Friday, May 12, 2006
Spam of the Day
You can always count on spam mail to be entertaining in the most absurd way. I received the following this morning from one "David Arron" who was trying to reach "Khali Alfredo."
Subject: The pain of love is the pain of being alive. It is a perpetual wound.
Body:
Hey!
[E]rectile
[D]ysfunction?
We can help! Our site: ochhorfando[dot]com ;) Don't forget to replace "[dot]" to "."
---
The sick man said nothing. "What am I to write to him?" said Levin. "I hope you are not angry with him?" "No, not the least!" Nikolay answered, vexed at the question. "Tell him to send me a doctor." Three more days of agony followed; the sick man was still in the same condition. The sense of longing for his death was felt by everyone now at the mere sight of him, by the waiters and the hotel-keeper and all the people staying in the hotel, and the doctor and Marya Nikolaevna and Levin and Kitty. The sick man alone did not express this feeling, but on the contrary was furious at their not getting him doctors, and went on taking medicine and talking of life. Only at rare moments, when the opium gave him an instant's relief from the never-ceasing pain, he would sometimes, half asleep, utter what was ever more intense in his heart than in all the others: "Oh, if it were only the end!" or: "When will it be over?"
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Subject: The pain of love is the pain of being alive. It is a perpetual wound.
Body:
Hey!
[E]rectile
[D]ysfunction?
We can help! Our site: ochhorfando[dot]com ;) Don't forget to replace "[dot]" to "."
---
The sick man said nothing. "What am I to write to him?" said Levin. "I hope you are not angry with him?" "No, not the least!" Nikolay answered, vexed at the question. "Tell him to send me a doctor." Three more days of agony followed; the sick man was still in the same condition. The sense of longing for his death was felt by everyone now at the mere sight of him, by the waiters and the hotel-keeper and all the people staying in the hotel, and the doctor and Marya Nikolaevna and Levin and Kitty. The sick man alone did not express this feeling, but on the contrary was furious at their not getting him doctors, and went on taking medicine and talking of life. Only at rare moments, when the opium gave him an instant's relief from the never-ceasing pain, he would sometimes, half asleep, utter what was ever more intense in his heart than in all the others: "Oh, if it were only the end!" or: "When will it be over?"
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