A few weeks ago, I tinkered with having a comment policy. It included this statement: “Interesting or funny spam will be preserved for posterity.”
I’m pleased to say that the spambots rose to the challenge. Here are three gems that have lately tickled my funnybone:
“One cannot ever go wrong with ethnic attire. […] The men are left pleased.”
Two very important priorities. Well done, spambot.
Quoting Auden? I’m impressed. Clearly this isn’t your average bot. Where do you reckon it went to college? Spamford? Spamherst?
(I’ll show myself out.)
“Cactus is not a kitchen ventilator.”
Pure gold. It’s like something I’ve heard at poetry groups, usually read aloud by someone who is either (a) still hungover from the night before and thus still half-convinced that Erato and Calliope appeared and handed down these words, or (b) slowly realizing, as he’s reading, that this did not in fact happen, and what used to sound brilliant now pales in the faces of his sardonic peers.
I’ve been there. I think we all have.
My point is, apparently we’re reaching some sort of Spam Renaissance, its quality increasing to balance out the decreasing standards of pop lyrics. If this trend continues, I predict spam in iambic pentameter within six months.
But why wait? Let’s set this ball rolling with some highbrowed spam of our own. Here’s the challenge: Look through your spam filter and pick out three juicy selections. Using only the words found in those messages, create a poem and post it in the comments below (or on your own media, with the hashtag #poetryspam). Bonus points are available for iambic pentameter.
My clingy cactus cannot feel or sing;
Terrific radiation is my brand.
To run from kitchen offers is to block
An inspiration never pleased with fits.
The bar is set extremely low, my friends. It’s your turn now.