Puppy Love

Posted on February 8, 2016 by Sheila Moss

dixie-pupOh, no!  How can she be in heat? She is still a puppy, only 8 months old.

“Well, I don’t know, but she was blinking her eyelashes and shaking her buns at the neighbor’s lab.”

The black lab? Oh, my gosh!

She is a tiny little Shih tzu, a froo froo dog.  She could not possibly be flirting with a lab.

“I grabbed her up and ran inside before they had time to get friendly,” said my honey.

We meant to have her “fixed” before she was old enough to have a family. That’s the last thing we need, a dog in heat. We have to do something!

We called the vet.

“It’s normal.” He explained. “They can come in heat for the first time at six months.”

“Can we get her spayed now? Today? It’s an emergency?”

“We can get her in this Friday. It will cost extra because she is already in heat.”

I do not want any puppies. I already have two dogs and two cats. No more animals, please. Especially not any half-breed mongrel puppies.

So, we waited until Friday. We waited, looking both ways before taking her outside to be sure there were no other dogs around. We waited, grabbing her up and running inside when neighbors walked their dogs.

It was a long three days.

She was wild. She made love with her toy rabbit, trying to become the mother of a litter of stuffed toy bunnies. She dragged cushions around, pretending they were boyfriends.

It was awful!

Finally the time came and we took her for her operation.  At last it was over. The extra money was worth the price.  We would have paid anything.

The dog was proud of her stitches and rolled over to show off her tummy.

“Don’t show them to us! Show them to the neighbor’s lab before he gets any more amorous ideas.”

She was not supposed to jump around after having surgery. Unfortunately, the vet told us — not her. She jumped on the sofa.

“No!” We grabbed her and put her gently on the floor. She jumped back, and then she rolled over. How do you keep a frisky dog from jumping?  After the first day or so, we gave up. Fortunately, she did not try to chew the stitches out. I think she was too proud of them.

She went back to the vet today to get her stitches out. She has no idea what happened to her, other than the fact that she had a long nap at the vet’s office and didn’t feel too well afterwards.

And now we don’t have to worry about unwanted puppies anymore.
Listen to your animal control organizations. Have your pets spayed or neutered.

Listen to me. Don’t wait.

©2009

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This is Your Brain on Football

Posted on February 7, 2016 by Sheila Moss

I HATE football. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.

Football is ruining my life. I don’t care if men want to play football. I don’t care if people go see it, stupid as it is. But, why, I ask, why, do they have to put it on television? Why, especially, does it have to be on television every weekend?

The weekend is the only time I have to do anything at all other than go to work. But with college games on Saturday and professional games on Sunday, my life has gone to Hades, or should I say gone to football? Not much difference as far as I can tell.

All the men in my life are fools for football. If their favorite team is playing — and isn’t it  always — I might as well forget trying to get them to do anything else. God forbid asking them to do anything other than breathe, especially during playoffs.

You would think that with two men around either my son or my honey one could give a hand with chores? No. I’m outside doing yard work and cleaning the garage. I’m doing the man’s work while they are inside watching football.

“I need help! I sure could use some HELP. Could somebody help me?”

“Touchdown!” They yell.

“I don’t think they even heard me ask”.

Could the producers of television give me one day on the weekend, just one day? There is a virus out there called ESPN syndrome. Men who catch the fever go totally mad.

I am having delusions of violence. Last week I considered throwing something right through the television screen. However, I am so worn out I probably could not throw anything heavier than a fit. I’ve not thrown one yet, but the thunderclouds have been forming for a week. And when it happens, it is going to be a big one. Keep your eye on the Weather Channel.

I’m tired of being a football widow; I’m tired of being a football handyman; I’m tired of being a football gardener; I’m tired of being a football victim; I’m tired of football, period.

It’s football and more football, every weekend and into February. I don’t know if I can make it much longer without killing someone. When I go before the court, I will plead football and hope I have a female judge. She will let me go, scot-free.

Maybe I could unplug the TV and pretend I don’t know what’s wrong with it. Of course, they would just migrate to another room and watch it there. Football does something to men’s minds that turns them into worthless vegetables. They become football addicts. Football has fried their brains.

How can anyone be oblivious to everything around them other than a pigskin ball? It’s incredible. The house could be on fire and they would not call the fire department until halftime. I’m not sure the firemen would come anyhow. They are probably watching football too.

I predict that football will be the downfall of civilization. The world will crumble around us and no one will notice because they are all watching football. In four thousand years when archeologists dig us up, they will wonder why all the men are petrified with their eyes glued to an ancient television screen.

If I write next week’s column from jail, you will know that when I went to court, the judge was male and threw the book at me — probably a book on football.

But you do understand, don’t you? It was justifiable homicide. I was trying to save the world from football before it is too late.

©2011

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NFL Fever

Posted on February 6, 2016 by Sheila Moss

footballA severe affliction is sweeping the nation. It manifests itself in the Fall of the year in a mysterious syndrome which usually lasts until about February, although in a few especially vulnerable people it has been known to continue in sporadic episodes throughout the year.

There is little or no hope for those individuals who contract the ailment. While women are not immune, it seems to strike the male gender more frequently and with greater severely. Often the sick individual fails to recognize the disorder and will insist that he or she is perfectly well and everyone else is sick.

While this syndrome has no agreed upon medical name, it is sometimes referred to as “NFL Fever.” Here are the danger signs:

You have more than one big screen TV.

You record one game while watching another.

You argue with instant replays.

You spend every vacation checking out sports stadiums.

Your beer bill during football season exceeds the family grocery bill.

You need a day off work to recover if your team loses the game.

You have a tee shirt with a sports logo not only for your favorite team, but for every team in the league. (Yes, hats count too.)

If someone asks you a question, you do not answer until half time.

The remote control button for ESPN is worn down to a nub.

Your bucket list includes going for an entire season without missing a single game.

You want to paint your house in your team’s colors.

You bought a fridge for your den to keep the beer cool.

You channel surf; you watch the game both on TV and on the Internet, or you watch more than one TV set at the same time.

If someone says, How are you?” you say “Three points behind.”

You would rather watch football than eat.

You think the SuperBowl is a national holiday.

You can’t carry on a conversation without bringing up sports.

You are offended when someone likes a different team and argue about which team is better.

Your dog is named Peyton Manning.

You only speak in sports lingo.

You think being called a “sports fanatic” is a compliment.

You hit the TV or yell at it when your team misses a play.

Your three favorite things are: sacks, blitzes, and red dogs

You can’t remember your spouse’s birthday or anniversary, but know the score of every game for the season and what teams played.

And worst of all, when you make love, you yell “touchdown!”

If you believe you or someone you love may be afflicted with this illness, call 1-800-TICKETS and go to a real game for immediate symptomatic relief.

WARNING: This cure may be habit forming and should be used only with extreme caution. Long term effects have not been studied, and symptoms may actually increase or worsen with long term usage.

©2000

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Super Bowl of Shopping

Posted on February 5, 2016 by Sheila Moss
mall

Once again my guy is glued to the television set all weekend watching football.

“Is that the same game? It’s been on for 4 hours.”

How would guys like it if we gals behaved the same way they do about something we like to do? Take shopping, for instance.

We would have a favorite mall to shop and think our mall is the best mall in the city, even though all malls are pretty much the same. We would buy T-shirts, sweatshirts, and hats to support our mall and show our loyalty. We would wear our mall’s logo to let other people know which mall we favor, but it would be especially important to wear these items when watching television commercials.

We would spend entire weekends glued to the television set watching commercial after commercial. If a program came on between commercials, we could ask our guy to bring us a beer or some refreshments so we could be sure to be there when the commercials come back on.

Even though we could record the commercials on video, watch an instant replay on TV, and might even see the commercial during another program, it just wouldn’t be the same if we didn’t see it the first time it aired. It might cause our mall bad luck if we fail to see the newest commercial. It could even cause the mall to be sold and moved to another city.

We could form Fantasy Shopping Leagues with the other gals at the office, pick favorite stores and watch special sales to see how much better our store’s sales are than those of competing stores. At the end of the year, we would have a big party, kid each other, and give trophies to the gals who saved the most money.

Occasionally, we might actually go to the mall and spend time shopping. This would be a rare and important event planned well in advance and anticipated with great excitement. On shopping day we would get there early, invite our friends, and have a tailgate party in the parking lot with the other customers while we waited for the mall to open.

We would talk non-stop to the other gals about the latest shopping expedition, the fabulous buys we made and how we scooped that item right out from under the nose of another shopper and ran 50 yards to the checkout without getting tackled or dropping the item. This story might be retold dozens of times, and each time it is told, the item purchased would be harder to obtain and more expensive.

We would lament for weeks if one of the gals maxed out her credit card. We would think about who might replace her during the next sale and whether the substitute would be as good a bargain hunter as she is or merely a fill-in until she returns. We would follow her credit line closely. However, if she shops frequently at a mall that competes with our favorite, we will hope she remains maxed out until the end of the fiscal year.

At the end of the year, all the malls in the U.S. would have a sale-off to pick the two best malls. These malls would compete with each other for the Super Mall Championship in an end-of-year clearance sale extravaganza. There would be celebrity performances to draw customers, media coverage for a month, and much hype surrounding the event.

There would be a raffle to see which shoppers actually get to attend the clearance sale. Scalpers would sell parking spots on e-Bay. Not actually being able to shop would not deter loyal shoppers who would wear their favorite T-shirts, order pizza, and have end of the year Super Mall Parties to watch commercials for their favorite mall.

“That’s ridiculous,” says my guy.

“Oh, yeah? Why isn’t it ridiculous to you when guys act this way about football?”

©2006

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The Used Car Deal

Posted on February 4, 2016 by Sheila Moss
Embed from Getty Images

 

My daughter needed a car. I hate, detest, despise, buying cars and haggling over prices The sleazy salesmen always wear me down and talk me into buying an overpriced car regardless of whether the payments are affordable or not.

But the fact was, my daughter needed a car. I, of course, am the one with a down payment and good credit, so I had to become a part of this unsavory deal. I delayed the inevitable as long as possible with excuses, such as, “It’s too cold to look for a car today.” or “You can make it just one more week, can’t you?”

My daughter didn’t take the hint. She began to suggest places we might look. A brand new car was out of the question unless we stopped by the hospital and got a transfusion for my purse on the way. So, we “compromised”. We decided to buy a former rental car, only a year old, all the extras included, and best of all NO haggling – the price is the price!

It seemed simple enough. Find a car you can afford. Buy the car. Unfortunately, the only place we could find selling previously rented cars was on the other side of the world. After driving for an hour, passing it twice unbeknown, we finally had to call for directions. Big mistake. They knew we were coming. Gerald was waiting for us outside when we arrived.

“Are you the folks that called,” he asked, rubbing his hands together with drool practically foaming out of his mouth. We had to admit that we were. “Let’s discuss your needs,” he suggested. What he meant was, “Let’s discuss your financial abilities.”

He went into a prerecorded barrage about how they price their cars at giveaway prices, wholesale out the dogs, and keep only the best of the fleet for their sales lot. “We want to make your car buying experience as pleasant as possible,” he said, as if there was any way to sign away half your assets and have it feel pleasant.

My daughter went into the particular model and features she was looking for. I interrupted, “Something economical,” I said. Gerald got my drift.

“I have several that are just what you want,” he purred. “Let’s go out to the lot and look around. He led us straight to a sporty little gold number. My daughter’s heart jumped out of her jacket as she totally forgot about what she used to want. Dollar signs flashed in Gerald’s eyes. We looked around the lot as Gerald explained the features of other cars that were available, but my daughter’s eyeballs remained fixated on the gold car.

Finally, we made the enormously difficult decision of buying the first thing we saw. Back to the office we went to fill out the paper work and see how anemic my purse was going to be for the next five years or until my daughter finds a job, whichever comes first.

“I don’t think I came very prepared,” I said, looking at the application, which asked about home ownership, loan balances, and monthly mortgage payments. Good grief, I thought was buying a car, not a condo. “All we need is where you work and your salary,” Gerald said. “Don’t worry about the rest of that stuff.”

He whisked the paper out from under my pen and sped to the back room, where I presume the credit bureau was being contacted. He returned after a time with a smile like a cat that has been dating the canary. “You have great credit.” The pupils of his eyes flashed digital numbers as he calculated the commission in his head.

The payments were only about half of what I expected, but I didn’t flinch a freckle. My daughter was outside in the driver’s seat blowing the horn. We completed the deal without bloodshed, though it was close when he was talking me into buying the extended warranty for a mere $20 per month extra.

Finally, we drove out of the parking lot, proud owners of a sporty, pre-owned, golden chariot, complete with full gas tank, certificate for emissions check, and promise of an extra set of keys. In the rear view mirror, I saw Gerald out on the used car lot standing by a silver car and grinning at a new customer like an alligator who has cornered a wildlife poacher.

©2003

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This Gnat is Making Me Crazy

Posted on February 3, 2016 by Sheila Moss

This gnat is making me crazy Every time I sit down at the computer, this gnat flies between me and the screen, right in my face. It is really hard to type and swat at a gnat. I end up with a lot of left-handed words like sdcftfa (swat) xxsstr (swat) fdfsee.

Speaking of spelling, gnats don’t even spell their name correctly. Unlike g-mail or gnu, it is not g-nat. They can, however, put on a pretty good air show, whooping and swooping, doing loops, spirals, and figure eights. The only thing missing is smoke writing.

Gnats usually fly in swarms, but, thank goodness, this one is a solo and did not bring reinforcements along to torment me. I actually don’t know if it is the same gnat buzzing me or if there is a tag team of pests. I did not card the gnat or ask to see a pilot license.

Did you know there are different species of gnats and where they come from depends on genetics? I am sure this gnat is not the type that comes from the soil of a houseplant as I have no houseplants. I killed them all with negligence. I wish negligence would work on a gnat, but the more I ignore it, the harder it tries to fly up my nose.

I’ve read that gnats will dive headfirst into a glass of wine or vinegar and drown. Apparently my gnat did not read the article or else it has already had a glass of wine too many.

I think maybe it came in from outside. Last year ladybugs were getting inside through cracks around the windows. If something as large as a ladybug can get inside, any minute opening would be like an open garage door for a tiny gnat.

There it is again. Why does it does it have to fly right in front of my face, pesky bug? I usually say “live and let live,” but you can only ignore an annoying gnat for so long. Good thing I don’t own a gun. If I can’t get it with a swatter, though, what chance would there be of shooting it? I would just blow holes in my ceiling for nothing.

Gnats are supposed to be mini flies. When a fly gets in the house and I’m not fast enough to swat it, I figure it will be dead of old age by the next day anyhow, and I can sweep it from the window sill and forget it. This gnat has been around for a long time, though, so I don’t think it intends to die any time soon. I read that some bugs live two to four months. Just my luck, I end with up the Methuselah of gnats.

Surely there must be something I can do to get rid of an insect — other than learn to type with only one hand. Mosquitoes are attracted to me also, but I have learned to stay inside or use insect repellent. Maybe I should dab a bit of insecticide behind each ear and see if that discourages the gnat.

I’m really at my wit’s end. If I don’t figure out something soon to get this gnat out of my face, I will be a stark raving lunatic. Some people think I already am, but that’s beside the point.

When the ladybugs invaded last year, they were slow and I could scoop them up with the vacuum cleaner, but this thing is way too fast for that. I got rid of ants by putting out an ant motel for them. Do they make gnat motels? It really doesn’t need one, though, as it apparently has taken up permanent residence in my house.

There it is in my face again… SMACK! Got him!

Please disregard this column.

©2014

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A Good Car

Posted on February 2, 2016 by Sheila Moss

Embed from Getty Images

I have a pretty good car, meaning it does not have much mechanical trouble. But even first-rate cars need the oil changed, the fluids checked, the tire pressures equalized, and the brakes checked for wear. I think that is called “routine maintenance” in mechanical language.

So, I called the other day and made an appointment to take it in for service. When it comes to cars, I seemed to be blessed with an uncanny ability to have things go amiss. As usual, disaster was but a day away, only I did not know this yet. Naively, I dropped off my car at the dealership in the morning thinking I would give them the whole day to work on it and I would pick it up on my way home.

At noon I received a call at the office: “I just wanted to let you know that we are running behind schedule,” said the service person.

I threw the telephone across the room! “No, not again!” I groaned.

That’s what I wanted to do at any rate. What I actually did was say, “Okay, thank you for calling.” I figured they still had five hours and surely that was enough time for routine maintenance.

At 3 p.m. I received another call: “I don’t think we can get to your car today,” said the voice at the other end, “I hate to have to ask you to bring it back.”

“If you hate to ask me to bring it back, then FIX IT!” I shrieked, slamming down the receiver and kicking the trash can across my cubical.

Well, that’s what I wanted say. What I really said was, “The oil — can you just change the oil and filter? It is 2,000 miles past due.”

“Okay, we will change the oil,” he agreed, as I wept tears of grateful joy.

“I’ll be there at 5 o’clock,” I promised.

At five I showed up at the car dealership, hoping for the best. The invoice showed that they had actually changed the oil. I did a little celebration dance in the middle of the service department floor like a football player who has just scored a touchdown.

Well, that’s what I felt like doing. What I really did was pay the bill and ask for the keys.

They couldn’t find the keys.

“YOU DON’T HAVE THE KEYS?” I controlled myself nicely.

They checked the little hooks where the keys should be. They looked in the car. They disappeared into the back to check with mysterious, unseen mechanics and technicians.

I went into the little room with the plastic furniture and burned coffee and waited, and waited, and waited. I had wrenched my back about week before and it was killing me. I wanted to go home.

“For heaven’s sake, people! I’m a sick woman. Find my keys!”

An hour later, the guy came in, “I’m sorry, but we just can’t find your keys.”

“Do I need to call someone to bring my extra set?”

“That might be a good idea.”

“YOU IDIOTS! Not only did you NOT fix my car, you LOST my keys! How DUMB can you be?” I beat him over the head with my walking cane and kicked his lifeless body to a pulp. That would teach him a lesson.

That’s what I FELT like doing. Instead, I called someone to bring my extra set of keys and waited another thirty minutes until they got there.

On the way home, a warning message on the dashboard flashed, “Oil life remaining 30%.” They didn’t change the oil? I couldn’t believe it. I did a U-turn, drove back to the dealership, and crashed my car through the showroom window, laughing hysterically!

Yes, that’s only what I FELT like doing. Instead I just drove home. A few days later when I could almost control my anger, I went back and talked to the service manager. My keys had still not been found.

“We will make a new key and get a new remote entry for you,” she said.

“Darn right you will! You are lucky I’m not making you change the ignition and door locks. I should sue you.”

Okay, okay, that is only what I felt like saying. Why worry about it? “Surely nothing else will go wrong,” I thought, as I got back in my car.

And, that was when my seat belt buckle jammed.

©2006

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The Singing Bird Clock

Posted on February 1, 2016 by Sheila Moss

birdThe other day I was strolling along in the local discount mart when what should I spy but a “Singing Bird Clock.” Wow, for under $20 this was a deal, a genuine, plastic, Singing Bird Clock, approved by the Audubon Society, as seen on TV. I could hardly control my enthusiasm.

I’ve always loved birds, especially the colorful backyard variety. I’ve put up bird feeders, bought sunflower seed, even studied a pocket guide to try and identify my favorites. I’ve never quite been involved enough to take a course, go out with field glasses to bird watch, or anything more radical. But, birds can be beautiful and their songs are enjoyable to hear.

Yep, a Singing Bird Clock would be a lovely addition to my home I decided as I chunked it into my shopping cart.

Now in case you should be one of the very few people in the world who has not seen a commercial on TV for a Singing Bird Clock, let me explain how it works. It is sort of like a regular clock to a point. The numbers have been replaced with pictures of birds, and when the clock strikes the hour, the bird sings. Pretty cute, huh? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Kind of a modern version of a cuckoo clock – except this cuckoo brought friends.

The bird sounds are, to the clock maker’s credit, very authentic recordings of actual birds calls. It must have been hell getting them into a recording studio and up to the microphone, but that’s another story.

Anyhow, the bird clock was hung in the den, and I could hardly wait for the hour to strike so I could hear the birds sing. And sing they did… and sing… and sing… and sing… every hour… all day… every day… day after day… rain or shine… There is a mockingbird, a chickadee, a cardinal, a woodpecker (Yes!), a goose, a wren, a robin, a sparrow, a kingfisher, a titmouse, an oriole, and last, but far from least — believe me — a great horned owl.

They seem to have a knack for singing at the time when I least expect it. Imagine being deep in thought and suddenly having a goose honk out at you, or being in another room and hearing a terrible commotion only to realize it is just the clock reaching the hour and a kingfisher joyfully celebrating the occasion.

Well, I’m not sure how much more joyful celebrating I’m going to be able to stand. The dog runs to the clock every time it chirps wondering what in the world this noise is all about. The cat, strangely, is unaffected and seems to take it in stride and ignore it. Being a longtime bird watcher and practically a card-carrying member of the Audubon Club, I think, perhaps, she instinctively knows the difference between a real bird and a recorded message.

The only redeeming feature of this warbling tick-tock is a light sensor that prevents it from singing all night. Kind of makes me wonder if the makers didn’t have a hunch that it might become a pest.

Well, I’d really love to write more, but it’s half past the titmouse and soon going to strike the oriole. I’m in a great hurry to turn out the light and put my feathered friends to sleep for the night.

For some reason I have a feeling that Singing Bird Clocks may be a very popular item at garage sales soon. If you want one, you can probably get it for a song.

©1998

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Blessings Revisited

Posted on January 31, 2016 by Sheila Moss

Ireland

May the road rise to meet you, may the wind be always at your back, may the sun shine warmly upon your face, and the rain fall soft upon your fields, and until we meet again, may the Lord hold you in the hollow of His hand.

This is an old Gaelic blessing often quoted. Many such classic blessings are inspirational and reflect the qualities of the folk represented. While the traditional blessing is nice enough, as far as it goes, it just doesn’t go far enough. So we are going to add a few more blessings of our own. . . just to be sure that the actual needs are all covered:

May the wind at your back never mess up your hair,

May the icy road not slide out from under your car,

May your furnace be warm and your gas or electric bill low,

May the snow fall soft upon the fields, but not upon your driveway,

May your snow shovel not break and your salt supply be plentiful,

May your car start in the morning and your door locks not be frozen,

May the check out lines at the grocery store be short,

May your credit be good and your credit card never exceed the limit,

May your appliances never break down and your water pipes never freeze,

May your medical tests all be negative and your attitude positive,

May your zippers always zip and your buttons never fall off,

May your clothes never get too tight and may you never need to diet or exercise,

May you always remember to let the dog outside for his potty time.

May you remember to floss when you brush and to squeeze the toothpaste from the bottom.

May you never run out of milk or bread in the middle of the week,

May your coffee pot never be empty and your coffee canister always full,

May you always have clean underwear in the morning,

May your children and grandchildren remember to flush,

May you always be able to remember where you left the car keys,

May your purchases all fit and never need to be returned,

May you always be able to find a parking place at the mall,

May the drive-thru bank window never be closed and the teller machine never run out of money,

May your hard drive never crash and your Wi-Fi never disconnected,

May your advice be appreciated and never ignored,

May your feet never ache and your nose never run,

And until we meet again, may God hold you in his hand, and if he sneezes, may he remember to use a handkerchief.

©2001 Sheila Moss
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SpamWham™ Activation Notice

Posted on January 30, 2016 by Sheila Moss

DeathtoStock_Creative Community7

Dear Customer:

You are receiving this notice as part of our continuing effort to fight unsolicited commercial email, commonly known as SPAM. Using SpamWham! ™, an innovative new computer technology recently developed, we are now able to automatically wham SPAM.

SpamWham! ™ will significantly reduce the intrusion of unwanted commercial mail into your inbox. It will automatically delete SPAM messages, duplicate them one thousand times, and return them to the sender with the following message: “You have been whammed by SpamWham! ™.” It will then automatically delete your email address from the spammer’s address book.

While we will make our best efforts to wham only unsolicited commercial email from your inbox, it is possible we may occasionally wham a message that you have requested. No matter what gets whammed, however, you can be sure that your SpamWham! ™ Weekly Newsletter will make it though any type of filter ever invented.

This innovative new technology will not only prevent intrusion of unwanted email into your computer inbox; it will also protect your telephone privacy. It will answer your incoming calls and delete calls from telemarketers. It will use callback to automatically return the call one thousand times, jamming the telemarketer’s switchboard, and rendering them unable to make any more calls for a period of 24 hours.

A small, nearly invisible SpamWham! ™ filter on your postal mailbox can also check and sort your snail mail, automatically removing legitimate letters while flipping AOL CD disks into the trash can unopened. It can open and shred up commercial junk mail messages, stuff them into the return envelopes, and stamp them “Return to Sender – Postage Collect”.

In addition, SpamWham! ™ filter can read newspapers and advertising circulars, automatically clipping and saving any articles on subjects in which you have expressed an interest, while rolling the remaining paper into usable firelogs for your fireplace and stacking them by your back door.

In the kitchen a SpamWham! ™ filter on your water system will remove dangerous chemicals, and produce purified, clean, and sparkling water. A SpamWham!™ filter on your washing machine will sort whites and colors, remove spots and stains, and leave your clothes looking whiter and brighter.

SpamWham! ™ in the bathroom will soften the water, remove mineral deposits, and prevent rings in the bathtub without scrubbing. It will also automatically write and email complaint letters to your metropolitan utility company.

A SpamWham! filter ™ for your furnace will remove pollen, dust and mold from the air, the pollutants that cause most allergic reactions in hypersensitive individuals. It will also filter out dangerous oxides, hydrocarbons, and particulates from the air that you breathe. It will vacuum cat hair from the furniture and clean the kitty litter box, creating a safer and healthier environment for your family.

Could your computer’s memory contain unsolicited pornography without you knowing about it? SpamWham! ™ will scan your computer’s memory, remove all references to porn, gambling and alcohol, and leave your computer as clean and innocent as a newborn babe.

SpamWham! ™ will prevent children from viewing undesirable content on the Internet by checking their I.D. and blocking the entrance into adult chat rooms of anyone under the age of 18. It will also make a mug shot and record the fingerprints of those attempting to enter and email the information to their parents.

Please note that we provide the SpamWham! ™ Filtering and Deletion System as a service to our users. If users do not want to use the service, they may opt-out. We make no warranties and disclaim any liability in connection with your use or inability to use this service.

We believe that SpamWham! ™ will significantly reduce the intrusion of unsolicited messages into your life. Should you want to reject this service, please accept our apology for trying, and pardon us for living! Forward a message to Customer Care and we will assure that as much SPAM as possible is directed your way.

Sincerely,
Your Friendly ISP

©2002 Sheila Moss
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