Better Life, Yard Donkey

That was the subject line of a spam message I got the other day. For some reason, I found it charming. Perhaps because it was a somewhat benevolent sentiment, wishing me a better life and all. Plus, there's a benign sound to being called a "yard donkey." A sweet little burro grazing in the front yard, oblivious to the worldly troubles beyond his tiny locus of control.

Or maybe I found it charming when compared to the usual spam I get. Which is, by far, mostly to do with my penis. I can not only, it seems, "Make it 6 Inches Longer" but one message promised to "Strengthen Your Crank" because "She Love the Power." Yes, she love the power. A coquettish grammatically incorrect verb usage like when Oprah says "Girl, I loves my macaroni and cheese."

These opportunities pale in comparison to the bold spam promises of "Barnyard Sex" of course. I do realize that they're referring to some hired skank-bag who is posing with various cattle, a la Katherine the Great. But wouldn't it be a nice change to see a rooster in a silk Hefner-esque smoking jacket, bending over a stereo in the pasture, his nervous beak inserting a Johnny Mathis CD, as he begins his crafty seduction of Bessie, the jezebel of the meadow? Of course it would.

Or maybe a quiet candlelit dinner in a dark corner of the musty barn, setting the stage for a tired old mangy coon dog who has his sights set on the fat pink pig across from him, in all her lardly glory, giggling into her napkin like Totie Fields. (If you know who Totie Fields is, I love you.)

But I cannot go on with this. I must go and turn in for the night, dreaming of what could happen if I did have a penis, and took advantage of every single offer I got to lengthen it. I would be trying to find some way to effectively store it for the workaday bustle of everyday life. Like wrapping it around one of those big metal garden hose spools.

Good night.