Tag Archives: rantage

the well-meaning spammer

There’s a road to a place that’s paved with this stuff:

From: [id withheld to maintain privacy of offender]
To: undisclosed-recipients
Date: Nov 29, 2006 12:23PM
Subject: FW: Please forward and R2.00 will be donated

Subject: Guys, please let us help this little girl, for God knows and hear her cry.

Hi, my name is Surita Diputs Naidoo and I live in Chatsworth, South Africa.
I am 8 years old, and I have been in a hit and run accident with a taxi.

My 14 year old brother was killed instantly, and my father later died at RK Khan’s Hospital, Chatsworth.
My mother and I are now living with my grandparents.
The doctors have told me that I need corrective surgery as my face and arms were badly burned in the accident.
Fortunately, my plight was brought to the attention of a wealthy Herbal Importer in
Reservoir Hills, South Africa, who, with the help of IBM, have promised to give me R2 for every person this e-mail is forwarded to.

Please send to as many people as you can and GOD bless.
Remember, have a heart.

Surita Diputs Naidoo
Unit 9

Chatsworth

Durban

South Africa

 

Well-meaning spam: when bad judgement happens to good people.
Now when i hear the phrase “wealthy Herbal Importer from Reservoir Hills”, the first thing I’m going to ask is “How much for a bankie Boss?”.
I sure hope the Omniscient Entities at IBM, Microsoft, MacDonalds, Pepsi, Coca Cola and [insert multinational developing-world-pillaging corporate goliath here] will use the software given to them by the aliens/David Icke’s reptile people to track this email to my blog and give unfortunate Surita Diputs Naidoo from Unit 9 in Chatsworth two whole rands for every person who reads this.

Remember, have a brain. God knows and hears your cry.

in mourning black

For when hearts bruise, crack, break, shatter in life’s storage-hold; it would sluice between the damage, a warm poly-filla, taking up the emptiness with a perfect alchemy of sweet and warm.
For when the world sees your shoulders as concrete and not the papier-maché you sometimes fashion, it would make tissue-paper of weighty priority…

I knew something was wrong on Thursday.
Instead of The Mochaccino, I was presented with cafe mocha (no, its not the same thing, where one is ambrosia, the other is olympic sludge)
Come Friday, and in place of The Mochaccino, I’m given cappuccino. (which, to be fair, was worthy of imbibing)
Incompetent service, so I thought, the Fournos staff already wound down for weekend. But today came the death-knell, “we don’t sell that anymore, its not feasible.”
The words slashed, the sting of an open wound giving way to dull numbness.
No more Mochaccino? It refused to compute. No more Mochaccino?
Somebody hold me.

One Fine Friday … a rah rah rant rant

I downloaded an article entitled “How to stop Procrastinating”. Haven’t gotten around to reading it yet.

Deadlines loom with malevolent menace (oooh, alliteration). If anyone whispers ‘wordcount’ to me, i’m going to bash them on the head with the external dvd-writer and make them drink yesterday’s rancid coffee.

Wish I had a vice to seek solace in. Thinking about going to the smoking-room to stand around and breathe in the 4pm cloud.

Or i’ll inject some mochaccino intravenously instead.

Happy Weekending.

Afrigator