’t happen to know what it is… Mead is basically a wine. In its purest form it is nothing more than Honey, Water, and Yeast. Mix Honey and Water, boil, skim off impurities, cool, add Yeast, allow to ferment. From there things can get a bit interesting with variations on the old standby – these being Pyments (fermented with grape juice as an adjunct), Melomels (Meads containing fruit), and Metheglins (Meads containing spices and/or herbs)…

    Miranda Label 001 I have made all varieties of Meads over the years. I have even made Meads fortified with other alcohols, and named after characters in my books. Most notably, Miranda Mead.

    Emblazoned upon the risque label, Miranda Mead carried with it a tagline which read: Guaranteed to hurt you…  Bad… (Yes, I know, It should be badLY. It’s a label, gimme a break…)

    Beneath this was an explanation which went on to outline exactly why those of us involved in the bottling of this particular Mead thought such (which is, of course, why it was named after Miranda in the first place, what with the character being a homicidal dominatrix and all…)

    Miranda Label 002

    Of course, those eagle eyed among you probably noticed the words “Felicity O’Brien Sweet Dessert Mead.” Well, yes, that was the base for the Miranda Mead, what with their intimate connection and all. We won’t go into that here since some of you blog readers may not have read that far in the series just yet. So, the long and short of it is, yes, I created a recipe for a special Sweet Mead which was named after Felicity. Its label even contained the O’Brien Coat of Arms.

    OBRIEN At this point I should add an important disclaimer so that I don’t end up getting a mess of email about this – None of this Mead is for sale or commercially available. It is home brewed for personal use, so please DO NOT even ask. It ain’t gonna happen. Hell, my brother-in-law is an ATF agent, so breaking that particular set of laws would be a doubly stupid move on my part now wouldn’t it?

    So… Now that you are armed with the above information, I have a confession to make… No, not the thing with the lingerie… What I need to admit here is that I really cannot stand Mead. Seriously. It just isn’t my thing. There are a few meads I have had that are drinkable – Miranda Mead being one of them, Moniak another, and a Hot Ginger Mead made by a friend of mine the third. But if given the choice I’d reach for a beer instead. This is not to say that there is anything wrong with mead. It’s just not my thing.

    So, I am sure you are wondering why I would bother to brew something I don’t particularly like. Well, that’s simple. I make it so that I have it on hand for my friends because several of them really do like it.

    A lot.

    In fact, I have one friend in particular who will crawl naked across shards of broken glass, layered on top of hot coals in an unmapped mine field while being chased by starving Basset Hounds just so he can kiss E Kay’s arse to get some… (Some Mead, that is… Not some… Well… You know…)

    Yeah… You heard me. He sucks up to E K who wouldn’t even know where to start in the process of making Mead. Remember the Tuna Helper incident? She may be the Queen Bitch of the Whole F*cking Universe, but she knows better than to mess around in the kitchen. She has a lackey for that sort of thing, namely moi.

    Still, that simple fact doesn’t stop Mike… Just the other day we were having a BBQ and there he sat on our back deck nursing what dregs were left of a bottle of Felicity O’Brien Mead. Just for the record, he has almost single handedly wiped out the entire batch, which means it is time for me to make more. Not that I mind in the least. I’m ecstatic that he likes it so much… But I digress… (So what’s new about that?)

    You see, he had no more finished the last swig from the bottle than he looked up at E K and said, “I really can’t believe that you are XX years old.”

    “What?” E K asked, blue fire kindling in her eyes at the very idea that someone might be implying she is a liar.

    “You don’t look a day over 40,” Mike returned.

    “Dude, you’re in trouble now. She’s only 27,” I told him. Unfortunately, my bid to trip him up fell on deaf ears.

    “42, tops,” he continued, totally unfazed.

    E K, not sure what to make of this, went inside and stood in front of the liquor cabinet angrily tapping her foot until someone had the presence of mind to crawl into the kitchen, mix a drink, and present it to her with much ceremony and the appropriate level of deference to her status as Eebil Queen. Satisfied for the moment, she returned to the deck with her Vodka-Tonic in hand.

    “37,” Mike announced before she’d even stopped moving. “You’re just gorgeous. You don’t look a day over 37.”

    “Dude… A minute ago you said 42,” Johnathan jibed.

    “Yeah, right,” E K replied, then took a sip of her drink.

    You could hear the amusement in her voice, but at the same time you could see in her eyes that she was basking in the glow of his effusive Redhead worship. Still, those of us who know E K well were perfectly aware of the fact that she was trying to figure out what was handy that she could beat him with in case he slipped up and said the wrong thing.

    I wandered down the stairs to the grill and flipped the Bratwursts, then closed the lid and made my way back up to the picnic table. It had been quiet for a few minutes now, but I had no more planted my rear on a seat than Mike looked up at E K and began to gesture.

    “Look at her,” he announced. “I’m telling you this woman is absolutely gorgeous. She doesn’t look a day over 35.”

    “Did anyone else notice that the number keeps going down?” Johnathan asked.

    “Johnathan,” E K replied coolly. “Do you really want me to knock you down and stomp on you?”

    “No ma’am,” he replied.

    “I didn’t think so,” she observed, then turned her attention back to Mike. “You were saying?”

    Mike became even more animated than his normal cartoonish self. “I was saying you’re just gorgeous. You don’t look a day over 32… No… Make that 30. Not a day over 30…”

    Now, remember where we left off folks – 30… This will be important later in the story…

    It was at this particular moment that I spied the empty bottle of Felicity Mead and realized what he was doing. As it happens, his wife, Anastasia, was on the same wavelength with me – what with us both being a little brainpan bent and all – and she spoke up before I had a chance.

    “Mike,” she told him. “You’re sucking up to the wrong person. Kat didn’t make the Mead, Murv did.”

    “I’m not after more Mead,” he objected.

    “Yeah, right,” Anastasia replied. “Sure you aren’t.”

    “Really,” he persisted.

    E K took another sip of her drink and like the ice-cold, redheaded assassin woman she is, went in for the kill. You could see the giddiness in her eyes as she told him, “It’s all gone, Mike.”

    “It’s all gone?” He asked.

    She nodded then grinned her evil grin. “Yes. All gone.”

    mead “Yeah, dude,” I added. “She doesn’t have anymore. You drank it all.”

    He was quiet for a minute then countered with, “Well, that’s okay. I wasn’t trying to get more Mead anyway. I’m serious, just look at her. She really and truly doesn’t look a day over 40…”

    To this day, Mike swears he wasn’t sucking up in order to get more Mead, but I’m a little suspect of that, given how the years seemed to melt away from the Evil One without the help of Botox or even Oil of Olay.

    Not that she needs any years to melt away, trust me. And I’m definitely not just saying that so she won’t stomp on my head. It doesn’t matter, because she’ll find a reason to stomp on me anyway.

    The thing is Mike was so close to the prize it was scary – There was actually another bottle of Mead in the house and if he’d ratcheted her age down to 25 or so she just might have given it to him.

    More to come…

    Murv