My Father, the Rogering Alsatian

The following is a list of pictures I've looked at this evening:

- An arsehole stretched to cricket-ball-admitting proportions, with, er, you know--fluid--dripping out of it, emblazoned with the legend "Killer Rear-End Cumfarting";

- A man with an enormous willy getting a blowjob from three lads with handcuffs on;

- A bare bottom the size of my television set;

- A woman with a six-inch erection;

and, last but not least,

- An animated .gif of an Alsatian getting it on with my mother. Well, that's what it said, anyhow. "We caught your mom getting nasty on the farm." No, no, I tell a lie--it was more like this: "We c |@ught ur m0m getting n a s t y on the f|2rm". My mother, a twenty-two-year-old black woman, really knows how to take that doggie cock, I must say. She is a true champion of barnyard pornography. I couldn't understand why she'd settled for a dog--the way her legs were spread, I'm sure she could've accommodated a whole--

--never mind that train of thought, in fact. Sorry about that. As I was saying, I was more impressed by my mother's youthful appearance than by her dogfucking prowess, to say nothing of the miracle of genetics which resulted in my papery-white self springing from her dusky loins. Maybe the dog was my father, as well.

Now, I wasn't looking at that stuff on purpose, mind you. While I've no particular moral objection to such images (with the notable exception of the dog), I hate to look at pornography. I never visit rude websites or buy dirty books. I don't have phone sex, cybersex, or, for the last couple of years, any sex at all. I have precisely one sex toy in my possession, which I use as a doorknob decoration for my solarium. It has never been used for its intended purpose. (I'd be afraid to try, truth be told. It's bigger than it looks in the photograph.) People must think I'm awfully strange, now that I think about it, having a pair of cuntyballs swinging off my doorknob in plain sight. Maybe I'll hang a sign near them, explaining their purpose. That is, their lack thereof. You know what I mean.

What was I on about? Right, my dislike of pornography. I was trying to explain that I don't mind lewdness on principle (in fact, I rather like the idea), but I'm not much on real live porn. It looks all wet and slippery and messy, and reminds me of snails sliding over one another in the garden. So, here's why I was looking at the images in question:

- Re: Order confirmation

- Your website

- Your images

- Re: my eBay order

- Did you get my e-mail?

Those were the subject lines of the e-mails, see, the e-mails that contained the offending images. I've got to open messages with those types of greetings, because half the e-mail I get from work looks exactly the same. I know most of them are going to be garbage, but occasionally "Re: my eBay order" is from a genuine eBay customer, or "Your website" is from someone who's seen my site and wants to hire me.

Spam. Bloody spam. It's getting beyond a joke. It wasn't so bad when the penis enlargement ads said "Enlarge your penis", and the Viagra ones said "Women laugh at your puny erection!" I could go "Okay, no willy here--can't be for me," and bin 'em. They've all wised up, though, the bastards. Just today, I've had more than 4,200 trash messages. I emptied my Deleted Items folder when I got up, and now it's bursting again. There are two hundred messages in there reading "Re: Problem"--those are from people who want to help me refinance for rates as low as 2.9%. (Refinance what?) There are thousands of worm droppers, and hundreds of eBay hoaxes, the ones where they try and get you to send them your credit card information. There are ads for penis pumps, penis creams, penis pills, and big penises; also pierced penises, penises of various colours, and exploding penises.

There are lonely girls with webcams who are really upset right now, and need to be comforted by my credit card. There's Xanax and Valium for the taking, and Wellbutrin and Vicodin and...heroin. (Heroin?) There's Soma and Buspar and Ritalin; ephedrine, Phentermine, and Cialis; morphine, codeine, and benzedrine; and, should I fancy something a little more natural, herbal Viagra. There's Sominex, Celebrex, and...FedEx? (Wait, that's not spam; that's my FedEx statement. How many real messages do I delete every day by accident? I can't check them all.)

Speaking of couriers, National Rewards Center needs my Visa number immediately so they can deliver an oversized package, and National Debt Relief wants to fix my bad credit by offering me a $7,500 unsecured platinum card. The Christian Debt Center would like to save both my money and my soul, and iPowerWeb has charged me ninety-five dollars for renewal of services for rattysghost.com. Oh, that's not spam, either. That's this year's hosting bill. Terrific. Should've thought of that before I bought all that paper last week.

On top of all that, of course, my mother's been caught in flagrante with a dog!

Imagine if this had happened in my great-great-grandmother's day! I mean, really--there she is, sat sitting at the breakfast table, and in walks the housekeeper with the day's letters on a tray. Mr. Such-and-such and the Earl of S----- send their regrets re: Sunday dinner. There will be a pie supper at the church hall on Thursday. And, should the lady be unsatisfied in the bedroom, she is cordially invited to the local rude bookshop, where Vicar Tottenham will be adorning the upturned faces of certain local schoolgirls with a most irreverent scrawl. Christ! Imagine the scandal! Arrests would've been made, mark my words!

Time passes. More than a century later, a bewildered Rat checks the morning mail, sifting myopically through missives from the great blue yonder. There are no return addresses, no postmarks, no surnames. Surnames? My God--most of them haven't even got proper names. Here's one from Silvana FireFox, who's a werecat otherkin, and another from bob007, a serial rapist who catches his crimes on camera (and charges $29/month to follow his exploits). Then, wedged between Lolita the friendly Internet pharmacist and Jennifer's gaping twat, a note from the grocer: house-brand guacamole has been discontinued. Interested shoppers must now buy brand-name packets for an extra $0.49. The Ojibwa Trading Post has discount cigarettes. Dirk Johnson has a tight ass. Mother wants to know how work's going. Alexis wants her hole filled. Really Fun Games wants to commission a cover illustration. Serena wants to suck the dicks of American soldiers. The bewildered Rat (now more of an irritated Rat) wants to gouge its beady little eyes out. There's just one more message, one more to read. With trembling paw, the poor Rat flicks it open and--

--and there's my mother, fucking a dog. And she is younger than I am. And I think I've sustained permanent eye damage. Or brain damage. And I've got to say, you know, "Come on! Does anyone really open this shit and go 'Oh, boy! Grainy low-resolution dogfuck videos--where did I put my credit card?'" Give over, already! No matter how many lewd images assault my eyes, I'm not going to buy any porn, or any Viagra, or any discount life insurance. I don't need codeine or Phentermine or heroin. I don't need Celebrex or Sominex or FedEx. I don't need eBay or HotGays. I don't need big arseholes or wee vaginas. All I need is a little peace, and freedom from my mom caught getting nasty on the farm.

(NB: I have, of course, tried various spam-blockers and filtering tools--unfortunately, every single one of them has ended up deleting actual e-mails along with the rubbish, and I haven't been able to keep them.)