There's More Than One Way To Slice It

LEE                        I feel useless.

                                           GERM
                        Babes - and I speak for anybody
                        who owns a phone – as
                        a telemarketer, you’re not useless;
                        you’re a bloody nuisance.

:::

Telemarketers, spammers, evangelists - in the grand scheme of things, they all rank right down the bottomless pit, one rung below the things people scrap off the sole of their shoe in disgust (because, most of the time, those things are good for something - as fertilizer for instance - which can't be said for the other three, not with a straight face and a clear conscience anyway).

Telemarketers are no different than spammers, save for the fact that you can attach a voice, a first name (usually), and a (mostly) registered company to them - which, in a really perverted way, makes them (somewhat, more or less) legit.

Or, at least, it's a more legitimate means to earn a living than spamming.

I was a telemarketer once - despised and hated myself every minute I was at work. Pure purgatory. Also, SGD 6.50 an hour is a really miserable wage to receive for shouldering the onus of being one of the top three scourges of society.

But spammers - those buggers really get my goat. I think it's because they're anonymous craven asswipes (like Orlando Bloom's Paris, for instance, or Chaucer's Troilus) who incessantly fill my in-boxes with offers of Viagra (bloody hell, I'm a chick! What would I do with the pills - collect enough to hock for a pre-loved pair of Jimmy Choos?!) and invitations to view hot slutty wives or co-eds doing the entire football team (dudes, go rent an imagination and a scriptwriter, and leave me the fuck alone already!) - but mostly because they're anonymous.

There are spam-filters that could be turned on in an email account; the closest thing to a filter users of (free) Blogger accounts can get is word-verification. And, of course, word-verification works.




... belongs in the fucking can.

(And only until it is emptied.)