Inundating your inbox

Sometime last year, Neon Babylon stared with mock horror into the soul-sucking blackness of the modern advertising abyss and its insidious ability to penetrate and corrode your head. That power has expanded exponentially in the last year, ever since billions of yohos, yahoos and yelberts discovered e-mail.

It’s not bad enough that 98 percent of my snail mail comes from banks pushing credit cards, banks pushing mortgages, banks pushing home equity loans to consolidate credit card and mortgage debt into one convenient payment and mail-order gun dealers reminding me that I can have the last laugh on banks by simply blowing my head clean off my shoulders. Now, my e-mail inbox is constantly loaded with a daily assault of pitches, blurbs and hustles that rarely make me burst into joyous show tunes.

So, to begin today’s workout of the delete key … aha, one of my faves! The fat burners—products that make promises that would have made P.T. Barnum nervous. No diets, no exercise, no hunger, just gobble ’em up and morph into a gymnast while watching Wheel of Fortune marathons! Improved energy, increased muscle strength, rejuvenated memory, emotional stability and, of course, dramatic gains in sexual potency! What, you mean this stuff won’t wipe out male pattern baldness, make me impervious to cancer or give me X-ray vision? Well, then, burn in the fiery hell of my cyber-trash can, charlatan schmuck!

Hey, here’s my chance to become an Internet millionaire! All I have to do is send five strangers money, get in the future millionaire address bank and sit back and wait for thousands of strangers to mail cash to my house. What could be a simpler, more foolproof way for me to make my beer and chicken money disappear like magic? Buh-bye, faceless cyber-predator in a doublewide!

Now, some serious business: “bigger, harder penis.” Better take a look. I never know when Mom is clowning around on her computer after knocking back a couple of what she calls “Alzheimer preventatives,” or, as they’re more commonly known, martinis. OK, it’s not Mom, but some folks selling the latest in herbal pecker-pounders designed to bathe good Mr. Johnson in life-giving blood. Hey, great! I mean, here we are, on a planet groaning under the weight of six billion humans, and I get 14 messages a day from herbalist madmen who want to turn me into some kind of non-stop, ultra-crazed, spawning unit! This ad asks, “Do you want to be HARD as a rock ALL the time?” Well, no. Not really. I mean, think of all the awkward situations at the company swim party.

Next subject: Hot, horny and free. This must be my daily come-on from those nasty college girls. “I’m Sharla, I’m beautiful, I just turned 18, and I’m a non-stop, ultra-crazed, lickin', trickin', whackin', jackin', good-time sweet thang who can suck the chrome off your daddy’s trailer hitch …”

Sounds good, Shar-babe, and thanks for reminding me that my daughter is no longer allowed to open e-mail without at least three chaperones.