Hair-Clogged Pipes, Pan-Fried Prawns, and My Christian Match


I received an important email today, re: Your Christian Match. It promised me the opportunity to meet “single like-minded Christian” gals. Just one click, and they’ll show me the way. It said so.

I reckon it was Devine Intervention that guided the message past my junk mail filter, which is set on “annihilate” because I hate spam. There are a lot of people out there that don’t know me but are very concerned my nether regions and personal finances. I don’t know what sort of a person takes spammers up on their offers but I do know I’m not one of them. And I don’t even want to waste the second it takes to delete it.

But the email containing my “Christian Match” intrigued me. Since the Muse compared the gore in “The Passion of the Christ” to “Dawn of the Dead,” I’ve gotten a less than warm reception from the God-fearing community. I couldn’t imagine that they now want to make amends by giving me a go at their daughters, but you never know. I decided to investigate.

The email contained a non-pornographic image of what I took to be a happy Christian couple enjoying their coupling-free courtship. It linked me to the “Where Christians Meet” Web site. Beneath the image was some text, which I took to be an explanation of how the whole thing worked.

So I begin to read the message and…gibberish. Gobbledygook. Bafflegab.

This fellow named Jackson Crill, whom you can be sure does not exist, had sent me 238 words of complete nonsense to accompany the offer to meet church ladies. It started out with something about drain snakes and hair-clogged pipes and ended up with “can you explain ants?” In between it hit on pan-fried prawns, Wal-Mart and the ominous-sounding “darkened areas that would not come off.”

As I stared at Mr. Crill’s handiwork I wondered why in the world somebody would take the time to put this message together and send it to God knows how many people. Then I realized I’d just wasted twenty seconds trying to figure it out–and that places me twenty seconds closer to my rendezvous with the Reaper. I just squandered a piece of my life pondering the imponderable prattle of a spammer.

It’s politically correct to acknowledge all the wonderful ways that technology has improved our lives. But I can’t help but wonder if Mr. Crill would have sent me 238 words of psycho-babble if he had to spend thirty-seven cents mailing it to me. And I wonder how many Americans are spending how much time contemplating how many similar messages that were sent just because somebody could.

But the wondering will have to wait. I’m having a Christian girl over for dinner tonight, and I got prawns to peel.

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