Saturday, January 20, 2007

Some days are just made for kicking back and feeling the world. Time to turn off the cell phone, open the window and let the cool air remove that stale winter smell.
Why are the simplest pleasures also the best ones? Hot coffee. The sound of a cold wind popping against the warm interior of the chimney. The loyal affection of a cat that's seen more than a few of my jobs come and go. And the constitutional guarantee that I'll never have to quarter a soldier in peacetime unless I want to.
Give me a wireless internet connection, the smell of burning pine, a forgotten pop hit from my high school days, the clean sweat that comes from honest work, and a harsh, skin-drying soap to scrub it off with. These are the days made for sitting for hours with old friends and not saying anything.
Friday, on the other hand, was all about working.
Before pulling an all-nighter backing up some production servers during the outage window I didn't vote for, we had some fun digging through the spam filter.
Every once in a while, a person needs to dig through there looking for messages mistakenly flagged as spam.
In this particular trip (and all of them are like digging through a sewer) we noticed an email with a subject line that looked suspiciously genuine.
Upon reviewing the text on the inside, our suspicious were confirmed. We wondered why this person's order for something or other got flung off as spam -- until we noticed the sender's name. His first name was unremarkable but his last name is a slang word for a certain part of the male anatomy. I can't specify for the sake of the children.
According to the way our spam filter works, if certain words show up inside the email over a set number of times, the message is auto-flagged as spam.
In this case, the preceding RE:'s and FW:'s containing his email address (which was partly made up of his name) crossed that line.
My co-worker wondered out loud what the (slang word for part of the male anatomy) limit was.
I promptly fell to the floor laughing and gasped out, "If I had a nickel for every time I'd heard that . . . "


Anonymous said...

Indeed. What is the limit?

Really, sometimes you just have to file the papers and change your name when your introduction illicits giggles. A low rent porn star name is no way to go through life.

Pamela Moore said...

This fellow deserves pity. It's not easy going through life as Johnny McJunk. Why, I had a great uncle named Peter Gries. Never met the man, but Mom said he had a lot of cats.