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Charlie Hatton
Watertown, MA
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My web site has never gotten me into trouble at work.
(You see this? This is me, knocking on wood. Vigorously.
No, not that kind of wood, slappy. And my eyes are up here, got it? Perv.)
My web site has never gotten me into trouble at work because, so far as I know, no one at work knows that I have this web site. Otherwise, I imagine we'd have some very uncomfortable conversations regarding content, attitude, and various teensy details that I may have neglected to mention to my coworkers, for fear of atomic wedgies.
But this isn't about why the 'petty cash' drawer is always empty, except for an empty condom wrapper. Nor is it about who pees in whose coffee mugs every night, after everyone else is gone. Or even where and in which rest rooms the hidden cameras are installed.
No, this is about how I may have gotten into even deeper trouble today -- worse than anything that law enforcement officers, civil lawsuits, and a handful of restraining orders could inflict. I'm talking about getting into the trouble of relentless and merciless ridicule by my coworkers, all because of this web site. And because of one post in particular. This post, in fact, which isn't even written yet. Allow me to explain.
A few days ago, I started collecting spam.
Actually, that's not true. I started 'collecting' spam the nanosecond I first discovered the internet, nearly *cough* *cough* shutupIknowI'mold *kack* years ago. Because spam is the interweb, and the interweb is spam. I'm fairly certain that when brainy pioneering geeks -- and Al Gore, of course -- first linked two computers together with an inch-thick cable and called it a 'network', the first trailblazing messages sent back and forth had to do with finding lower mortgage rates and shooting the monkey to win a free iPod. 'Hello, world! ... Wouldn't you like a bigger penis?'
So I didn't start collecting spam a few days ago. A few days ago, I simply stopped deleting spam. At least, a certain type of spam. I've scanned through my 'bulk mail' folder before, and seen some pretty strange subject lines, as most people have. And I thought it might be fun to imagine a conversation between me and my spam, using just those subjects. It might look something like this, even:
Spam: Ahem. 'Wish you could be better?'
Me: Well, I've never really thought about it. Better how, exactly?
Spam: 'Your wife doesn't find you as good in bed as you used to be!'
Me: Now hold on. I mean, she would have said something, surely. What's she after?
Spam: 'Produce stronger and rock hard erections!'
Me: 'Rock hard'? Isn't that just a little extreme? I don't--
Spam: 'Increase your penis girth by 20%!'
Me: Well, which is it? Harder, or wider? I think you've got the wrong--
Spam: 'You always wanted to use your penis as a billiards cue!'
Me: Um... no. Not me. I'm allergic to chalk, for one thing. Plus, I'm ticklish, and--
Spam: 'Gals in your city!'
Me: Wait. Now I'm supposed to unleash my new tree-branch weenie on random women in town? Aren't there laws against that kind of thing? And what are they, ninety? Who calls themselves 'gals' any more?
Spam: 'Babes inside your neighborhood!'
Me: Well, that's better, I guess. But no.
Spam: 'Hookup for warranteed sex!'
Me: No, really, thanks. I'm not even sure how you'd put sex under warranty, and I'd probably lose the receipt, anyway. I'm really not--
Spam: 'Anna squirting her nasty juice!'
Me: Look, no. I'm sure Anna and her... um, what appears to be apple juice, are just lovely, but no. Not interested.
Spam: 'Rejuvenate your liveliness!'
Me: Well, now, okay -- that doesn't sound so bad. What sort of liveliness, exactly?
Spam: 'Improve sperm motility!'
Me: Ah. I might have known.
Spam: 'Improve overall sperm production!'
Me: I'm... not all that comfortable talking about--
Spam: 'Your mother has always dreamed of having sweet grandkids.'
Me: Hey, don't drag my mom into this! Especially when you were just talking about--
Spam: 'One towel won't be enough to wipe off your sperm!'
Me: All right, then. That's about enough of that. Don't drag my linens into this, either!
Spam: 'Stop premature ejaculation!'
Me: I don't! I mean, I do. Stop it. I mean, I never started! What's the right answer?!
Spam: 'Pod eighteen girls tinsmithy hardcore!'
Me: Oh. Well, I wouldn't have guessed that, that's for sure.
Spam: 'It's Valentine's Day and your seat is ready!'
Me: Oooooh, that had better not be a buttsex joke. I told you I'm married, and--
Spam: 'Give her a Double Dose of love!'
Me: With what, two penises? You've got a pill for that now?
Spam: 'Screw her in the elevator!'
Me: Now that is a buttsex joke, isn't it? I've had just about enough of you.
Spam: 'Enhance your anatomy!'
Me: *sigh* You're not talking about a nose job, are you?
Spam: 'Our penis pills will make your penis sooooo long!'
Me: Right. Look, I--
Spam: 'Add considerable flavoring to your living!'
Me: What does--
Spam: 'Supply significant spiciness to your liveliness!'
Me: I don't even know what--
Spam: 'Inject important flavoring into your existence!'
Me: Hey, are we having sex or basting a turkey here? I'm confused.
Spam: 'The amount of your sperm will make her stammer!'
Me: Ah. Well, I hope it's not the turkey, then. That would sort of ruin Thanksgiving.
Spam: 'Give it to her all night long!!'
Me: But--
Spam: 'Ever wanted to blast like a firehose?!?'
Me: Not--
Spam: 'Russian bitches typist in action supramastoid!!!'
Me: What the--
Spam: 'SUPER BLOW-OUT INK SALE!!!!!'
Me: That's it! Out! Out!! Yer over the line -- that is way over the... oh. 'Ink'. And 'blow-out'. Not, ah, the other thing. I see. I'll... I'll take three cartridges, then. Two color, one black and white. And, you know, could you throw in a bottle of those 'herbal' pills, while you're at it? Thanks.
Anyway, the trouble I mentioned at the office. It turns out that this evening, I was at work filtering through my spam folder to find catchy titles I might use for the post. I had the folder up, and was in the process of deleting the vast majority of emails.
Just then, the girl in the office next door walked in to ask a question. I turned to face her, leaving my mailbox up on the browser. Sometimes, if I'm doing something not strictly work-related, I'll minimize the window, or cover the screen. In extreme cases, I might spray mace into the eyes of the person walking in, just to be safe. This time, though, it never occured to me. It was just an email list. Where's the harm in that, right?
Well, when she left, I turned around and found what I'd left. Which was an entire screen of greyed-out to-be-deleted emails, except for one glaring exception, glowing black and white in the middle of the list:
'Safe male enhancement never tasted so good!'
Did she see it? I don't know. Could she read it? Can't say. If she could read it, did she misinterpret it? Who the hell knows, because I don't even know what it means myself. And I was not about to click the link to find out. That way lies madness. Madness and a rock-hard firehosing billiard cue wang that I want no part of. I wouldn't even know what to feed the damned thing.
I do know this, though: if she did read that ad over my shoulder, I'm cooked. Just cooked. If the office gets wind of that -- and she'll tell two people, you know; oh yes, she'll tell two people, and then they'll tell two people, and so on, and so on -- then I'm done for. The taunting, it will be swift. And it will be merciless. And it will be relentless. I'll almost certainly have to quit my job, on the spot. The very first time someone leaves a 'SUPER MAGNUM' condom on my desk chair, I should just turn in my ID card and walk away. Done.
And all for a post experiment -- now a post-within-a-post experiment, on a site I can't possibly let them know about -- that really didn't turn all that well to begin with. Certainly, it's not a post worth choosing between a lifetime of teasing or a Monster search for a new job. This might possibly be the worst thing the blog's ever done to me.
Why couldn't I have just gotten Dooced instead? Bitches!
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Of this entire post the part I find most unusual is the title.