The spam still pours in, like so much malt whiskey onto the head of a dried Irishman. I’ve decided to make use of this deluge of useless information by turning a couple of items of spam into an interesting and informative story to ease your senses from the constant, incessant noise of the email junk monkeys heeching and screeching their way to (hopefully) an early grave. Spam words are in bold (yes they are).

A Spam Story

“Portends“, shouted the miserable old hag from the upstairs landing. “I don’t know what it means but I mean it all the same”. The miserable old hag had been shouting now for nearly three hours, much to the displeasure of the building’s landladies. Even though the landladies themselves were no stranger to uncouth behaviour and repugnant appearance, the levels of fatness present upon their rotund bodies rivalling anything even a Hutchinson funnel could produce, they were upset all the same. “Oh do be quiet!”, one of them screeched. We are trying to watch the World Cup.

Hardin sat opposite the ladies, across the room infront of the roaring wood fire, petting his faithful costed mug hound. He wished the ladies would just succumb to the elderly howls emenating from upstairs and do something about it, perhaps via the medium of fire and guns and things. For some reason, he then thought this curious phrase : “Emigrants infective beckon! Sommelier“. Quite why, he had no idea. It was all very confusing