Sunday, March 28, 2010

If you've ever wondered what sort of emails Villarreal Creekmur composes in the dead of night, wonder no more. He (she?) was up at 3:45 crafting this eloquent spam email, just for me. It makes no fucking sense whatsoever, which (after being bombarded with thousands of ads for Viagra/Cialis/Dick N-larger pills) makes it the best kind of spam to get, if you're going to get spam.

Check out Villarreal. (S)he's got a lot to say:

Ed out nigh three hundred claims, and every one a blank; That's
followed every fool stampede, and seen the rise and fall Of camps where
men got gold in chunks and he got none at all; That's prospected a bit
of ground and sold it for a song To see it yield a fortune to some fool
that came along;

That's sunk a dozen bed-rock holes, and not a speck in sight, Yet sees them take a
million from the claims to left and right?
Now aren't things like that enough to drive a man
to booze? But Hard-Luck Smith was hoodoo-proof--he knew the way to lose.
'Twas in the fall of nineteen four--leap-year
I've heard them say-- When Hard-Luck came to Hunker Creek and took a
hillside lay.
And lo! as if to make amends for all the futile past, Late in the year
he struck it rich,
the real pay-streak at last. The riffles of his sluicing-box

were choked with speckled earth, And night and day he worked that lay
for all that he was worth. And when in chill December's gloom his lucky
lease expired, He found that he had made a stake as big as he desired.
One day while meditating on the waywardness

of fate, He felt the ache of lonely man to find a fitting mate;
A petticoated pard to cheer his solitary life, A woman with
soft, soothing ways,
a confidant, a wife. And while he cooked his supper on his little Yukon
stove, He wished that he had staked a claim in Love's rich
treasure-trove; When suddenly he paused and held
aloft a Yukon egg, For
there in pencilled letters was the magic name of Peg. You know these
Yukon eggs of ours--some pink, some green, some blue--
A dollar per,

assorted tints, assorted

flavors too.

I suspect that this may be some kind of plaigarized song or poem but--deep down--I sincerely hope it's an original work. I would hate to think of Villareal Creekmur as dishonest.

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