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Davis, California

Friday, December 3, 2021

Column: Spam

I hate spam. While they’re thoroughly annoying and occasionally trick me into clicking on links to black market drugs (did you know “Super Active” and “Professional” Viagra exist? Neither did I, apparently), these e-mails are relatively harmless – until now. This past week I was emotionally browbeaten by a series of e-mails I received from a beautiful girl (with poor grammar) named Daria. In lieu of paraphrasing I will provide the e-mails right here, without editing.

“Let’s talk more, my bunny. When you stopped a taxi for me, it was very nice, do not want to see me again? Daria. Click here.”

What? Are there taxis in Davis? I was dumbfounded. What the fuck is going on? The last time I hailed a cab (or “stopped a taxi”) for anybody was when I was playing GTA IV – and let me tell you, it was anything but “nice.” Maybe she’s got me confused with somebody else? I mean, for chrissakes, it says the sender is “dkarimi@ucdavis.edu” and the recipient is also “dkarimi@ucdavis.edu.” How the fuck is that possible?

Before I knew it, however, Daria was back for more:

“I want you, my sweet – come in, had not seen each other! Hello – I like you did not say – do you remember when we made love three? Who you like more? I am a Russian girl with blonde or America? Waiting for an answer – if you like – continue. Click here.”

Sorry, Daria, I don’t like, and I probably won’t continue. Whatever the hell that means. And honestly, the only time I “made love three” was when I was eating two McChickens with cheese and extra mayo at the same time. Also, you’re talking to me as if I’m at your front door: “come in, had not seen each other!” I’m pretty sure I’m staring at my screen at 7 a.m., half-naked, with crusted drool on my face and that bullshit yellow nugget hanging off the corner of my eye. And don’t even get me started on Russian girls with blonde. They drive me insane. I much prefer Russian girls with ginger, to be honest.

All right, Daria. Your little game is over. I clicked on that fucking link you sent me. I TRIED to continue. But guess where I ended up? A mail-order bride website! Are you kidding me? Do you honestly think I’m going to participate in this human trafficking? I THOUGHT YOU WERE REAL. I THOUGHT I COULD FALL IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE OVER THE INTERNETS.

I don’t want to get bogged down in the mail-order bride debate, as it can get pretty depressing, so I’ll scratch the surface for your enjoyment. Some believe that the women are, in effect, selling themselves to unknown male predators. But some feminists contend (now that’s a word journalists love) that the women are making fully informed decisions before they marry and that they’re not forced to do anything.

I agree with the feminists to an extent – but there’s something that makes me a little uneasy. Many mail-order brides are in poor countries and are eager to get out. Is it possible that this desperation could lead the mail-order brides to act against their own interests? I’ll leave it up to you to decide if that’s a sound argument or not.

By the way, there’s an ethical correlation (not a strong one, but one worth thinking about) between this argument and the morality of accepting black market organs. The World Health Organization has declared that “transplantation tourism” can violate human rights and most often exploits poor people. The National Organ Transplant Act of 1984 reflects this belief in America. It states that it is a crime “for any person to knowingly acquire, receive or otherwise transfer any human organ for valuable consideration for use in human transplantation.” Let that baby percolate in your head.

(Tangent: I’m listening to “Thong Song” by Sisqó, and I have to say, he’s WAY too fucking dramatic about thongs. He’s got a fucking violin ensemble for crying out loud. It’s not that big of a deal, Sisqó. But you’ve got a catchy hook, so you’re forgiven.)

The website I went to, realtsmolensk.ru, said it has, “The best selection on Russian brides” and that they’re “100 percent checked.”

Thank god they aren’t 80 percent checked. Then I’d be fucked.

DAVE KARIMI didn’t find love this time, but that’s okay because he’s banking on another e-mail from Daria. If you’d like to be his Daria, e-mail him at dkarimi@ucdavis.edu.

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