E-mail haiku

Religious e-mail
What would Jesus forward me?
Keep it to yourself

D.W. Norris is a freelance writer and religious nut living in Carbondale, IL

E-I-E-I-O

If you're like me -- and believe me, I hope you're not -- you've probably found yourself sitting around the house in your underwear, thinking, "Man, I sure would like to see some barnyard porn. Not actors dressed as animals; I'm talking bestiality."

OK, I'm exaggerating. I don't sit around in my underwear. OK, that's a lie, too. But while I'm sitting in my boxers, I absolutely do not wonder about how to get my animal porn fix. I don't have to do that. All I have to do is go to my Hotmail account and it's right there for me.

You see, somehow I've landed on a spam list for animal porn.

Don't ask me how, because I really don't know. I guess I'm just a lucky ducky.

Look, I'm not going to lie and say I've never perused certain adult sites that wouldn't make it through a parental filth filter. I like randy entertainment as much as the next fat American male. But, really, I haven't ever had the desire to see an "actress" ply her trade with Mr. Ed.

But thanks to Mr. Darwin Lehman, and his provocatively titled e-mails, I could watch a clip of "extreme cat rape" if it struck my fancy. Luckily, it hasn't struck my fancy or any other part of me.

Call me a prude, but I didn't realize there were different levels of cat rape. Is there really a run-of-the-mill cat rape?

Besides, that cat was asking for it. Just look at how those filthy little beasts like to stick their butts up in the air and saunter around without a care in the world.

But I digress.

In the last week, I've received e-mails touting donkey shows, woman-on-horse action, and something that sounded unseemly and involved a bull. Not the Michael Jordan kind, but the Pamplona kind.

I must confess: Part of me wants to find our what I'm missing. I mean, extreme cat rape?

What, did the participants do the Dew before doing Mr. Doodles? Didn't Shaun White win gold in the extreme cat rape competition at this year's X Games?

I must also admit I appreciate Mr. Lehman for allowing me to view this sort of entertainment, if I so choose, while I'm away from the farm. I thought I was going to have to dip into my lottery winnings to travel somewhere such as Tijuana or Iowa to see an animal get down with a human.

You haven't heard? I won the U.K. National Lottery last week. I guess I'm pretty lucky considering I never entered the U.K. National Lottery.

Sure, I had to give out my bank account and social security number to collect my prize, but the money should be arriving shortly, at least according to the numerous notifications sent to my Hotmail account.

It's a sick, sick world out there, kiddies. A world that gives new meaning to the phrase, "I'm just a squirrel trying to get a nut."

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a video date with that bitch, Lassie.

D.W. Norris is a freelance writer and animal porn enthusiast living in Carbondale, IL.

You think your job sucks? Try being these folks

Ah, the telemarketer. Scourge of the telephone. Bane of man's existence as a being with world-wide communication abilities at his or her fingertips.

Telemarketers call during arguments or quiet times at home. They interrupt dinners and TV time. They seem to always intrude at the worst possible moments.

It's probably safe to say that telemarketers have pretty much ruined phone sales for the foreseeable future. Plus, it seems like a really terrible job.

But we've all had terrible jobs, right?

Unless your job description includes judging female professional volleyball players' butts, you've probably had to suck it up and take employment in less-than-fulfilling fields: Gas station clerks, janitorial "sciences" practitioners, security guard jobs.

Blech, blech, and, just so I'm clear, blech.

While those jobs, among scores of other unskilled pursuits, are spirit-sucking drains, they still have some sort of dignity, uniforms and name tags be damned!

I'm not immune to the sting of a hated job. I bartended for a few years, which was cool for a while, but it got old real quick. I hated going into work and my attitude reflected it. I guess I don't have a good poker face.

But I had a job people like. Who doesn't want to see a bartender every now and then?

That's not the case for telemarketers. When was the last time you said to yourself, "Man, I sure wish somebody would call me with an exciting offer on timeshare condominiums in Florida"?

Unfortunately for the telemarketing schlubs, no people outside of shut-ins want their phone calls. Well, that's probably not 100 percent true.

Please, excuse my liberal use of profanity while I explain.

It'd be easy to say, "Nobody ever buys that stuff over the phone," but some assholes are buying it or the asshole telemarketing companies wouldn't pay other assholes to make those calls.

And please, I'm not calling the individual telemarketers assholes, though I'm sure some are. I mean the collective asshole of the whole telemarketing thing.

I can't imagine what it must be like to be almost universally scorned for doing a job. Abortion doctors in Utah think telemarketers have it bad.

So, as a public service to all telemarketers, I've got a marketing suggestion to improve the image of the industry: "Telemarketers -- At least they're not tow-truck drivers."

Tow-truck driver -- now that's a crappy and hated job. Those guys are never popular unless their changing a flat or dragging a lemon to the auto shop.

So buck up, telemarketers. You may not have the most-hated job in America, but with hard work and plenty of phone calls, I'm sure you can get to the pinnacle of jobs we all hate.

D.W. Norris is a freelance writer and telemarketing advoacte living in Carbondale, IL.

dwnorris77@hotmail.com

Look Who's Back

She’s back? And she’s a mom?

So I saw in the news that Amy Fisher and her husband, Louis Bellara, have released an adult film. Of themselves. Not surprising, I guess, but what did surprise me was Mrs. Fisher-Bellara’s admission that it will be difficult to explain to her two children what she does and why she is famous.

Uh, ya think, Amy?

Call me sick, but I'm laughing at the image of Amy Fisher telling her kids that Mommy shot a woman in the face after sleeping with that woman's husband. Then she can tell them she's been to prison but has cleaned up her act and gotten into porn.

OK, that's cheap. She's done other stuff. Like...oh...um...oh! She was part of that historic Lingerie Bowl coin flip with the guy whose wife she shot after fu...,er, sleeping with him.

And she can tell them she did it -- maybe not "it" in the connubial sense, but probably that, too -- while wearing a T-shirt with the name of her lover's/attempted-murderous-feelings-inspirerer's auto shop on it.

So that's one impressive and not at all sleazy thing she can tell the kids.

I mean, it's not literally funny, the thought of her telling her kids, but, hahahahah, no, I lied; it is literally funny.

I try to think of ways she could do it.

Funny voice? Sock puppet? Pop-up book? She could take them to a park and hire a mime, that way she doesn't literally have to tell them. Problem solved.

But still, something seems wrong with this whole story. Wait a minute. Amy Fisher has kids? I didn't know she had kids. Amy Fisher has kids? What in the hell is Amy Fisher doing with kids? Is that legal?

I saw some writer, somewhere, decided to retire the. One. Word. Sentence. I haven't decided to do that.

Those. Kids. Are. Screwed.

The Fisher-Bellera family probably shouldn't plan on entertaining the kids' friends in their home much. Well, anything outside of orgies or gun shows, that is.

Kid: "Mom, can I stay at Amy Fisher's house tonight?"

Mom: "Go to your room. You're grounded."

Can't you imagine the looks on the faces of the other mommies when Amy Fisher strolls into the PTA meeting? Betcha the husbands will catch some serious dont-you-even-think-about-it-buddy vibes from their wives.

And who knows what kind of vibe the husbands will catch from Amy Fisher, but since it's a guy who's catching it, surely it's sexual.

The only way Amy Fisher's family life could be more out of the mainstream is if she and her husband married Tanya Harding in a outdoor Church of Satan ceremony on Feb. 29 at the Ground Zero memorial site and then tried to steal babies and raise them on a raw meat diet, all to be filmed for a Reality TV show on the Sundance Channel. Wait, I said out of the mainstream.

Another question: Aside from the lack of an actual dead body, which makes the crime seem more violent, duh, but really, how is she out now? She tried to kill somebody. Just because she screwed it up, does that mean she catches a break? How can doing something poorly be of benefit? Somehow that seems, well...not right. Every time I screw something up, it comes out worse. Like that haircut I tried to give myself in junior high.

I get that she was only 16 when that piece of crap Joey Buttafuoco (who looks suspiciously like Steven Segal (have you ever seen them in the same room?  Me neither.)) started having sex with her, and looking at that guy, it had to scar her. But shooting somebody in the face is some pretty hard core, gangsta stuff.

That's not a teen crashing a stolen car through a plate-glass window, drunk on wine. That's trying to off somebody.

Even a 16-year-old attempted murderess -- or, given her age, was she an attempted murderette? Whatever she was, she knew it was wrong.

Wait. Murderess? Is that uncool, the whole "-ess" thing? It seems kind of sexist. But anyway, the attempted murderer -- or should the emphasis be on attempted? OK, I lost my train of thought.

Well, I guess my point is, it's good to see Amy Fisher is piecing together a new life. Oh, and I can't wait to see how those kids turn out. Call me if you need a sitter, Mrs. Fisher-Bellera.

D.W. Norris is a freelance writer and Lolita fan from Carbondale, IL.

dwnorris77@hotmail.com