A Communique from Mrs. Francesca Laverdiere
Coaxed abby climbed onto his hands. Because your oď into jake. Abigail johannes house and dennis. Announced terry seeing the idea of abby. Called me but was talking about that. Sighed abby at least not just have. God will ever seen him back. Calm down from their home jake. Unable to journey of john.
Congratulations are the bay as well that. Winkler said handing him better than anything. Said anything wrong way it will. Oď the same thing from. Because it says he asked john. Would come home while you sure jake. Gregory who did she reached home. Wondered the kitchen and saw jake. Related abby led the table. Well what can say anything. She smiled izumi was terry. Mused abby holding the sound of place.
No, I wasn’t expecting that, either. I cut and pasted what I thought would be a simple, “hey, come get those rocks off with these horny ladies, all within your area. They don’t want to talk to your stupid face or accompany you in worrying about your pathetic financial status, they just want that dick, son! Hop to, you worthless bag, before Juan downstairs or Bob across the road get what’s good, leaving you with a tasteful mélange of women who do nothing but trigger you. Whether it’s cutting, drinking, overdosing, vomiting, that weird trypophobia thing you have, whatever: trigger trigger trigger.” I thought all of that, because this is the text I cut out of my spam folder to paste right here:
THIS IS NOT A DATING OFFER!
There are 164 female members within 2 miles of your location. These women are only looking for casual sexual encounters.
Short and to the point, I figured I’d get a tiny blog out of this and be done with this garbage for the day. But then, I posted that text, and after clearing out all the code-y, virus-y shit, the first italicized excerpt is what remained. Imagine my horror, imagine my delight.
Now, instead of running around my lovely hamlet & its surrounding areas with an angrily erect penis, having sex with wild women who want no commitment, moaning out their screen-names as I ejaculate like a Molly-fueled puma, I’m instead treated to some serious shapeshifter prose.
Abby, apparently, is the only motherfucker in this thing who we can trust. At least, that’s my assumption. She might or might not be throwing a dinner party, and her friends are either scatterbrained assholes or demons. But with her, at least we have a full name and a domicile that may, at the very least, provide us with a very broad location for a potential crime scene.
Terry is Izumi. John and Jake can’t, for the life of them, get their shit together, and I think Winkler said that the best thing anyone could do is give him a handjob. As for Dennis and Gregory? At this point, I’ve damaged my mind to such a degree that the very idea of Dennis and Gregory is at Fukushima levels of incomprehensibility and sheer, “I am smaller than all” terror. Abby, I think, is somehow managing to maintain a calm, quiet spirit throughout this mania.
Through all of this, I know this is just some viral spam, but I can’t help but wonder which, of either tale, is more true. Is this a Schrodinger’s Cat kind of deal, where neither exists until I click the link? Are Abby and the gang alive or dead once the box is open? What about these poor, ravenously horny local women who don’t even want so much as a handful of trail mix before fucking my body away from my spirit, flesh from bone, leaving nothing but connective tissue. My guess, following that, is that the connective tissue will be boiled over hours, becoming soft and unctuous, then pressed into some dick-mold as a frozen human aspic. This is pure conjecture.
What isn’t conjecture is that ol’ Mrs. Francesca Laverdiere is sending some of the most bizarre mixed signals I’ve ever had the pleasure of massively failing to decipher. She trades in deceit and illusion, and sometimes, it’s hard to hold back love for the smoke and mirrors. Fair play, Francesca. Tell me Abby’s safe, and I’ll stay seated at your campfire. And if this hasn’t become clear, let me be plain: Francesca, you don’t even have to tell me the truth.
Posted on 02/17/2015, in Fun Stuff!, The Little Things That Will Eat My Sanity and tagged Abby, all the men are useless dolts, mixed signals, Mrs Francesca Laverdiere, not what you bargained for, potential crime scene, single ladies in your area, smoke and mirrors, spam, trust no one, what lies beneath. Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.