Some of the spam messages I receive on a regular basis are for products I can’t disclose in a family-friendly newspaper. However, I started receiving unusual emails about unmentionables, and I am going to mention those: Wonderbra, Super-Lift Bra and my favorite, Bra Genie.
It struck me as odd that I would get so many promotions for these items. Manufacturers nowadays have all kinds of ways to target their messages to the appropriate market. So why was a regular guy like me getting stuff like this? I tried red-flagging keywords so this type of advertising would go directly to my spam folder, but all it did was block some really good coupons for Kentucky Fried Chicken.
While discussing this issue with friends, I found it impossible to avoid immature plays on words. I would say things like: “I want to keep abreast of this problem.” Or, “Who are the boobs sending me this junk?” I was disappointed in myself, but there is nothing more alluring than easy double entendres, and I am weak.
I wanted to know why these ads were flooding my inbox, so I called my techie friend and told him I had this problem that was staring me smack in the face. He responded, “OK, Dick, it sounds like you need some support.”
“Oh no, Kevin, now you’re doing it!” I was obviously a bad influence. He couldn’t help me, so it was time to figure this out myself, and I finally did. Not long ago, I wrote an essay about how I was taking boxing lessons, playing Pickle Ball and generally trying to get fit. Toward the end of the story I mentioned that I thought I was in relatively good shape except that my chest needed a little development.
The column appeared in this newspaper and on Facebook and then probably ended up in the search engines at Google, Bing, and Yahoo. Do you know how algorithms work? I don’t either. But apparently my observation that I was unhappy with my chest found its way to brassiere makers the world over, who selected me from a database of those people displeased with their upper half.
As I was writing this column, I printed all the spam ads so I could reference them more easily. When Mary Ellen was poking around my office looking for an envelope, she saw the pages on my desk and assumed that either I thought she needed a Bra Genie or I wanted to order one for myself. You can see that neither alternative was going to lead to a conversation a husband would be eager to have with his wife.
To make matters worse, some computer software programs couldn’t distinguish between “dissatisfied with your upper half” and “unhappy with your better half,” which meant I got a slew of ads for do-it-yourself divorce kits.
When I explained to Mary Ellen why I was getting spammed, I admitted that I had looked at several of the bra ads. I also vowed to stop making childish puns. It was good to get all that off my chest.
