Brooke Young is a worthless, skanky slut and deserves to die a slow, painful death

Listening to: Wilco, A Ghost Is Born

If you're here to join in August's mixmania! - HELLO!!! - click this link!

Man: Well, what've you got?
Waitress: Well, there's egg and bacon; egg sausage and bacon; egg and spam; &egg bacon & and spam; egg bacon sausage and spam; spam bacon sausage and spam; spam egg spam spam bacon and spam; spam sausage spam spam bacon spam tomato and spam;
Vikings: Spam spam spam spam...
Waitress: ...spam spam spam egg and spam; spam spam spam spam spam spam baked beans spam spam spam...
Vikings: Spam! Lovely spam! Lovely spam!
Waitress: ...or Lobster Thermidor a Crevette with a mornay sauce served in a Provencale manner with shallots and aubergines garnished with truffle pate, brandy and with a fried egg on top and spam.
Wife: Have you got anything without spam?
Waitress: Well, there's spam egg sausage and spam, that's not got much spam in it.
Wife: I don't want ANY spam!

As a student of human behavior, the thoughts and motives of others tends to get my three or four working neurons snapping and smoking to the point that I usually have to turn down the radio and dim the lights to prevent an all-out meltdown. The price one pays for refusing to upgrade (please don't get TOOMA started discussing my 5 1/4 inch floppy - ha ha, that old joke never gets stale, eh?). Despite my many limitations, I still continue flogging my flapping synapses with inane questions like what insufficiency makes little King George afraid of a woman like Cindy Sheehan or what toilet training trauma makes a craven rightard smear a woman whose son was killed in Iraq.

Clearly, few examples are as meretricious, mendacious, or moronic as our idiot-child president or his pet hamsters at Fox News. So, rather than pointing to the absolute nadir of humanity (which is neither instructive nor interesting), I'll edge a bit up the food chain and discuss the behavioral roots of chickenboners. Spammers. Not the scourge Bush but something less dangerous.

Admit it - you've wondered what kind of unfortunate spawn of an incestuous union sits in front of a computer to email millions of mindless come-ons for worthless credit cards, so-called free plasma-screen televisions, Nigerian scams, and hot young girls who are dying to meet you tonight. Don't tell me that you haven't imagined your spammer as some maladjusted, maloderous weenie with greasy hair, sitting at a snot-encrusted keyboard to press 'Send' and infest your inbox with the digital equivalence of body lice (crabs also being something your spammer must have).

There, I've made it easy for you. Having accurately identified your mental image of a chickenboner, I'll also confirm that you are correct. Not usually prone to reducing social sub-sets (of subhumans) to simple stereotypes, I must concede that spammers are cut from the same redolent, greasy cloth, without color or character, prone to bestial behavior with, ummmmm, anything (and easilly bribed with candy).

Why? What's the equation that creates a spammer besides cousin, cousin, and the visual of rutting goats? What else creates these venal insects besides the exchange of fluids and the fly-like determination to annoy? My own theory has to do with spray paint and candy-colored flakes.

Raised on fake-fruit cereal, a steady video diet of Jerry Springer, Cops, and The Mario Brothers (desperate Capitalism at its worst), Spammers come from homes where parenting was by request and usually limited to a remote and a dog dish full of vodka. With insufficient external stimuli in their environment, spam-children begin to seek out inappropriate forms of attention-getting, behavior that eventually leads to them arriving unannounced in your inbox. Furthermore, constant electrical shocks from sticking paper-clips into an electrical socket fried out the lobes regulating inhibition in the spammer, essentially cauterizing neural connections into a pattern of behavior that can only be classically termed as "idiotic".

However, saying that spammers are the cyber-century equivalent of the village idiot over-simplifies the matter. There are far too many people vying for the postion of village idiot in our century (what with the economy and all) and "reality shows" only stiffen the competition. Far too many people are willing to open an email from Brooke Young with a subject line that reads "SEXUALLY EXPLICIT: z bike ice-cream pretender", far too many people are willing to bite at the lure of a free Ipod and then thrash around with a nifty new fish hook in their lip.

Spam may kill the internet but it won't blow up the world. For that, a true village idiot is required, a God-King Idiot who, if I didn't know his mom and dad, I'd swear was the issue of Brooke Young and a couple of horny goats. An idiot who takes a five-week vacation while our country is at war and a tank of gas costs more than a sack of weed. An idiot who would rather have a few follow his narrow agenda "and sing along to the age of paranoia" then see the rest of us prosper.

"Let them eat spam," the King Village Idiot says, "it's also important for me to go on with my life," his cowardly response to a grieving mother. Idiot.