You Kiss Your Mother…

Expletive deleted.

…with that mouth? Not often, even in the Academy Awards version of the Friday Follies, do I get an hatemail where when I delete the profanity there are not enough words left to make sense of the email. In a love note from a man in Michigan, I was introduced to the misspellings of expletives which I cannot determine which curled my toes more: The expletives or the misspellings.

After working with illiterate adults, dyslexic children and adults and people on every single reading level, I will never, ever cease to be amazed at how many people do not know how to Shift-F7. (For those of you who are desk rat dependent, spell check.)

In all of his profane outrage, Mr. Mitchegan was bent thoroughly out of shape about Trolls. Now, my gut instinct as I began his ode to the F-bomb was he was secretly a troll. Nothing could possibly have been further from the truth. His hatemail began with this lovely rendering of a troll for my edification.

My Number One Troll

No, Mr. Mitchegan is a dungeon master with this to say:

(Expletive) trolls are not (expletive) mythical. Trolls are the (expletive) single best (expletive) player in all (expletive) Dungeons & Dragons since the mother(expletive)s invented the (expletive) (expletive) game.”

(Do mentally insert the [sic] for all capitals and punctuation. Ever tried to read 300 curse words without punctuation?)

I politely emailed him back asking where I could purchase the new adult version of the game. Oh, and I asked him if he or his mother posed for the attached photograph.

Nothing Quiet About WEBSCREAM

One of the 7,148 pet peeves I routinely claim is the use of all caps to express anything longer than the phrase ~STANDING OVATION~. Other than that, I am expecting to see some appropriate use of the shift key.

E (we are left to speculate sex, both gender and frequency) poison penned me from Kentucky. Apparently, there is wireless internet in them thar hills. And it is streaming into the virtual world at a dull roar. What would make E be so uptight? Well, it should be obvious to all of the M3 Readers, I, Red, am actually a fake blogger.

100% Counterfeit.

That’s right according to E. I am wasting the time of every one who bothers to click alink. Remember, all of this was delivered to me in all caps to accentuate the fabulous form and style of the language.

E would go on to scream real blogers write stuff for peoples to read. Yes, M3 is international, so I accept peoples, but honestly? I think Mr. Mitchegan could have chosen a better (expletive) than stuff. E advised me to just get one of them flizster accounts or get on the utub.

I penned back, sans webscream:

Thank you, sir or madame. I am rather new to the internet, as I have only been programming and writing online for just over two and a half decades. Perhaps, I could subscribe to a newsletter to find out when such amazing sites come online to help me.”

Sex is in the Eye of the Beholder

I am the very first one to admit poetry can be a murky place to wade without the steady guiding hand of an experienced analyzer. The hatemail I got from an ousted erotic dancer a former chorus line dancer a retired sex industry professional a woman in Nevada blew me completely out of the water, brought tears to my eyes and made my sides hurt when I rolled under the coffee table and hit my ribs on the legs.

In her very concerned email over Muse for Monday, she explained she completely understood what I was going through because she had been in my shoes. (I more than idly wondered which pair, so I could drop them in the chiminea.)

She knew that with the right medical intervention, I would be able to lead a relatively normal life and may even have another relationship. (I picked up the telephone to hear the “I love you” growl at the other end.)

She knew of this special clinic in Reno where I could be treated with complete anonymity. With wireless no one would ever know I was missing. I could just keep blogging from Nevada. They keep all the celebs’ identities private.

Have you guessed it yet? Really?

When you do not know...ask.

You did guess it! She is convinced the poem was about gonorrhea.

I sent her back the sweetest message which read.

Thank you for your concern and your referral. My tests are all negative, but the message I got was…

And that's a wrap!

~~~~~~~~~~

I hope your week has been hatemail-, troll-, stalker- and STD-free! See you next week for Friday Follies…from the stupidest inbox in the blogosphere.


(c) Ann Marie Dwyer 2012
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