Glory, glory, hallelujah!

I am on the receiving end of spam porn texts. WTF did I ever do to deserve this garbage? Before I go through and delete the ones I’ve missed for whatever reason I figured I’d post them in all their glory here. I limited myself to five, and then two shots of the text listing pages, so the full telephone number shows in all its glory.

The thumbnails are links to photobucket. Click the thumbnail and you’ll get taken to a version of the image that is about 50% of full size. Cursor over the image and you get a magnifying glass. Click again. Then you can read them in their full glory.

Boy, when a phrase enters my pea-brain it sets up housekeeping, doesn’t it? The sad/depressing part being, of course, that Your Humble Narrator hasn’t the foggiest idea that this landlord/tenant relationship has been established until long after the fact, possibly to the point where said tenant could assert some sort of “squatter’s rights” and claim legal title to what remains of my brain.

I “glory” this and “glory” that three times in a mere 113 words, and had not a clue I was doing so as I was doing it. Even better, since each “glory” is part of a three (or possibly four) word phrase, call the total “glory” a glorious  eight percent of the text of the two paragraphs.

The only possible defense I might offer is that I was distracted by my flat-bed scanner. But I’d rather not go there, since it actually works fine. The temper-tantrum, flavored of course with a dollop of righteous indignation, that was building inside me when I couldn’t get it to do what I wanted it to resulted from my own stupidity. And nothing else. Meaning trying to blame that tedious prose on it is rather akin to saying, “No, your honor, I really didn’t mean to run those people over. But you see I was drunk at the time, so I was having difficulty with that staying between the lines thing.”

I’ve often wondered why I find it so difficult to keep a blog on any level at all. Finally marked it down to laziness, pure and unadulterated. But now I’m thinking there’s at least a tiny li’l element that with each entry I confirm my prose as being every bit as hackneyed as I’ve long suspected.

Why am I put in my mind of this particular Ani DiFranco song? Without plumbing — or more appropriately, roto-rootering — my subconscious, I’m saying jealousy. Jealousy at people who can actually do writin’, story-tellin’ and so on, and make it interesting, coherent, or hell, something other than embarassing.

Amusingly, if DiFranco and I ever crossed paths I’m guessing it would be about 14 seconds before we were screaming in each other’s faces. I would imagine that good-looking males of the species* can sometimes finagle such things into a horizontal bop session. I mean, you raise the passions, you raise the passions. But unless DiFranco has some deeply buried fetish for Jabba the Hutt look-a-likes, that ain’t anything I’d need to worry to much about§.

* – Particularly those with the ethics of a shark and the morals of a tomcat.

§ – Not that I give a shit at this point, come to think of it. Thanks to the cornucopia of pills I’m on whatever libido I once had is now long-gone. Or maybe uncured depression is at fault. Or maybe that low testosterone issue is worse that they previously thought? Or perhaps it is all of the above.¶ Rather depressing that I have already bred. Not that I don’t love the kid — in fact, if there’s a check on suicide, he’s it — but I’ve certainly done the child no favors genetically.

¶ – If I “don’t give a shit,” why am I mentioning it? I suppose I could burble some silliness about the hypersexualized society we’re living in, these last days before the Spenglerian/Toynbeean inevitable collapse that’s coming, but I’ll come clean. Must be from checking it at this blog from time to time. Fascinating stuff, in fifteen minute intervals. It is like a peek inside the head of someone whose existence is at such a vast remove from my own it is almost as though he and I are two different species.The difference is at some fundamental level that transcends politics, economics, or whatever other transient label that could be applied. Hard-wiring, “nature” not “nurture” here. Eh, I suppose I should do an entry purely on nothing but that blog at some point. I have no issue with the site that’s of any consequence, it is just so utterly alien to me I won’t even pretend to try to get my arms around it.


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