You know, call me old fashioned. Call me an old fogey, or a “square” or label me a few light years behind the times. But, shucks. What happened to the halcyon days of innocence where you’d take a fine young lass out on the Tilt-A-Whirl or even for the oh-so-stolid moonlit stroll down the boardwalk—before—and that is the key word here fellas, before—you cover and fill that apple-cheeked farmer’s daughter with your hot salty cum?

I was raised to be a gentleman. And that means one thing, lads: no matter how much she begs for it, no matter how much her wide doe eyes lap up that throbbing crotch bulge of yours, for sweet Pete’s sake, wait till you get her home—or at least to the backseat of your dad’s Explorer—before you unleash your giant purple beast and coat her from head to toe in gallons upon gallons of sizzling spunk. And don’t forget to spurt all over her innocent, pouting face—and in every hole, whether dripping or no—because that’s where she really wants it.

Back in the stone-age pre-history of the Internet—say 1997 or so—spam was a minor annoyance. All it took was a couple of taps on the delete key to rid your inbox of pesky MAKE MONEY FAST subject lines, and you were through. But as the Web exploded into the world’s tackiest shopping mall, consumers became more discriminating and spammers had to re-invent their methods to ensure their propaganda didn’t end up directly in the Recycle Bin.

But Joe and Jane Q. Surfer had technology on their side. E-mail clients were released possessing sophisticated message-filtering technology. Hotmail claimed to have an algorithm at work that would purge your Inbox of lunchmeat based on your message-reading patterns. So, faced with being out-smarted, the spammers fought back the only way they knew how: by getting unbelievably crude.

The thin end of the wedge came in early 1999, I’d estimate. Now, I don’t care how inured one is to consumer manipulation, nor how computer-savvy, nor how skeptical to the marketing of wonder products. But if you’re a guy—and therefore have a dick between your legs—and if your inbox, one day, is deluged, as you witness with widening, virgin eyes, with hundreds of “MAKE YOUR C0CK GROW!!!!!!!!!!!!!11” messages, goddamnit, you’re going to click at least once.

This mild-mannered penile curiosity is all well and good, as long as you’re surfing within the safety of your own home (or parents’ basement). But when you check your e-mail from the Gerstein terminals or at work, the cute young thing casting sly, sideward glances toward you from the adjacent cubicle will be none too impressed as your inbox silently, tragically, brims over like a swollen river, with hundreds of subject lines featuring the phrase MAGICAL COCK-ENGORGING PENIS PUMP!!! in strategic bold-faced type.

As if this inbox buggery wasn’t bad enough, the average spamee now has to contend with the e-mail marketer’s wet dream: the HTML-compatible e-mail program.

My grapples with this cataclysmic bit of technology are best told through a personal anecdote. For a period of close to a year, about 30 per cent of my spam came from one particular source: The Fuckshot Megasite. Following some cursory investigation, I discovered the name of this site was rather self-explanatory in relation to its content. It featured so-called “Fuckshots”—that is, photographic depictions of the act of fucking, in every conceivable permutation of ethnicity, type of cheeleader outfit, ripe vegetable, orifice, etc. The Megasite portion of their moniker was derived from the sheer quantity of Fuckshots they possessed—the lurid pink banner at the top of the ad assured me that by paying the modest $14.95-per-month (U.S.) subscription fee, I would be so saturated with said Fuckshots they would outlast my most fervent jerkings-off until the heat-death of the universe.

But the best thing about the Fuckshot Megasite spam was how giant full-colour JPEGs—of those very same Fuckshots!—were embedded, free of charge, in each message! How gallant! As I loaded my e-mail client, not only me, but anyone within 180 degrees of the front face of my monitor was graciously allowed to see giant, throbbing cocks bursting open tight teen pussies, or lubed-up slippery assholes being reamed by monster schlongs. What an invaluable service, that they have the good heart to release the iron grip on their treasured Fuckshots to allow me an obligation-free chance to evaluate their merchandise.

Spam has been called a lot of things—an invasion of privacy, a colossal waste of time and money, a tremendous irritant. But now, it has the capability of making one look like a porno-obsessed pervert to anyone within casual glancing distance of your computer screen. I guess technology brings us closer together after all.

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