I suppose it is guerdon for my many sins. What it was, see, was that when I met the Engineer he lived in a group house, and in that house there also lived a Woman Of Easy Virtue ™, by which I mean not that she had many lovers (she did) but that the Official BF was a Republican cable-show host from the neighboring county. That, I regarded as a shocking lack of discrimination.
That said, he was an affable chump, the character in every group-house situation comedy who doesn’t really live there or contribute to the household but merely takes possession of one end of the couch and watches the cable he’s too cheap to pay for at his own place. I can’t remember who nicknamed him Pod, or why, but he always did look like something that would eventually yield up a life form. I was doing a good deal of local political activawhatsit then, and Republicans hadn’t manifested the level of prion disease they do nowadays, meaning we had pleasant enough conversations (he actually ran a campaign against one of the wingnuts the Former Guy eventually appointed to run something or other; yes, there was a time when Republicans-in-the-street actually begged to differ with the Tin Foil wing of the party). So when he asked if he could put me on his mailing list, I said fine, sure, worth knowing what the opposition is doing.
Fast forward fifteen years.
There is no other explanation. I can’t remember the last time I got mail from the guy, but suddenly I — having been deluged by every left-of-center entity that can compose a begging e-mail for years — am now receiving desperate solicitations from the Former Guy and all his tribe. The one who ignores molestation going on in front of his eyes. The one with a head like a breadbox. The one with hair like a pubic toupee whose neighbor beat the crap out of him, probably with cause. I assume they all bought and traded mailing lists like Pod’s.
Every fkin morning. “We’ve reached out to you SEVEN TIMES — won’t you join our movement?”
These things are low tech. You Click Here To Unsubscribe and an e-mail form pops up, which sounds like a great way to confirm they have a live e-mail address. Screw that. There’s a reason God made the Delete key. Like the cicadas which are making Virginia’s outdoors into an H. R. Giger Hellscape, I figure they will eventually go away.
Goddamn you, Pod. I should have known better. And tried harder the day I arm wrestled you to a standstill.