UNSOLICITED EMAILS
They stand out like dog poop on the Stanley Steemer cleaned rug just as dinner guests arrive.
The other day there was an unsolicited email in my Yahoo inbox offering to sell me burial insurance. I don’t open emails I don’t recognize, and since I haven’t been in the burial insurance market in sometime (although I do feel a need for it each time I walk into Walmart), I didn’t bother to open this particular email.
But, the more I thought about it, the more that damn email offended me. It arrived the same day I got home from outpatient surgery to replace the pacemaker that keeps my heart beating.
Now I must admit that I have become … well, you know, generously intimate with the aging process. She is not a bad gal, but she has a wicked curve ball—like sudden, unexpected chest pains that make you remember Red Foxx’s “this is the big one, Elizabeth!”
Every man and woman, unless they unfortunately drive their mud-stained F-150 head on into a FedEx 18-wheeler hell bent on delivering a load of Liberator catheters to Omaha on time, will become intimate with the aging process—knee replacements, hip replacements, double-bypasses, probes up the anus, and a host of other alarming medical adventures.
The doctor (and he is a good fella’) who replaced my pacemaker told me as the cold air conditioner breeze blew up my ass through the rear opening of a hospital gown (the worst invention in medical science) that, “nothing to worry about – we do this all time.”
“Still, doc, I wish you would put an X with a purple marks-a-lot on my upper left chest in case you suffer a momentary lapse of memory and start cutting in the groin area.”
Having endured, and survived, this medical procedure, the last thing I needed when I got safely home was to have some sonuvabitch from Manila trying to sell me burial insurance.
I don’t mind my Yahoo inbox littered with emails from companies where I made purchases—they are just being nice informing me about all their new sales and latest products. Hell, I’m on a first name basis with Amazon—old Jed, who has been with the online giant about five years, sent me an email … “Bill, why don’t you check out the new adult diapers we just got in.”
I’ve never had a need for adult diapers (and I’m not about to stand in Times Square on New Year’s Eve pissing on myself just to see some glittery ball drop as a hundred thousand strangers start smooching each other), but I appreciate Jed letting me know I can get 30 pair for $9.99.
Back to that sonvabitch trying to sell me burial insurance during my medical recovery – made me wish on a dime that he would eat six chocolate coated maximum strength ExLax candies thinking they were Hershey Kisses.
Nothing wrong with poetic justice.