A Threatening Cypriot Surprise from Sophia

The e-mail subject line “Just don’t let the days past you by without enjoying them to the fullest!” seems vaguely like a threat. I can imagine a silver-haired witch saying it with an Eastern European accent and a toothless smile while handing me a cursed trinket. So obviously, when an e-mail with that subject line arrived in my inbox, I really had to click on it. I was met with the following missive: 

Hello, mighty man! How are you?
I feel so lonely these days! I guess you would make a hot company for any playful babe like me! Why dont we meet online to get each other better? I have a number of thrilling nude pics at this dating website. Please be there for me! The registration is free. I will tell you everything in a private chat, sugar!
Cannot wait to see you! >>>>>>>   

Now
———-
To not receive this message again, visit the page below:

or write to:
Nautell Capital Limited, Stasinou, 1 Mitsi Building 1, 1st floor, Office 4 Plateia Eleftherias, Nicosia Cyprus 106

It took me a few reads, but I finally came to the realization that there is a singular line that makes this e-mail creepier than most ridiculous spam. Yes, there, in the middle of all this sex chat and weird adjectives like ‘playful’ and ‘thrilling,’ is the sentence, “Please be there for me!” 

This is the point at which the e-mail goes from being a funny romp in the world of cyber solicitation to something out of an episode of Law & Order: SVU, Cyprus Edition. Does anyone actually think that watching some chick take her clothes off on a webcam constitutes ‘being there’ for her? That person is a shitty person. Or is this a plea for help? Most importantly, why are you making me feel weird and responsible for this bot’s safety, weird sex website? This is a very bad marketing campaign, seriously.

Also, please notice that the e-mail ends with the words, “Cannot wait to see you…Now.” That is fucking terrifying and undoubtedly threatening. Is the Sophia of the e-mail address about to show up at my apartment dressed like a rabbit, or pick me up tonight in a converted taxi cab like the Bone Collector? Jesus. Way to give me a panic attack, Nautell Capital Limited. I’m going elsewhere for my viruses. 

On The Indignity of Spray Tanning

As I’ve mentioned before on this blog, I was born with a pale yellow complexion akin to a discolored tooth. I have dark hair and dark eyebrows; I just look better with a tan. So today I went to the Beach Bum Tanning Salon on 86th Street to get a spray tan. 

First of all, you have to be buzzed into Beach Bum, an establishment that sits under a massive awning announcing the fact that it caters to the lily white and vain among us. This means that I stood waiting outside for a good three minutes, which doesn’t seem like that long a time when you’re not waiting to be let inside a tanning salon but really does when you are. After climbing the flight of stairs to the salon, I was rung up by a freckled girl who was animatedly grooving to the City High song, “Caramel,” while she was charging my credit card. Then I was led into the Mystic Tanning both and given a set of complicated instructions. 

“Here,” said the employee tasked with explaining how to use the machine to me as she handed me two plastic bags. In one were sticky foot shaped pads that I was instructed to affix to the soles of my feet so I didn’t end up with leathery-looking feet like a Hobbit. In the other was a shower cap. “Get undressed, wait until the machine is ready, then put barrier cream all over your hands and go into the booth. Wave your hand in front of the sensor and the spray tanning will begin.” 

When she left, I quickly disrobed, trying to minimize the amount of time I stood in the room in just my underwear. The Mystic booth is a closed chamber, but you have to do all the preparing outside of the booth, in a closet-like space that looked like there might be a hidden camera in the vent. I quickly stuck the foot pads onto the soles of my feet, then applied the barrier cream to my hands like I’d be told to. When the machine announced that the ‘warming-up period’ was complete and it was okay for me to get in the booth, I gingerly opened the door and took my position. 

Inside the booth, there were four numbered foot-shaped tiles on the floor. A robotic voice instructed me to place my left foot on Number 1 and my right foot on Number 3, and when I’d done so, the voice piped in and told me that “the spray tan [was] commencing.” 

Let me tell you – there’s nothing quite like standing half-naked in a weird booth in a weird tanning salon while a machine sprays an ice-cold mist all over your body and face. I felt kind of like I was being waterboarded, and I was concerned that I was standing incorrectly and setting myself up to be half orange, like a Bridge and Tunnel version of Two Face. Luckily, I seem to have succeeded in getting a pretty good tan, except for one thing: my hands are a different color than the rest of my body and look like I just got a hand transplant.

Hi handsome! ;)

There’s nothing like a spamalicious e-mail to put me in a good mood. This gem arrived in my inbox earlier today:

Hi handsome! 😉

If you looking forward about spending great time in a company of funny, cute chick then I’m waiting for u!
I really liked ur photo shots and that’s why decided to send this mail! I’m sure that you wouldn’t stay disappointed after staring at mine too.
So, I wait for you to answer this message and who knows we will go somewhere, drink some vodka, talk about different subjects and who knows I gonna invite you to visit my life! 😉

You can find my profile here: xxxxxxx

With kisses,
Trinity

First of all, just who does Trinity assume I am? “Hi handsome”?! Jeez. This reminds me of that time a waiter called me ‘Sir.’

Furthermore, I’m pretty sure that ‘going somewhere,’ ‘drinking some vodka’ and ‘talking about different subjects’ sound like three suggestions a bunch of aliens would make during a round of Taboo if the category was ‘Humanoid Courting Rituals.’ This begs the question: are we missing out on having contact with extraterrestrials by not checking our Spam inboxes?

I must admit, though – I can’t stop thinking about whether or not Trinity gonna invite me to visit her life! Can you even imagine? Just chilling like Zenon, looking out of a space portal at a red dwarf, drinking cold vodka and chatting with an alien from Mars Attacks. I’m SO DOWN.

Who knows.

With kisses,
Caroline

To the guy in CVS with Rabbit Foot Hair:

Excuse me, guy on line in front of me at CVS: could you please explain to me why you shaved 99% of your head but left a small patch of hair intact on your crown and then dyed that hair green? Is that your good luck chunk of hair or something? Has a bird shat on that spot on your head a record-breaking number of times? I’m really at a loss here. Moreover, why green, the color of fungus, algae and rotting flesh? It’s not even a nice green – it’s more of a sickly chartreuse. Just horrible.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that your ‘cool,’ ‘subversive’ hairstyle looks like something in a movie about bullying where the popular boys glue a gangrenous rabbit’s foot to the back of a nerd’s head while he’s passed out after drinking his first beer at his first party or something. It’s bumming me out just looking at it, and I think you should shave it the fuck off immediately, if not sooner.

A Merry Belated Krampusnacht to One and All!

A Merry Belated Krampusnacht to One and All!

I was super bummed when I realized yesterday that I missed Krampusnacht this year. Now I feel like I have to pour one out for my homie, Krampus, because I didn’t get to party with him on December 5th. BOO.

For those of you who don’t know who Krampus is, he’s a fun-loving bitch who likes to do festive things around the holidays like stomp on ornaments with his one cloven hoof and stuff badly-behaved children into a burlap sack. (As an aside, I’m pretty sure this is also exactly how Swiss people sexually role play during the winter.)

The origin of Mr. Krampus dates all the way back to Pre-Christian Germanic tradition. In fact, up until relatively recently, he was still considered by those living in the Alps to be the ‘yin’ to Santa’s ‘yang.’ So what does that mean, exactly? Well, basically, where Santa’s purpose in life is to do lame shit like ‘spread joy’ and ‘give kind, thoughtful gifts to children and old people,’ the Krampus lives to get trashed, make kids cry and scare the living daylights out of anyone who sees his devil-ass-looking face. Apparently, he’s also kind of a lech, and he particularly loves the company of zaftig ladies. I’m positive that he and I would get along like a house on fire – specifically, a house that’s on fire because he’s torched it for a laugh.

So hey, even though I may have missed Krampusnacht this year, that doesn’t mean I can’t still drink a few glasses of whiskey one night and trip a pitchy caroller in honor of Krampus, the O.G. (Original Grinch). Let the belated wild Krampus begin!

The Creepiest Sweater Ever?

The Creepiest Sweater Ever?

This is an actual sweater for sale in a store. I don’t really know what the creature woven into the front of it is supposed to be. It looks like a bunch of different weird things, including a flasher, a cockroach, and a cockroach flasher. My boyfriend thinks it looks like an omen in a scary Japanese movie that would pop out from behind trees and shit to remind you of your mortality. Whatever it is, its red eyes and the fact that it looks like it’s fleeing from a predator seriously give me the heebie-jeebies.