Forever Spam

home     parodies    miscellaneous     contents

Back     Next

Can't Spam, Can't Troll

Scene: A baby's crib, although the brat looks like King Kong's baby . . . with a real attitude. It crouches in the crib with a mean smile on its lips and a vile gleam in its beady eyes. It strangles its doll, an act which makes it giggle. After a while the thrill is gone, however, and it looks for a new source of pleasure. The baby frowns in concentration, and then a foul odor tells us it now needs clean diapers--a fact that makes baby chuckle in glee. Baby's pleasure ends when its mommy changes its diapers. It's only happy when it makes another mess by spitting up.

It's obvious that baby is headed toward a bad end, in every sense of the phrase. And the end is near; baby climbs out of its crib and heads for the computer which its parents have inexplicably placed in its room. Now what can a creature with no education, no coordination, no bowel or bladder control, incapable even of coherent speeech, in fact only able to excrete foul body wastes, do with a computer?

Right. It spams. And trolls.

Familiar music as the sun rises, then sets over Toronto.

"He was brought across in 1228.
Preyed on humans for their blood.
Now he wants to be mortal again.
To repay society for his sins.
To emerge from his world of darkness.
From his endless forever night."


ACT 1: The Raven. Blue lights, music and dancing. Nick enters with Natalie. It's Vampire Night, and Nat looks askance at what she sees: vamped-out children of the night, an assortment of mortals with low readings on the dipstick, and tax collectors.

Natalie: Nick, this isn't *quite* what I meant when I asked you to show me some night life.

The Brick: What's wrong?

Natalie answers with a helpless shrug. Maybe it's the drained bodies lying on the floor. Maybe it's the blood being served at the bar. Maybe it's the crowd that's gathered in front of a TV set to watch the Holyfield-Tyson fight. They cheer and applaud as Tyson bleeds from a cut over his eye, but their approval turns to dismay as Tyson bites his opponent on the ear. Twice.

Vampires: Amateur!
                How can you miss at that range?
                The blood is in the *jugular,* you weenie!
                No, it's *below* the ear! Next to the carotid!
                Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your--

They are interrupted by an outraged scream from the rear room. Nick recognizes the voice as that of LaCroix. Nick hurries to his master's side, folowed by Natalie. They find LaCroix sitting at his computer.

Nick: What's wrong?

LaCroix: Spam! I hate spam and I hate spammers!

Natalie looks over his shoulder at the screen, and sees some garbage about calling a psychic at a 1-800 number. She speaks to the thoroughly enraged LaCroix.

Natalie: Well, report it to the spammer's postmaster.

LaCroix: I have done that! I have done that time and again! But this spammer opens a new account even before the old one is shut down! Now I want to see this spammer boiled in oil! I want to see it flayed alive and have its exposed flesh sprinkled with itching powder! I want to reveal it as a founding member of the I-Love-Neelix Fan Club!

Horrified, Natalie turns to Nick.

Natalie: What has he got against spammers?

Ask Nick a question, and you're more likely to get a flashback than an answer.


Viet Nam, 1964. A plantation outside Hue. It's night, and Nick is strolling through the jungle, utterly clyewless to the fact that he's in the midst of some Viet Cong and US Marines. Not that it matters, because they aren't fighting; in fact, they're having a picnic. No, Nick is more concerned with his awareness of LaCroix's presence. As he approaches LaCroix through the jungle he hears slapping sounds and angry shouts from his master:

LaCroix: Away with you, you foul blood suckers! This mortal is *my* meal, not yours! Away, away! Aroint thee!

Nick finds LaCroix bent over an unconscious mortal; they are surrounded by a thick swarm of mosquitos. LaCroix is killing the bugs left and right, and raging at the evil of their presence.

LaCroix: Damned insects! How can any self-respecting vampire feed around these beasts! I want them annihilated! Destroyed! I don't care if it devastates all of Southeast Asia, I'll connive the Americans and Communists into killing every last one of them! Let there be fire and destruction! Now go away, you damned mosquitos, this is *my* blood and you can't have it!

And Nick returns to the present, where he answers Natalie's question.


Nick: He's *very* competitive.

LaCroix: And I am as protective of my time as I am of my blood supply. *No* infernal spammer will get away with its crimes in my presence! I shall achieve levels of brutality that would astonish the Inquisition!

Nick: Calm down, LaCroix! Think happy thoughts. The Hundred Years War. The Thirty Years War. The Black Death. The Mongol Hordes. Witch-hunters. The Reagan years--

LaCroix chuckles fondly.

LaCroix: Quite right, dear boy, one must enter a calm and happy state of mind to destroy a spammer.

Nick: Think of your successes in destroying other spammers. You *did* get the Woodhead Littering Agency to stop spamming here. Remember goldeagl the "Hot Male" and all those chain-letter slapheads? You got their accounts shut down.

LaCroix: Ah, those were the good old nights.

Natalie: And here's your chance to do more good.

She points to the screen, where a new post has fouled the phosphors:

220 18053 <5ov22a$> article
Subject: Optional New Service for your Pager!!!!
Organization: AT&T WorldNet Services
Message-ID: 5ov22a$



LaCroix: If I were this spammer, I should not mention a "trial."

Nick & Nat look on in approval as he decides that the spammer's given a silly thing. Uncle checks the path line, sees that it ends with, and forwards the spam to


ACT 2: The back room at the Raven. Nick and Natalie watch as LaCroix reads an e-mail from the postmaster at

Thank you for alerting us to the unwanted e-mail you have received.

The Abuse Desk has investigated this particular junk mail and will be taking the appropriate action.

Please continue to let us know when you have received such unwanted junk mail. It remains the mission of the Abuse Team to keep the internet clean.


You wrote:

>Dear Postmaster:
> This ad was just posted to, where it is
>inappropriate and unwelcome. It appears to have been posted from your
>server by one of your users.
> Thank you for your time and attention.

Nick: Odd. It was a posting, not an e-mail.

LaCroix: A mere trifle; action has been taken. Let us celebrate.

Natalie: Good idea! The drinks are on me--
{sees the predatory look in LaCroix's eyes}
--so to speak.

They head for the bar.


Meanwhile, somewhere in Florida, we see a creature of unspeakable, but regrettably spammable, vileness. Call it gaviota, which is what it calls itself when it isn't using the name of Gustavo Cisnero. As it schlepps its sorry ass through a sewer it talks to itself. It has to; no one else will talk to it.

gaviota: Me be want make spam. Lotsa spam, and more spam, too! Only, me not want be caught when me make spam! Get caught--not good! Get caught--bad! So not want get caught! Make trouble for me! Not like me be in trouble.

gaviota goes on like this for quite some time. Day turns into night, then day again; the moon waxes and wanes; seasons pass. Then gaviota has a *second* thought.

gaviota: me make spam from server that not care if me make spam!

So gaviota returns to its lair, wipes the primordial ooze from its computer, and gets onto a server which does nothing to stop spam. gaviota becomes, which operates from Venezuela. Chuckling and drooling, it begins to spam a slew of long, tedious, drawn-out, overdone, boring, illiterate drivel. A typical gaviota spam contain these gems of the spammer's art:

    $$$$NEED MONEY RIGHT NOW ??? $$$$

    This is the fast now while you're waiting for the others to work guaranteed

    You receive your reward in about FOURTEEN DAYS. That's only TWO WEEKS !!! Not tree months!!!

    Many of us have pet programs that we want to support; food or Medicine, or medical care for children is mine.

    I just spend two weeks in Manhattan at the plaza seeing every show and attend every concert I wanted to, and I haven't worked in tree months.


This spam, and others, infests the internet. It appears in Montreal, where Janette is busy reaffirming her vampiric nature. Incensed, she attempts to report the spammer to its server, but the spammer's continued violations of netiquette show that its server will not do the right thing. A vampiress with a direct nature, Janette resorts to a crude, simple, yet charmingly effective stratagem. She prints out the spam, notes the addresses in its list, and mails the printed copies to the US Postmasters in the towns listed in the spam.

Does this do any good? Who can say? Perhaps it is only a coincidence that the very next day--er, night--she is rescued from a burning building by a handsome young fireman, after which she falls in love with him and regains her humanity.


ACT 3: The Raven. Nick and Natalie are dancing the tango. It's a rather long scene because Natalie is well worth looking at, a fact recognized by the overwhelming majority of the human race and by trolls. For evidence of the latter, observe this posting:

Subject: Catherine Disher nude.

    I was just wondering if anyone out there,knows if Catherine Disher
has ever posed nude?If not,are there any good fake nude pictures of her?

This posting may be observed on the laptop computer which sits on the Raven's bar. Nick and Natalie observe it as they dance past it, and it elicits this response:

Natalie: Pose nude? Not for you or any man alive!

Nick: Makes me glad I'm undead!

Having given this mere troll more attention than it deserves, they return to the dance floor. LaCroix, however, remains his obsessive self, and takes the computer to hunt down more spammers. He broods and ruminates upon this topic as he works:

LaCroix: What causes mortals to spam and troll? Are their fleeting lives so long that they have the time to waste upon such fruitless endeavors? Do they feel a symbolic urge toward vampirism, which they indulge by sucking away the time of their victims? What drives them to display their greed and guile, not to mention their bad manners and inability to write a coherent, grammatical post? Why--
{Urs saunters by and winks at him}
--am I wasting my time on this troll?

He gets up and follows Urs. Alas, the moment he turns away from the Internet, the spam begins to build up. Chain letters. More rubbish from the Woodhead Littering Agency. A worthless offer for cable descrambler designs (clyew: a descrambler is useful only if you already have cable). Porn ads. A comma-tose troll whining about how it can't take the heat after it makes a fool of itself. Spamorama! It overwhelms even the most fearless spampire hunter.

Amid the burgeoning horrors, a creature which names itself Robert Anderson hatches what it believes to be a cunning scheme. It is not, to borrow from the words of Captain Blackadder, a scheme as cunning as a fox with a Ph.D in cunning from Oxford. However, it is not a chain letter, which by the standards of spammers makes it a stroke of genius. And Robert Anderson, as he vegetates in the center of his beloved garbage-dumpster home, reasons as though he's had a stroke:

Robert Anderson: Me offer people get-rich-quick schemes! Me gather up all kindsa scams and put them on AOL web page! Work at home scam! Get rich by watch TV swindle! Gummint surplus auctions! Sell catalogs what they can be make get for free from gummint! And other kinda things sorta like that!

    And me be super-clever! When me make spam to advertise bunkum, me not make spam from AOL, so me not lose AOL account! And--and--when me make spam from, me forge me e-mail address with address, so no one be clever enough to fink on me to and AOL!

Herr Anderson loves the idea, which makes him laugh so hard that he blows chunks, in both the USA and Canadian meanings of the phrase. This activity provides the ideal spamming material, which he forthwith posts:

From: Robert Anderson
Subject: This news group is invited to a Secret online book !
All Ages Welcome!
Message-ID: 5plouv$

And so on and so forth, as the header is followed by semiliterate nonsense which invites one and all to grow rich.


Meanwhile, back at the Raven, it is daytime, and Uncle and Urs have retired to a private room to while away the long summer day. They engage in certain vampiric activities which are too indelicate to mention around children, too hazardous to the health of mortals,and too much fun to describe to trolls and spammers.

At one point they break to recharge their vampiric energies, which they do by tapping into the wellspring of all that is foul and evil in the world: spam. They get on-line and read an assortment of spam, including Robert Anderson's remarkably generous offer. It's too much.

LaCroix: I would rather drink cow's blood than read more of this.

Urs: Allow me to handle this.

She gets on-line and sends a message to the spammer:


    Did you know that Barfbeard the Pirate buried some genuine pirate treasure in Toronto? All you have to do to find it is bring a shovel and dig a hole six feet deep in the alley behind a place called the Raven, and you'll find your well-earned reward!

Urs sends this message, which alarms LaCroix.

LaCroix: Don't you realize that you have just invited this spammer to visit the Raven?

Urs: Think of him as take-out on two legs.

LaCroix: Ah, a self-delivering dinner. And that six-foot hole--

Urs: --is my way of solving the leftover problem. But it will be *your* turn to do the dishes.


ACT 4: The loft, where Nick sits at his computer and puzzles over a troll.

Nick: Nut sack?

There's a whoosh as LaCroix enters. He looks over Nick's shoulder and reads the troll in amusement.

LaCroix: My, my, this invidious individual is *so* eloquent. One must ask why a person of such advanced age, wisdom and experience did not realize that the proper place to make his original request would be on a newsgroup such as, say, alt.binaries.nude.celebrities. Or--far more appropriately--alt.self-abuse.

Nick: He does seem to enjoy abuse; he keeps coming back for more.

LaCroix: Let us not probe too deeply into his chosen means of seeking pleasure. Let us, rather, discuss the sudden rise in spamming and trolling incidents.

Nick: Must we? The summer is already bad enough, what with the late sunsets, short nights and early sunrises. Spending fifteen hours a day inside is driving me batty!

LaCroix: I, too, find it most burdensome. Ah, speaking of burdens--
{Natalie enters the loft}
What brings you here, Doctor?

Natalie: I have a new treatment for Nick.

LaCroix: Is it anything like those garlic pills? Or Litovuterine-B?

Natalie: No, this is something entirely different. Nick, how much do you know about the theory of evolution?

Nick: I know that it works--
{glances at the troll on the computer screen}
--with some minor exceptions.

Natalie: Right. Well, the latest theory says that evolution takes place through a series of quantum leaps. When a species evolves, it's suddenly goosed from one level to the next.

Nick: Such as homo erectus suddenly evolving into homo habilis.

Natalie: Right. And--
{takes a syringe from her black bag}
--I've developed a serum that will initiate the change in an individual organism.

Nick: You mean you can change me back into a mortal?

Natalie: Exactly. Vampires are just another rung on the evolutionary ladder. I'm going to move you from one rung to another.

LaCroix: And what if you move my son to the wrong rung?

Natalie: Well--I suppose I *should* experiment first. But I'll need a guinea pig--

LaCroix: I suggest something of less value. Excuse me a moment.

LaCroix flies out, and Nick turns to Natalie.

Nick: Uh, Nat, are you sure you haven't been sniffing your test tubes?

Natalie: Hey, this is the best idea I've had yet. In fact--

There's another whoosh as LaCroix returns with a troll, which he dumps on the loft's floor.

Troll: Nut,sack! Older'n,alla,you,puttogether! So's,yerold,man! Poopy, pee-pee, ka-ka! Do-do! Break wind!

LaCroix: Such dirty language!

Troll: I know real dirty words! Soap! Bath! Toilet paper!

LaCroix: The mere fact that you never use such things does not make them dirty.

Troll: Me be,big,strongboy! Me,beatyou,up!

LaCroix: Oh, I'm scared!

LaCroix flicks the troll with his pinky, which causes the troll to scream in pain before it faints from the unendurable agony. Natalie goes to the troll and sticks it with the syringe. The troll wakes up and howls with pain. Natalie injects it several more times, just for kicks. Then, remarkably, the troll begins to evolve. All watch in amazement as it changes.

LaCroix: What a horrific sight.

Nick: Who would have thought?

Natalie: Unbelievable! It's evolving *up* into a spammer!

Sure enough, we see that the troll has developed into a bull-loon spammer, which is a considerable improvement over its original status. For a moment it lies on the floor, panting in pain and exhaustion, until it spots Nick's computer and slithers toward it.

Spammer: Spam! Me be want make spam! Be more fun than do troll!

Nick grabs a sharp stick which is conveniently lying around the loft. Before he can stake the spammer, however, it again convulses in agony and begins to change. LaCroix comments upon this:

LaCroix: Dr. Lambert, your experiment leaves much to be desired.

Natalie: Darn. Back to the old drawing board--hey, look!

As we look, we see that the ex-troll-now-a-spammer has taken yet another step up the evolutionary ladder. Ears sprout, hooves grow, and it brays with laughter as it celebrates its rise from spammerdom:

Jackass: Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Hee-haw!

Nick: Another show that was revived by its dedicated fans . . .

Natalie: Pity we made such an ass out of it.

Then the jackass begins to change again. The agonized contortions of its transformation are appalling to behold. LaCroix, Nick and Natalie settle onto the couch to watch the show.


ACT 5: A Toronto street at night. Nick and Natalie are driving along while the radio plays LaCroix's Nightcrawler show:

LaCroix: And still the tide of spamming rises. Report one spammer and ten more appear to take its place. And what of the trolls who self-righteously believe they have the right to waste bandwidth and time with their subliterate insults, yet expect--nay, demand--that they be treated with the respect they refuse to show to their betters? Whence come such people? And, wherever they come from, why don't they stay there?

Natalie: He's got a point. Even the Woodhead Littering Agency is back.

Nick is about to answer when we hear a loud thump, followed by a scream. Natalie looks behind the car. She sees a disgusting smear of road pizza.

Natalie: Oh, Nick, you ran over a spammer!

Nick: Natalie, I didn't *run over* the spammer, I *hit* the spammer.

Natalie: What's the difference?

Nick: Well--I'll show you.

Nick turns the car around, aims at the spammer and puts the pedal to the metal. The crushed and bleeding spammer struggles to crawl to safety, but before it can reach the haven of the gutter and its foul, inviting slime, Nick drives the Caddy over it. He stops, backs up, rolls over it again, then drives forward and crushes it under the tires yet again. He smiles in triumph while the spammer screams in pain.

Nick: You see, Nat? When you *hit* a spammer, there's a solid thump as it slams into the fender. When you *run over* a spammer, the tires make a softer noise. Plus, the shock absorbers lessen the impact that we feel.

Natalie: I see. I've never hit a spammer in my car.

Nick: That's good. A little modern job like your car probably couldn't take the impact--especially if you hit the spammer's head. Their skulls are like anvils! But a classic like the '62 Caddy--well, it's tougher than some tanks.

Natalie: And I thought you kept this thing for the trunk space.

Nick smiles again. He hits and runs over another spammer, then goes on to the Raven. He takes Natalie inside, where they dance. As they dance a spammer oozes into the club. Before it can make trouble, however, the patrons spontaneously create a new dance. Picture a conga line of flamenco dancers, as they line up and one by one stomp the spammer into the floor. As they finish a cockroach scuttles out of a crack in the wall, goes to the spammer, and dances "La Cucaracha" atop its flattened remains.

Finished with his broadcast, LaCroix emerges from the booth, goes to the spammer and picks up its head. He peels off the layers of dead, putrescent, zitty flesh to reveal the skull, which he holds between two fingertips. LaCroix smiles and addresses the teensy skull:

LaCroix: Alas, poor spammer, you blew it and went to hell. I knew it, Nicholas--the fellow was an infinite pest.

Natalie: That isn't *quite* the way I learned it in school.

Nick: Don't try to revoke his poetic license.

LaCroix: School . . .

A thoughtful look upon his face, Uncle hastens into the rear room. Nick and Natalie resume dancing. Shortly thereafter Uncle returns, a smile upon his face.

LaCroix: I have just posted a message which should alleviate the trolling problem.

Natalie: How? Have you found what's caused the sudden increase in spamming?

LaCroix: Yes. It's quite simple. School is out for the summer, which gives all the little children a chance to spam on their mommies' computers. My new posting should end the problem.


We now see the inside of a spammer's lair--at least, we see as much of it as mortal eyes and stomachs can withstand. A spammer peers at the screen, where it reads a message written in Spamish:


All skules r now offring speshul summur klasses in how 2 spam an trole! Go to yore nerest sochol end lurn to B thuh best spamer! Go in2 the speshul room wear U wil C speshul booths an setes set upp to gift ewe yore furst lesson! Get in bwol and pull handle 4 lesson! Hurry! This special offer woant lass long!

Spammer: Me thought skule be over for summer, but now me be make think that me be better make hurry and get gnu lesson or me no be good spammer!

The spammer runs out of its lair and hurries to the nearest school, where it finds all the doors are locked--all but one. It enters the little boy's room (or maybe it's the little girl's room; how can a spammer tell the difference?) and enters a stall. It climbs into a toilet bowl, grabs the handle, and flushes itself to hell.


TAG: The loft. Nick and Natalie recline on the couch.

Natalie: So the spammers have gone down the tubes. But--what happened to that wank from webtv? Did he ever stop evolving?

Nick: Yes. He hit his peak as a rhesus monkey. I'm amazed he got that far up the evolutionary ladder.

Natalie: Where is he now?

Nick: I found a good home for him, where he's gainfully employed for the first time in his life. In fact--listen, there he is now.

Natalie listens, and hears fast, funky organ music. Baffled, she lets Nick lead her to a window. She looks out and sees an organ grinder surrounded by children. The troll is on a leash and wears a funny circus costume as it collects pennies from the children. Nick calls out to the man who holds his leash:

Nick: Hey, Luigi! How's business?

Luigi: Very good, signore Nicholas! It is a very good monkey! He is used to having people laugh at him!

Nick: He should be, he's had enough experience as a laughingstock!

Natalie chuckles.

Natalie: It's appropriate, Nick. After all, that troll was a natural-born "organ grinder."


Fade to end theme and credits

Back     Next

Send mail to web master with questions or comments about this web site.
Last modified: April 10, 2006