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Something That May Have Hatched from Green Eggs, and Spam

Starting with the spam.

I wanted to warn anyone who may want to leave a comment around here — and commenters always welcome! Step right up; no lines, no waiting! — that I did a bit of tinkering on the comment script, to stem the tsunami of spam comments that have been slipping past the goalie.

You see, I left the site hanging out for the better part of two years — with comments turned off for much of that time — while the rest of the interwebs (including the mass marketing weasels) continued to evolve. And I haven’t updated any code since I came back and flipped the lights back on. Which means I’m now blogging with the software equivalent of a pointy stick, scratching on a damp cave wall. On the battlefield of spam management, I’m a cute little bunny rabbit sitting in no man’s land.

“If you should try to comment and receive any message that contains the word ‘bitchslappify‘ — oh, you’ll know the one — please shoot me an email to tell me I’m an idiot.”

(And I don’t mean a vicious Holy Grail bunny, or even a Bugs ‘escape by a whisker’ Bunny.

I’m talking about one of those glassy-eyed inbred pet store rabbits that wouldn’t know its cotton tail from a rattlesnake’s nest in the ground — the kind where you’d put a carrot under a box with a string tied to it and think, ‘this is too cliche; it’s never going to work’, but this bunny would say, ‘OMG CARRUTS LOL!!!1eleventy!’ and hop right in, because it’s just that stupid. That kind of bunny.)

Yesterday, I awoke to 300+ ‘comments’ that bested my Stone Age filters, and another couple thousand that managed to get themselves red-flagged. And sending those bastard ads back to the fiery depths of hell is not the sort of ‘blogging’ that I came back to do. So I tinkered.

And it’s helped — this morning, there was one — just one — measly little spamment lurking in the inbox. So the problem’s not ‘solved’, but at least maybe now I’m working with papyrus, or chipping away at stone blocks. I can work with that.

But the last time I ‘tinkered’, I made an unfortunate typo and basically made it so that no one could comment, anywhere, ever. So please: If you should try to comment and receive any message that contains the word ‘bitchslappify‘ — oh, you’ll know the one — please shoot me an email to tell me I’m an idiot.

Again. And stuck in the stone ages, at least until I can pull in some software released after the Carter administration. Many graciases in advance.

While I’m here, I’ll share a quick snippet that happened to me earlier in the week. I was out at a local watering hole ‘n’ grill where I’ve eaten a few times before, and — without glancing at the menu — asked for the ‘chicken cutlet sandwich’.

(Because that’s what I do. Yesterday, I said bread wasn’t a ‘thing’ with me. Chicken cutlet sandwiches are, evidently. We all have our delicious crosses to bear.)

The waitress — lovely girl, very helpful and patient — then proceeded to describe, in some detail, that what they serve isn’t actually a ‘chicken cutlet’ sandwich, but rather a breaded chicken patty. And point by point, she elucidated the difference and the relative merits of each from both aesthetic and gastronomical viewpoints. It was quite illuminating. When she finished, I nodded and said:

“Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, really. But if I were the kind of person who could appreciate the difference between ‘cutlet’ and ‘patty’, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be ordering here in the first place. Frankly, I’ll be impressed if the thing’s actually made of chicken.”

I had the good sense to leave out my very favorite and oft-repeated advice from Krusty the Clown when considering such matters: ‘Think smaller. More legs.‘ But the waitress seemed taken aback, maybe even a little offended at my characterization of the cuisine.

(For the record, I’m not off base here. Out of line, maybe. But when everything on the menu comes with fries, and the fries are as likely to come intermingled with onion ring batter, skinny fishsticks, ‘chicken’ patty crumbs or what appear to be deep-fried cigarette butts — not off base.)

Anyway, I’m happy to report that the waitress did get back to me with the meal. And my breaded mystery meat, saliva, dishwater and lettuce sandwich — compliments of the chef, don’t you know — was simply delicious.

Even better than my usual chicken cutlet sandwich, even. Hey, maybe that waitress really does know her stuff.