My wife received a spam email today with this caption:


She laughed and laughed  and then showed her computer to me to prove it.

I am not sure how I feel about this event.  I have no problem with my wife laughing about it.  Her laughter is, in large measure, why I love her: she has a wonderful sense of humour and when she laughs I find myself on the verge of believing in God, and that is saying something, about my life, about my wife and about my love for her.

So I am good with her laughing at that email. Perfectly fine with that part.  What I am not good with is the fact that she received it.

Again, please don’t think I am a prude attempting to shelter my wife. Nothing could be further from the truth. First, she doesn’t need sheltering; she is far stronger than I am in every way a person can be strong.  Second, she doesn’t want me to shelter her; she would resent even the smallest attempt to do so.

What bothers me is that I find myself in a point in history, unique to all other points in history, where a total stranger can send my wife an email with a caption that reads “CHINESE DUDES LIFING WEIGHTS WITH THEIR JUNK” along with the promise that, if the email is opened, a short chain of events will lead to graphic proof that there are, indeed, Chinese dudes who can and do lift weights with their junk – and record such events photographically to share with the wide, wide world.

That’s what I am not happy with. I am unhappy that we have come to this. I am unhappy that this is the point in history that I find myself living in.




  1. On the other hand, what a wonderful world which has the technology to make this possible? Think of the pleasures we have from that same tech. Besides, this is *our* point in history and we’re stuck with it. Let’s enjoy it cause we won’t get another chance.

    On a more serious note, I fear for these Chinese junk-lifters. We should be as concerned for them as for bears & tigers. Can you imagine the state of their junk by the age of 60? Dragging on the shower floor, picking up athlete’s foot, having to be coiled around the leg before they dress in the morning. As for sex – how much fun could that be from the other side of the room? Assuming they didn’t faint from redirecting all the blood needed to fill it? Please tell the wise & compassionate Mrs B that these men are to be pitied.


  2. Okay, look, let me come clean. I’ve been working non-stop for the last two weeks on a brief that I just filed a few hours ago. I’ve never worked so hard or so long and with less sleep than I just did. But now it is over – and what do I do? I get my drunk on, that’s what. And it is On. Which explains why, if not how, I posted this piece.

    And why I laughed my ass off, reading your comment, my friend.

    Please tell me – which are you closest to, Brisvegas, Melbourne or Sydney? I am still planning on visiting, and I so very much want to eat and drink with you. Let me know.


  3. I’m in Brisneyland, along with JB, Monster Yuppy, Damian, Janet, Quokka & many more. Come here and we’ll welcome you with open arms. And full bottles.


  4. Oh, good. I’m tentatively planning on starting in Bris.


  5. Not quite a total stranger – I think I might have sent that email last time I had MY drunk on. Not sure. Better apologise anyway.

    Sorry Prof.


  6. My dear husband keeps his junk in the shed. There’s just too much of it to fit in the house any more.

    Hey Melbo, I’m feeling rather rejected – why aren’t you sending me any drunken emails?


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