Spam Poem

From a spam I just got (This is almost… something): Their expensive round boots is thinking. Her white shining glasses adheres. The white spoon calms-down. His brothers slopy t-shirt stands-still.

am I real yet?

I guess I am. Comment spammers found me at my new typepad address, so I guess I’m real. Many definitions of reality wandering around out there… Mine, for the moment, gets to be: If the idiots can find you, you’re there.