Netty's Pitch

The Internet has, in so many ways, changed the world in which we live. I can’t even remember what it’s like to look at a paper bank statement. Instead of reading a morning paper, I read several and save a tree in the process. And sometimes when you’re drunk at 3am and looking up lyrics to an old Chaka Khan tune, you wonder how we ever survived without the web.

But one of the most important ways that the Internet has changed our lives is in the area of commerce. Not too long ago (evolutionarily speaking), people still sold things door-to-door. Encyclopedias, Tupperware, salvation--you name it. I didn’t really experience much of this, but the way I understand it, a man in a plaid sport coat and feathered fedora would knock on your door and ask you if your child’s education was important to you, or if you had ever been frustrated by a stubborn stain on the carpet. In the spiritual sales pitch, a man in a suit and tie would ask if you’d like to experience eternal joy, to which you would answer “Ya look sharp in that suit, Bo Peep. Jesus buy that for ya?” Well, you would if you were me.

In the information age, however, there is no need for salespeople like these. You just need several million email addresses and something to peddle. The products seemed to have changed from encyclopedias and vacuums to watches, dvd players and… ahem… appendage improvement. The only problem for the people selling these things is getting their foot in the proverbial door; most spam emails are filtered by the email provider’s software and never seen. So, the people sending them have to find a way around those filters. The circumvention device? Gibberish.

Apparently, the only way to get your email message through filters is to write completely outlandish and nonsensical drivel. That’s the salesman’s pitch of the now. To wit: A woman (I think) named Netty Marsh knocked at my electronic door this morning. I don’t usually get emails in my inbox from people I don’t know, so I was intrigued. The subject of her message said “Fitful”. She was implying that I was a spaz. I opened the door anyway, and Nelly introduced herself:

“Cramp to doghouse condiment Communion a lite.”

I was slightly thrown by the sacramental reference (an Atkins-friendly Eucharist?), but allowed Netty to continue—I am always polite. These people are only doing their job.

“Forget-me-not crack litter constant Girl Scouts an primrose as tollgate castration poke dynasty.”

Hmm. Interesting. Go on.

Netty then let me know that my stock portfolio could double or even TRIPLE in value with a certain pharmaceutical stock. According to her, the company she works for finds the golden needles in the stock market haystack and makes you RICH. I wasn’t interested. As I closed our one-sided conversation, Netty thanked me for my time.

“Pledge as tomcat bird repository.”

I wonder if Netty wears a fedora to work.