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  • Writer's pictureJerry Della Femina


[Reprint of a column that ran in Jan. 2017.]

I miss spam.

These days my email is filtered every day and tossed by an unseen hand into junk mail.

The fact is that for the past three years, my office email only accepts messages from my friends. Sadly, I have discovered I have few friends, and no one wants to go to bed with me. I find myself yearning for the good old days when many of the emails I received came from people who wanted to enlarge my penis, sell me Viagra for a penny a pill, and give me a mortgage at two percent.

I want spam back in my life and I will be a better man for it.

To tell you the truth, life without spam has left me lonely.

My life has been empty.

The MeToo Gestapo has made it impossible for me flirt with a real woman.

I would never do anything about it. But I just remember when flirting was good harmless fun.

Today send someone a lousy heart emoji and if she turns out to be one of those dreaded MeToo women, the next day you read your name in the NY Post and you wind up getting a call from her lawyer suggesting what it will cost you so that your grandchildren won’t learn you’re a disgusting degenerate.

These days I want to scream out, “Damn you, Harvey Weinstein and Bill Cosby! You’re a couple of pigs and you’ve destroyed the fun of innocent flirting forever!”

I yearn for the good old days when I could amuse myself just reading my emails.

One of my favorites in the old days was Flora Zunalus, who sent me an email that started:

“good day

I hope you are doing fine over there in your reside country”

Flora was obviously so blinded by her lust for me that she didn’t have time to find out that the USA was my “reside country.”

English clearly was not my Flora’s first ... second ... or even 10th language.

She went on to say:

“Am looking for a honest partner for a good relationship,

therefore if you don’t mind I would love you to reply me,

so that from their we get to know each other.”

I didn’t “reply her” at so I missed my chance.

Then came Mercy Mitchell.

She sent me an email with the subject “Hy.” Since the only Hy I know is my friend Hy Abady, I quickly opened it to find out what she had to tell me about Hy.

Turn out she didn’t mean “Hy,” she meant “Hi,” and since “Hi” is only a two-letter word, I found it interesting that she still managed to misspell it.


how are you?

Am mercy by name.

I came across your fascinating profile and wish to know you better for a discussion of a vital issue.

Please touch me at so that we can communicate effectively.



Now I know there are some of you cynics out there who knew this was spam. Well, at the time I was so desperate for a friend that I chose to believe these women wanted me. And, if it was spam, so be it.

And so I used to be satisfied hearing from fake spam women who, you should pardon the expression, were looking looking to suck my bankroll dry.

Yes, I miss the women who wrote me every day and whose only wish was for me to see them nude.

Goodbye Velma, Crissy, Misty, Wendy and Bootsie. I’m sorry I missed all those opportunities you gave me to watch you in your bath.

Goodbye to all those married women who wrote me provocative emails to tell me that their husbands were out of town too often, and all I had to do was enter their er ... er ... website, and I could watch photos of them doing unmentionable things to their next-door neighbors.

It’s too late now for me to meet those thousands of lonely women from Russia and Poland and the Ukraine – women who would be happy, for a fee, to show up at my doorstep, pick me up in their muscular peasant arms, and carry me off into the sexual sunset.

I miss it all. I still remember my first piece of spam. There I was, brand new to the internet, an innocent. My first email was from someone named Velma. It had an innocent heading, something like, “Hello Jerry, I forgot to tell you ... Velma.”

My first reaction was: I don’t remember talking to anyone named Velma, so let me open this email. In her letter, Velma offered to do sexual things to me that would cause my back to go out and my eyeballs to pop out of their sockets. All I had to do was click onto the next page.

Naturally, I didn’t do it. But the next day there were messages from Monica and Amy and Brenda, all offering to do things to me that made Velma seem like a nun.

With all the sexually suggestive messages I’ve received over the years, my all-time favorite spam message was not a sexual one. It came about 8 years ago, in the middle of the night – at 2:26 a.m., to be exact.

I was awakened when my phone gave a little ring to tell me I had just received a new email. I jumped up and fumbled for my phone. The message was an innocent one offering to help me further my education.

It read:


I laughed myself back to sleep.

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