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Maria and I were discussing the increasingly esoteric and convoluted nature of spam, just now, including the fact that much of bulk email no longer serves a discernible purpose. I frequently receive spam from nonsense names, advertising nothing, free of hyperlinks or parsible sentences.

I pointed out that one reason it’s gotten so complicated is the constant, high-speed arms race between spammer and anti-spam software vendor; as new regular expressions are devised and new efforts made to beat them, whole fields of technique can be created and discarded in a week. And then Maria said something that chilled me to my very bones.

“What if,” she said, “the vendors are putting spam out there just to keep selling their software?”

I’m terrified, now, that she might be right.

Anyway, read Spam As Folk Art.

Stop Putting Shit in the Coffee

It’s a grand and venerable tradition, the exclamation of “That Would Be a Great Name for a Band.” It dates back nearly to middle school, when I was getting really into Dave Barry, learning–along with the rest of my generation–to listen for the perfect combination of nonsense with which to someday label our cathartic college noise.

But, as I’ve got four very good band names and don’t anticipate the need for any more, I have to concede that Stephen’s friend Nivolas has an excellent point. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to move on… to ridiculous names for horses.

Dear webmaster@xorph.com

“I am contacting you about cross linking. I am interested in your site because it looks like it’s relevant to a site for which I am seeking links.

The site offers great information regarding cosmetic treatments and aesthetic procedures. This company specializes in providing acne treatment, laser hair removal, microdermabrasion, removal of stretch marks and other services.”

Well shit! That’s completely relevant to a near-dead webcomic and a journal where I make fun of stupid emails!

I’m feeling picky

“And it’s a hot one

Like seven inches from the midday sun”

Okay, if you’re seven inches from the sun, it doesn’t matter what time of day it is. The sun does not actually go out at night.

The microwave disappeared from the break room today, and lo and behold, behind it was a grimy “12TH FLOOR FIRST AID KIT.” I doubt anybody even knew it was there. If somebody had gotten frisky with the staple remover, we would have been forced to use mouse cords as crude tourniquets.

I wish I didn’t read so much MSN content

Apparently Louisville ranks among the worst 10 cities for dating. “Louisville (overall No. 76) scores low in the concert category; apparently the tour buses are not making a habit of stopping and rocking in Louisville,” they say. Given that I’m going to see Ben Folds in Danville tomorrow, I’m not surprised. (Also, I like the implication that the best way to get dates is to have sex with transient roadies.)

On the other hand, I’m going to see Ben Folds in Danville tomorrow! Whoo!

Maria is responsible for basically all of this

I got four Hellboys, two Supermans, a tombstone, a whoopee cushion and Graeter’s Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream Cake. I had a gonzo adventure with my friends and we drove off a cliff. I ate two orders of the best ribs in the universe. I won eighteen zillion games of Crimson Skies.

I have to invent a final project from thin air tonight and turn it in tomorrow, but I had a very good birthday.