My dad has coined the term "spamblings" for, obviously, ramblings about spam. I would now like to propose "spamzas" as a word to describe the short bursts of prose-poetry that have started appearing in the spam that's been floating to the surface of my inbox.

I assume these snippets are actually just "mechanically recovered" from people's hard drives, but you must admit that there's a certain confused beauty to them:

very nice. Only not quite my taste- he is so narrow, like the
I felt now that my life was practically lost, and that persuasion

asked me why you should not propose me also at the Royal Society;
to Ssu-ma Jang-chu of the 6th century B.C. Its date, however,
Botany . . . . . . . . 35

had no reprisals to fear, they led M. Jacquireot to the scene of the wreck.
away the side rail. It happened that a nail came away with the wood,
she would feel his absence very acutely. She attributed immense

The uncultured cynic might suggest that merely stapling these segments together would be enough to produce a modern novel which would sit quite happily around the bottom of the middlebrow bestseller lists (and, equally happily, sit unread on middlebrow shelves). The cultured cynic, of course, would assert that this has already been done, and we have simply failed to notice.

Current Mood: spambiguous
Now playing: [compilation in progress]