Throwing Poo

Fucking internet.  My site...this site...the very conduit for our virtual, occasionally-more-than-platonic cohabitation...was vigorously attacked by automated spam robots today.  These sneaky little fuckers jump from page to page, adding generic, clichéd remarks (apparently written by high school guidance counselors) and inserting links to porn and prescription drugs sites. 

I'm afraid that, eventually, invisible little nano-robots will be crawling around our homes recording and transmitting everything we do to marketers.  Sneeze and receive an instant message for Sudafed.  Mention you're hungry and get a call from Dominos.  Get punched in the eye by your wife and a commercial for Omaha Steaks pops up on your television.

First, let it be said that I am a capitalist with an MBA in Marketing (which, by the way, is completely fucking wasted in the non-profit world).  Marketers tell us that all this information actually helps consumers (a.k.a. your lazy, fat ass) make informed choices and increases gratification.  Fine.  But when I fart, I'd like to have time to check my underwear for damage before getting a text message hocking Beano.

I guess the question is this: How much immediate gratification can a person experience before turning into reactive, thoughtless blob of consumption?  I have no idea what the answer is.  I'm just hoping to impress you with the question.

Anyway, the very worst part about all this is that I always get excited when I receive comments.  Eagerly opening a comment to find blog spam is like getting a pair of socks wrapped inside an iPod box.  It's the kind of letdown that makes you want to perpetrate unspeakable things upon the giver. 

That's said, if I'm ever arrested for accosting a nubile young woman and forcing her to read my blog, you'll know it was because the spam robots cock-teased me one time too often.  And besides, she was probably asking for it.