You know, the Spammers have taken to titling their junk such things as “End Freon Jagging Kentucky” and “hydraulic oregano geigy canaan punitive.”

This is done, ostensibly, to provide some kind of noun and verb combination and fool spam filters. Okay. But - and I might just be crazy here, but hey - doesn’t it make it kind of obvious to the guy with the delete button that this is garbage, and scream “DELETE ME! I AM SPAM!”??

A little self-defeating, eh?

True story. Reaally happened. No shit, there I was….

First a warning - the play by play on this involves cussin. If you are easily offended, I suggest a little thing called a “back button.” It isn’t pretty.

Part of my job requires a certain amount of travel in the surrounding states, especcially when local offices, not connected to our larger network, do things like get infected with certain internet worms which I have already ranted about. And lo, it came to pass that I found myself this last weekend in Lexington, KY, at the Motel Six.

Motel six. First class accomodations, baby.

ANYWAYS. I felt the need for a drink. Somehow I had managed to get a room withoutthe wet bar (ahem) so I headed on to the pop machine. Out the door, down the stairs, and I hear some lady - and I use that term loosely - screaming like a fishwife. Her and her man were having a little to-do.

Now, one thing I have learned is that jumping anywhere near the middle of one of these things is very bad news indeed. the cry for “help” is to be taken with a grain of salt, let alone if nobody asked you. Allrighty. Fine. Balcoy goes to the next set of stairs, and I don’t need the aggravation. It’s late. I’m tired. Passing above the parking lot I am treated to the sight of this woman running into the back of the man, slamming him against his car, beating her fists on him, and spitting on him. He, being about twice her size, is doing his level best to ignore her, though from the look of his face when he banged his knee against his trunk, she needs today to kneel down and thank her lucky stars she was born a woman.

This in and of itself is a column, I’m thinking. Shame that they forgot to put a high speed internet access port in my first class five star hotel room. (ahem). Cheap bastards.

It is a thing to think on. It’s long the claim of Feminuts that “women live in constant fear of abuse.” Yeahsureyabetcha. So much so that a little slip of a woman has no fear in launching herself at a man twice her size who could break her in two. I then watched as he grabbed her, moved her out of his way, and said, “You need to get a grip. Chill out. This is part of why I am out of here and done with your dumb shit.”

Good for him. Another step. Another. Then I hear a second female voice, raised in indignant shriek, “You get your hands off of her! You bastard! I’m calling the cops!”

Oh, hell no.

Damn it all to hell. so I leaned over the balcony to the tableaux below. One man, at one in the morning, wanting nothing more than to get his ass from a psycho woman. One psycho woman, dressed like a slut, with a smug smirk on her face. Another piece of trailer trash, her face blazing with righteous indignation. So I sez, “Hey! You go ahead and call, dumb bitch! I saw the whole fucking thing, so I’m going to wait right here for them.”

One man, the fear fading from his face. One smug smirk, gone, to be replaced with a jaw agape. One Trailer park queen looking up at me, saying, “What?!?!?!”

“You heard me. I saw the whole thing. She was hitting him.”

She sputtered, “You did not!”

Me, “Sure as fuck did.” I whipped out my cell phone, “Or should I call?”

At this point woman one starts blubbering, “He’s sleeping around with…” Ya-huh. The crocodile tears, and the moral indignation card. so I replied, “I don’t really give a fuck, lady. It’s one a.m., and you’re trying to send some poor slob to jail for refusing to put up with your bullshit anymore. Not on my watch.”

There’s a moment of silence. The guy says, “I just need my dog.” So I say, “I’d get him, and get.” Fishwife two trys the old, “Even if she was, that’s still no excuse to hit a woman!”

I look her dead on, and reply, “Nice try. Except he didn’t hit her. I saw the whole thing.”

“He had his hands on her!”

Now here’s a product of feminist indoctrination. Woman hits, beats, slaps, shoves, and punches a man, ain’t but a thing. Man grabs her wrists to stop her, and it’s abusive, it’s “He had his hands on her!” So rather than argue, I repeated “She hit him first. So?”

At this point the man gets out of the room, and puts his dog in the car. Fishwife one shrieks “Don’t go!” Fishwife two shrieks, “You better not leave!”

I day, “Go. Now.” I flip him my business card. “If you have trouble, I’m your man.”

The other two stand there, mouths agape as he starts the car and drives off. Fishwife one starts wailing incoherently. Fishwife two glares at me and says, “You’re no gentleman!”

I smile, and start to the pop machine again, “That’s allright. Ya’ll are no ladies.”

Think about it. The modern definition of a gentleman is a man who lets a lady slap him around and then remains quiet while he goes to jail for it. Or a man who lets this happen.

Sick, ain’t it?

I’ve spent a seventy hour workweek cleaning up viruses and doing other things related to their attacks.

So far as I am concerned, the people who write these things are terrorists, and should be treated as such. Bastards.

Sometimes you have an epiphany from the most innocuous of comments.

Just yesterday, a gent I work with came in a cussin’ about some idiot, on a bicycle, in dark clothes, on a busy and icy road at about 6 o’clock in the morning. Now I don’t know if any of you have ever had the pleasure of an Indiana winter, but here on the plains the wind can whip around in some impressive gusts from time to time, and it can about blow you over. Let alone what it would do to someone on a bike.

Now, if you will picture someone in about 10 degree weather, bundled up like a polar bear, on a bicycle and riding on a slick and well traveled road, you are probably doing a cuckoo-clock impression right now.

Not to the supporters of the nanny-state, though.

One such works in the office where I do, and Mike hadn’t even drawn a second breath before she was squawking about how “he had just as much right to be there as anyone else, and `Mike’ better just watch out all the harder, and that…” and at about this point it all sounds like “mimimimimimi” to my ears after that.

Here is where I had my epiphany. Mike wasn’t talking that the guy had no right. Mike wasn’t saying there ought to be a law against it. Mike wasn’t calling for arresting or ticketing him.

Mike said he was a bloomin’ idiot. And that’s the plain, unvarnished truth. Anyone who would bundle themselves up so as to block their vision and interfere with their movement, go out into the cold where their reactions will be slower, and do so before sunrise in dark clothing, on a bicycle, on a icy street with a lot of cars is just plain and simply a moron.

Yassuh. You may have the right to be stupid. And the trouble with that is if you push it, you may wind up dead right.