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Showing posts from September, 2012

Spam email of the week

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Here is the subject of this week's spam email. Are you ready? Because it's great. Are you sure you're ready? I don't think you are. Here it is.

Subject: Let's trade horses

Yes, let us do that. I don't know how you knew about my involvement in the North American horse trade, but I should warn you that I am very knowledgeable about horses so don't think you can pull one over on me. I don't want to go all "horse talk" here on our less informed readers, but: I have some dark brown horses and I'm looking for a light brown horse, any year. By the way, what is your name?

Dan "Patio" Dalton [dan@contentthatworks.com]

Oh, it's YOU, Patio?! Ha, ha ... should have known! Note to readers: Dan "Patio" Dalton is a guy I know from way back in the day. Dude used to hang out on mad patios. He's cool though. (He is NOT cool.)

Holla at me Patio, what's up?

Connie,

My name is Mike.

Need some money-making ideas?

Yes.

· October is Nat…

Trimming down my manly duties

One of the few manly things I used to be able to do was mow lawns. In fact, combined with my ability to cut hedges—with a hedge trimmer!—you could even say that “general landscaping” was an area of mild expertise. (One time I accidentally cut the extension cord I was using for the hedge trimmer with the hedge trimmer, nearly shutting off the power grid of our town.)

Our first place of residence when we were married was in a condo development in NJ, so I was not allowed to mow the grass there and instead had to pay for that service, and was therefore unable to prove that I was a good husband. I did, however, take the trash out a few times, and one of those times it was really, really cold outside.

Then we moved to Arizona and I discovered that I would not need to mow the rocks. Still, we had a plot of land of our own that included some plant life, and I was adamant that it would be my responsibility to maintain that land, like a good man would.

I toiled in the fields for many a fort ni…

Classic card of the week

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Flipper Anderson, Sports Illustrated for Kids
I like this card because it reminds me of the days when, if a receiver did something completely special and out of the ordinary like HIS JOB, he would celebrate by raising his arms in the air in triumph instead of pretending to slit his throat or pull his pants down. RECEIVERS THESE DAYS AMIRIGHT? In fact, in my humble opinion, Flipper Anderson may have had the greatest touchdown celebration ever, and it came at the expense of my beloved Giants. In the '89 playoffs, the Rams and Giants ended regulation tied. Anderson scored the game-winning play on a 30-yard touchdown pass and Forrest Gump'd it -- he just kept running through the tunnel and into the locker room. If there is a better way to end a game, I do not know it. I mean, I do not like him at all because of that and I think he's the worst. But that was pretty awesome.

Anyway, 1989 was a good year for Flipper.


In 1989, Flipper had the best game ever by an NFL receiver when …

Fighting the Disney-fication of our family

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We’re not really a “Disney family.”

There are two main reactions people have when discovering this little tidbit about us. The first, and by far the most common reaction is, “WHAT? YOU DON’T LIKE DISNEY? HAVE YOU NO SOUL?” Even when repeatedly prompted for an explanation, there’s really nothing we can say to this group that will provide them solace, and the remainder of the conversation involves them trying to convince us we are wrong or assumes we have experienced some sort of childhood trauma. But you like Mickey Mouse, right? How could you not like Ariel? Have you HEARD her voice? Did you have parents growing up? The second reaction is a silent nod of approval, followed by a nervous surveillance of the area to make sure no one bore witness to the blasphemy.

It’s not that we’re categorically opposed to Disney—we’ve partaken in Disney-produced things before, mainly because it’s impossible not to since they run the world. I was just never really into it that much as a kid. I liked He-…

Spam email of the week

Subject: RE:DEAR SIR PLEASE REPLY IMMDIATELY

Note: this email feature today is not mine but was submitted by a fellow sir, my mom.

Dear Beloved,

We are gathered here today in the interest of reading terrible, pointless, junk emails. Should anyone object to this, please speak now or forever hold your peace. Or just, ya’ know, stop reading this. But don't do that.

I am sending you this mail in good faith.

Whew! For a second there I thought this mail—some people call it “email”—was sent in bad faith, and that reading it would ultimately waste my time.

I am Mrs. Marie Douglas a widow, currently undergoing medical treatment for cancer.

"Dear person I don’t know, my husband is dead and I have cancer. But enough small talk …"

My late husband was a contractor with servicing firm affiliated with Electric Authority. Many years before he died in 2006.

Wait, he worked for Electrical Authority before he died? Weird. Is Electrical Authority a thing? Like, some multi-billion dollar monopo…

To tip or not to tip for takeout, that is the question

I am not a person who obsesses over money. I try my best especially not to bring up matters of petty cash lest I come across as cheap or something. That said, sometimes the monetary issue at hand becomes a matter of principle and I am forced to voice my displeasure. Like when we spent almost $300 as a family to go see Cirque du Soleil at University of Phoenix Stadium and then had to pay $10 for parking even though the event was literally in the parking lot and there were no other parking options. They funneled you into this tiny section of an enormous, otherwise empty parking lot so they could steal your money. Before the show started I turned around to a dad in the row behind me and said, “Can you believe the park—” and before I could even finish he started going off worse than I would have, which made me feel better. After the show we got caught in a haboob on our way back to the car, which made me angry all over again.

But that was simply an occasion of a city or large corporation …

Spam email of the week

So there I was today, sitting around like a schmo and thinking, "I'd really like to invest in a charity, but which one? Argh, thinking about this is such a PROJECT!"

Subject:  PROJECT

I don't know this person who is emailing me, like at all, but he/she definitely wants to collaborate on a project, and I am game. My philosophy in life has always been, "Start the project -- ask questions later."

Beloved I am Deborah Mannings.

There is no better way to tug at my heart strings than to call me "Beloved." Whenever I get an email that does not immediately acknowledge that I am, in fact, loved by God, I don't even read it. I have never read an email before this one. Wish me luck!

Oh, by the way, this person who emailed me here is Deborah Mannings. The name on the actual email sender reads Sister Deborah Mannings, so she is definitely a nun, and I trust her. The actual email this arrived from is chuihung.lee@parkhotelgroup.com, so she is definitely, I gu…

Dressed to kill, and to run

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Last weekend my wife and I went out for a night on the town. It’s not like it was our first night out since becoming parents, but I’m pretty sure it was our first night out out. Like, we went to a club. Or a discotheque. Or whatever it’s called when it’s not PF Changs.

Of course this meant that I needed to dress nicely, and not my version of nicely. This is a struggle for me because there is really not much in my wardrobe that falls in between the formality of a suit I would wear to a wedding and my business casual attire for work. I thought the collared shirt with suit pants screamed, “I’m here to have fun, but I might get called into work at any second to file an expense report.”

I thought I had it figured out. I was feeling very good, very confident about what I had chosen to wear. I walked downstairs, proudly looked at my wife for approval, but she looked me up and down, frowned, and nodded her head no. I said, “What?” She nodded again. I said, “Okay, just tell me what you don’t