Generally speaking, I’m not one to complain about spam.* With all the fancy filters and security programs they have nowadays, it’s not as though I find myself wading through 50+ emails about penis enlargement or more penis enlargement. In fact, I find it kind of funny that somewhere in
the world a Denny’s, there is a person who has received an email from a Sudanese attorney desperate to unload his deceased client’s fortune and thought, “Finally, my ship has come in!”
But then I got this email the other day:
Job spam? Really? You know times are tough when the best way to get people to fork over personal information is to get them to apply for a job.
That’s some serious social commentary. Think about it: If you assume that spammers tailor their scam topics for maximum effectiveness (i.e. that which is most desirable to the largest group of people), it’s safe to assume that five years ago all anyone wanted a better orgasm. The economy was doing so well and The Container Store so totally organized our lives that the only thing left to worry about was climaxing like a rock star. That’s pretty impressive.
But now apparently we live in a depressing world where jobs are cooler than vaginal penetration. And not even fucking awesome jobs like Astronaut Surgeon or whatever Tom Hanks did in Big, but an entry level position at an advertising agency. Sure, the job requirements may be lax (no one’s thinking, “Solving problems? Doing two things at once? This clearly isn’t for me”), but the main draws of the job include “drawing up reports” and “following security procedures.”
Not only that, but the fact that they’re offering you a job position “according with your skills and experience level,” which basically means, “We don’t know you, but we’re pretty sure you’re unsuccessful.” Meaning that some poor sap is going to get sucked into this scam by thinking, “Well, it’s better than being unemployed.”
So today, I do have a problem with spam. Not because it’s clogging my inbox, but because it’s a well known fact that sympathy causes crow’s feet. So fuck you for making me feel something, spam. You may not have gotten my personal information, but you stole something much more valuable: my heart.
* The emails, not the canned meat. I’ll bitch about meat in a can all I want, especially after Richard Velazquez’s mom called me a “picky eater” for refusing to try it while having dinner at his house in the fifth grade. I remember thinking that if being a picky eater meant not eating spam, then I was okay with that.