Spam exists, and it finds its way into my life.
I get Spam regardless of the impervious imaginary language barrier I construct between myself and the peddlers of the world, and no matter who I threaten with bodily, psychological, and even spiritual harm.
No matter how many boxes I check while ordering things online requesting that I not receive promotional email or calls, I get Spam. Regardless of how many subscriptions I cancel via email or phone, no matter how many telemarketers I ignore, or salespeople around whom I transform into a Norwegian blacksmith circa 1601 who only accepts chickens and wool as currency, I get Spam in my inbox.
Spam is an unstoppable force of nature the likes of which laughed maniacally in the very face of the meteor that exterminated the dinosaurs. It trivializes and mocks the impending zombie apocalypse with the confidence and cavalier attitude of a cockroach with binoculars; eating popcorn with its family and watching a nuclear bomb fall.
It cannot be stopped. It is akin to a living thing, in that it seems to seek only to perpetuate its existence.
It will succeed by any means necessary.
Resistance is futile.
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