Oh For The Days When 'Spam' Was Just A Monty Python Sketch!

Thanks to the internet

my wife is a very happy woman.

My penis is now forty-seven feet long

it stays erect for weeks at a time

and it is garlanded by hundreds of genuine Rolex watches

acquired with the millions I have won

in various Albanian lotteries

and the billions generously deposited in my accounts

by the grateful executors of the wills

of innumerable African tribal chiefs

all mysteriously deceased

along with their entire extended families

in improbably gruesome lawnmower accidents in Liechtenstein.

My account with Lloyds has been suspended.

(I don't have one.)

My wife's breasts

enlarge and reduce, spontaneously,

as we use our 95% discounted software

to gaze at the pictures of our free timeshare apartments

enjoying continuous multiple orgasms

whilst admiring our genuine Chinese historical artefacts

purchased online from Hong Kong.

Our garden is full of imported rubber.

Not rubber sex toys

or even rubber boots

just: rubber.

I have more free Coldplay MP3s

than you could wave a suicide note at.

I also have Kate Moss Suction Power.

I don't know what that is,

but I am hoping it may be useful

next time the toilet needs unblocking.

I now know the Cyrillic alphabet

and the Polish for ‘are you embarrased about your size?'

Every morning, a new surrealist word juxtaposition appears in my inbox

as the spammers seek to avoid the filter.

It turk may bake!

Crabmeat be Paris!

Out evoke in robins!

Decomposing lark's vomit engulf Crystal Palace!

(ok, I mad the last one up.)

And, to prove that truth is indeed stranger than fiction

in our brave new world,

my website is recommended

as one of the top fifty stockbroking sites

on many search engines.

Now that really is Pythonesque.