Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Torrid Spam Tales, Part 2: The Squelching

Since my spam filter gets more of a workout than I do these days, it’s time to dig into the dark recesses of the Internet and dredge up another installment of Torrid Spam Tales.

Seriously, where does this spam come from? I imagine a sweatshop in Chechnya staffed with 19-year old peasant girls looking to make an illicit love connection. A more accurate description would be a jerkoff named Boris in the Ukraine scamming lonely Yankees out of their credit card numbers by promising kinky cybersex with nubile slaves trafficked by the Russian mob.

Or something along similar lines, without the international intrigue that doesn’t involve Interpol.
However these emails wind up sent to me remains a mystery, but they’re more fun than the “Nigerian Prince Needs Your Bank Account Number” scam or the “Free Boner Pills” offer. Even though they’re illegal operations orchestrated by foreign criminals, at least I’m flattered a Nigerian prince needs my financial aid, but insinuating I need a pill to boost my erection is just insulting.

 No matter.

You came here for the juicy, scintillating details and I’ll oblige. Let the spammy debauchery and wanton online depravity commence:

I looked your description over the Internet. And decided to
write to you. You are pleasant to me very much. I expect on reciprocity. I
have tried  become acquainted with to man via Internet at first time,
therefore it is a  hard for me. What need I to write? A little about itself.
This is Nella. I’m 29 years.
I work, have a rest like many girls. I would like to go to the cinema,
walk in the parks. Sometimes I simply see DVD at home. Think that I don't
have enough man's intercourse. Though I’m beautiful woman. Maybe after
learning more about each other we can have friendship.
I hope it was interesting for you. Wait for your answer.
Take care, Nella

The above included a photo of what appears to be a nude female in a tree. Isn’t that taking naturism a bit too far? Wouldn’t that be one of the first things she’d write? “Hi, my name is Nella and for kicks I enjoy getting naked and climbing trees.”

Listen, I like seeing naked women. I like seeing trees. Put them together and you only have a batshit goofy girl in a tree. Upon closer examination, you detect the vaguest hints of a black shirt, but come on.  What an anonymous cock tease. 

Now the deconstruction: She “looked your description over the Internet.” How can she look at my description? Did she Google “funny and smart reporter/writer, swarthy appearance, resembles Bronson Pinchot on good days and Jon Lovitz on the bad”? How did she find me, and who the fuck is this nosy bitch?

“You are pleasant to me very much. I expect on reciprocity.”

Hey, you expect what now? You expect? Again, who the fuck are you?

“This is Nella. I’m 29 years.”

This is Eric. I’m so dreadfully confused.

“I work, have a rest like many girls.”

Going out on a limb here and assuming she is employed and occasionally takes time off of her job for recreational activities.

“Think that I don’t have enough man’s intercourse. Though I’m a beautiful woman. Maybe learning more about each other we can have friendship.”

Now we get to the gritty crux of this missive. She wants to fuck. She wants you to write back and correspond because, in some Bizarro World alternate dimension, a nude tree woman will let you screw her high in the branches of a majestic larch.

The email is a fragmented mess, with each sentence brief and disjointed. Look at the second half of the letter and read it to yourself, but in Cookie Monster’s voice.  Better yet, take it to your local coffee shop on open mic poetry night and read it as a poem.

Dude I understand English is your second language, but if you’re going to scam people, learn the lingo first. How do you expect to fund Grozny’s largest meth empire if you can’t get blackmail and hoodwink Americans?

The next spam has a whimsical, fantastical flavor to it:

How do you do
I am here to meet a special man who will  give me a chance to care of him, to cook for him, to raise his children, to give him all my love from my big heart.
I would awake the feelings were sleeping in my sweetheart's soul before meeting me.
After that moment we will never go through a day without saying how much we love and need each other for the rest of our life.
I like different cuisine and I dream about calm candlelight dinners with my second half.
I believe he will care enough to make me smile, stay with me long enough to learn more about me.
Goodbye, dear

Unicorn? Are you fucking kidding me? Of all the alluring, sensual names designed to get a man excited (Jade, Ebony, Sindy) you choose one describing a mythological horse? Maybe if you were trying to pick up 6-year old girls, the name Unicorn might carry some weight, but as a grown man I am not impressed.

So “Unicorn” wants to meet a man she could cook and care for. Basically she’s a Russian mail order bride desperately in need of a green card.

“I would awake the feelings were sleeping in my sweetheart’s soul before meeting me.”

Almost like poetry. Almost.

“I like different cuisine and I dream about calm candlelight dinners with my second half.”

Dinners you’d cook, right? Because that’s what you promised earlier in the email.

“I believe he will care enough to make me smile, stay with me long enough to learn more about me.”

“Unicorn” is looking for the perfect mate, a man to compliment her, to complete her life and to create a brood of younglings with. Well, the perfect person, just like the mythological beast whose name she proudly uses, is imaginary.

You wanted a love letter? The next one drips with maudlin sentimentality:

I believe that new beginning will fill the empty place in my soul with the fresh air and scent of trees in bloom.
I am calm, decent, open-minded lady with good sense of humor.
I like sport, reading and especially I like to make my home cozy, I like to cook and often I try to cook something new.
I am dreaming about meeting that special man to share the most exciting moments with him. I am looking for active, emotional, cheerful, sociable and passionate man.
Yourth faithfully

Yourth? That’s not a typo. That’s how she actually spelled it. “Yourth faithfully.” Think with all of this poetry she read too much Shakespeare and started writing in archaic English? Hey, if you can’t master contemporary English, the 16th century version will do.

“I believe that new beginning will fill the empty place in my soul with the fresh air and scent of trees in bloom.”

Read Chaucer much?

“I am calm, decent, open-minded lady with good sense of humor.”

These are exceptional qualities for any person. But here’s where it gets interesting:

“I am dreaming about meeting that special man to share the most exciting moments with him. I am looking for active, emotional, cheerful, sociable and passionate man.”

That puts immense pressure on a guy, right? Every moment has to be exciting. Why not just share moments with him? Why does everything have to be exciting moments. Sometimes, life is dull, like waiting in line for shoes. How thrilling can you make that moment? Or getting your taxes done. Or sitting on the toilet. Life isn’t about the exciting times. Life is a series of moments. Go with that and you’ll be contented.

Last one, and it’s a doozy:

My darling will hold my heart and my soul
I am very tender, caring, loving and understanding woman.
I wish that my future man looks into my eyes and tells me that he loves me with all his heart.
I know I am not completely ready to give one hundred percent of my heart, but I pray my future sweetheart will be my new beginning, my fresh new start. We will meet, look into each others eyes, and speak without saying a word.
Goodbye, my dear

Beginning the email with “Aloha” is a nice touch if you’re Hawaiian. If you’re anything other than from the Hawaiian Islands, using “Aloha” as a greeting probably means you’ve skipped a few doses of Wellbutin.

“I know I am not completely ready to give one hundred percent of my heart, but I pray my future sweetheart will be my new beginning, my fresh new start. We will meet, look into each others eyes, and speak without saying a word.”

This would be lyrically beautiful if it weren't so insane. The previous sentence urged her “future man” to tell her he loves her with all his heart. So it’s okay for a man to give his heart to Maggie, but Maggie isn’t ready to give her heart to him? Why bother asking him to do so?

“We will meet, look into each others eyes, and speak without saying a word.”

Someone’s been watching too many rom-coms. Relationships aren’t idealized and seamless. They’re messy and require time and effort, but if you’re willing to compromise and commit, they can work. Just looking into someone’s eyes doesn’t signify love. It means they’re ready to rut like wild animals in the treetops, and for that, you need to call Nella.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Thirst or Consequences

U.S. Senator from Florida Marco Rubio delivered the Republican response to President Obama's State of the Union speech last night. At one point, he leans over, grabs a small plastic water bottle, takes a rapid swig and, all while maintaining eye contact with the camera, sets the bottle aside.

A mundane, insignificant act.

He was parched after talking and needed to quench his thirst. Pause. Drink. Resume.

But in a world where social media is king and awkwardness is punished, Rubio's sip became the talk of the Internet.

Rubio later commented on the incident - I decline to call it a gaffe because it wasn't a mistake -  on ABC's Good Morning America, "God has a funny way of reminding us we're human."

God also has a funny way of reminding us a legion of partisan 12-year olds control the media.

Look, I'm not defending Rubio's positions. He's vehemently anti-abortion, voted against funding stem cell research, wants to repeal Obamacare and favors returning control to health care to the states, opposed repealing Don't Ask, Don't Tell, favors more oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, opposed the Violence Against Women Act and is hankering for war with Iran.

He's every Tea Party curmudgeon in a younger, handsomer form.

Rubio is a far right-wing ideologue who doesn't even want to compromise with moderate Republicans, much less Democrats.

But the guy takes one sip of water and people crucify him. They call it bumbling and ridiculous. They start Internet memes and create Facebook pages devoted to Rubio's water bottle. Even the talking heads on 24-hour cable news networks get involved, presumably because there are no other stories to report.

I recently had a conversation with someone who worked as a reporter in the 1970s, the golden age of journalism. She told me the smartest thing for budding reporters to do is not to major in journalism but marketing or public relations and take journalism as a minor. Have a job you can make a living with and then write on the side.

In the last few years I've seen the quality of journalism shrink dramatically. Good reporting is almost nonexistent. We're a nation of corporate pundits, partisan prattlers and catchphrase-spitting monkeys. The Internet is a bastion of hackneyed comedians, political minions and sub-literate idiots who vomit shit and bile into the ether for all to view.

Rubio's sip has grown into a monstrous shit demon spewing diarrhea tsunamis across the globe.

This juvenile sense of mocking, of ridiculing the slightest awkward action has made everyone schoolyard bullies. We pick on the high and mighty because it gives our own crappy lives a sense of power and validation.

Most of the people ridiculing Rubio for being thirsty - gasp! - are Democrats.

The next time President Obama gives an address or press conference and news cameras are there, I wish POTUS would emit a long, sloppy, wet fart. The flatulence will be loud and audible and sound like it came from the buttcheeks of a 300-pound truck driver named Earl who subsisted on a diet of beer and corned beef hash. I want Obama to fart for about 25 to 30 seconds, a continual blast of methane from the leader of the free world. Then, after finishing, he stares at the cameras for another 10 seconds, and resumes his speech.

If only this would happen, maybe Rubio's mangled attempt to satisfy his thirst by imbibing bottled water could be overlooked as the trivial event it was.

Yet in the land of the Internet troglodytes and lazy newsrooms, they're riding the cresting waves of feces, hoping to take someone famous down a few notches.

All for ratings or a few laughs.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

The Love Muscle Striketh

When I was a younger man and actually believed in ridiculous things like basic human decency, humility, and love, people called me gullible. Now that I’m older I can dust off the ash and dandruff the LifeMonster vomited all over me and say through Clint Eastwood-like clenched teeth that everything we’re taught about romance and love is bullshit.

We’ve all heard Valentine’s Day is a holiday created by greeting card companies and confectioners to sell cards and chocolate. It’s the most pussy-whipped, superficial and ill-conceived holiday in the calendar next to Groundhog Day and Arbor Day. In fact, I’d rather plant a tree and watch a groundhog than participate in the inane rantings of a bad couple who stay together because it’s Feb. 14.

Before you say such a negative attitude is cynical and the people who are grumpy around Valentine’s Day are alone, I have to say two things:

1    1. The name of this blog is the Angry Reporter. I work in rage and frustration the way Picasso worked in paint or Bill Clinton worked in pussy. You should know what you’re getting into when you read my screeds o’ fury. And,

2    2. Fuck you.
     Valentine’s Day suggests – nay, forces everyone, like a tinpot dictator issuing decrees through a bullhorn – to be happily in love and romance the shit out of each other:
      “All couples will meet in the town square and sweethearts will hold hands! If hands are not held, the firing squads will pick you off one by one! Love! Love! LOVE!!!!”
      I’ve been in a serious relationship for over two years, and each year my girlfriend wants us to do something for Valentine’s Day. This usually translates to us going out to some overpriced restaurant, which is more excruciating and horrible than being raped by Bigfoot and Gary Busey in a truckstop bathroom.
     Valentine’s Day insists you reward your beloved with romantic trinkets like chocolates and roses and buy them steak and lobster. If you don’t do these things, you’re a horrible boyfriend and secretly desire to see your girlfriend murdered by Al Qaeda.
      I treat Valentine’s Day like I do anything antiquated; a sad remnant of a simpler time when a hastily-made valentine, decorated with lace and intricately-cut paper, contained the dreamy musings of a lovestruck bachelor who only wanted the schoolmarm to see through his awkward country ways. 
      As a holiday, Valentine’s Day is a clunky throwback, a nonsensical charade which has no baring on modernity. It’s the 21st century, Skippy! If your woman doesn’t know you love her because you bought her a diamond tiara and Cuisinart juicer for Christmas, she’s a cluless harpy and unworthy of your attention.  Fortunately, my girlfriend doesn’t need decorative baubles from me to know I love her.  
     Romance is a really stupid thing. When you’re young, in love is where you want to be. As you age, you just want someone who understands you. I guess that’s what love really is. It doesn’t have anything to do with chubby-cheeked cherubs with a bow and arrow, or boxes of candy or expensive flowers. Love is that feeling you get at night when both of you are watching that home improvement show on HGTV and your hands drift toward each other and fingers briefly intertwine and she looks at you and smiles and without saying a word, you change the channel because HGTV is complete crap and anyone who habitually watches is a braindead chinchilla. 
     The point is, you don’t need some goofy holiday to celebrate your love. You should be doing that every day, with displays of affection. Tell the person you appreciate them. Say how much they mean to you.
      Later, when you’re giving her epically orgasmic, sweaty, eyes-crossed, toe-curling, screaming-to-the gods sex, you’ll thank me for saving you a dinner reservation and not buying into the Valentine’s Day scam.