Telemachus ([info]telemachus73) wrote,
@ 2005-02-22 22:27:00
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Current mood: tired
Current music:"Friend is a Four Letter Word" | Cake

Spam is so cool. I have come to the conclusion that spam email is actually one of the most creative artistic forms around. Here is your challenge: I am going to list a batch of names, taken from spam emails that are in my inbox right this moment and your assignment is to pick one and write a brief bio of that person.

I've added a couple new selections from today's batch of spam:

Hunter Tuttle
Babs Langston
Tiburcio Mauldin
Agustin Olariu
Grant Conn
Flannel J. Municipal
Gilbert Alford
Theodore Harrington
Numbers Cowan
Edgardo Butts
Wieland Amos
Dodie Iona
Booker Prewitt
Katina Michel
Elmo O'Donnell
Luann Smiley
Album A. Slavery

Booker Prewitt, what an awesome name.


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[info]telemachus73
2005-02-23 06:20 am UTC (link)
Hell, I'm just going to do it myself.

He was a legend in the old neighborhood, not the good kind of legend where there are flowers in their voices when they speak of you but the bad kind where mothers pull their sons close to them with crossed arms. Tiburcio Mauldin had vanished three years ago with nothing but a promise and a gun but even now, when the streetlamp flickered, people swore they saw his shadow in the alleys.

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[info]telemachus73
2005-02-23 06:40 am UTC (link)
Dapper and snappy, well groomed and well mannered, Grant Conn held a secret. His hair slicked back as he cruised the highways of the city in his Jaguar, always in the back of his mind was the night in the old house, on the stairs and the voices he heard there from beyond the veil. If, then, you see in the corner of his eye a twitch or in the tilt of his head a distraction, remember that not all businessmen are all business, and remember that some have dreams, and some have visions and some wear the cross above old scars.

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[info]telemachus73
2005-02-23 07:19 am UTC (link)
Each day he would come home from school and each day he would march into his room and cry. His tears, little oil tracks. His room, a tiny garage behind the junk yard. He would sit and cry over the endless teasing the children at shcool heaped on him and he would think, they hate me because I am a robot. And he nursed his loathing for humanity all through grade school. It wasn't until much later, after college, that he realized they didn't mock him because he was a robot at all. It was his name they mocked: Flannel J. Municipal.

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[info]lupschada
2005-02-23 07:49 am UTC (link)
Numbers Cowan was a productive member of the colony. He counted faster and more accurately than anyone in the office, save perhaps his father, Numbers Corban. Sometimes, though, he couldn't stop himself from gazing across the alley, through the window at the endless stacks of paper in the next office. He was transfixed by the hand of Leaflet Grinberch, which would appear at the edge of Numbers' sightline at regular intervals to remove a sheet of clean white paper and reappear seconds later to place a printed sheet on the next stack. Often, he imagined he was born to the wrong family, but Numbers Cowan never lost count.

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[info]khakipants
2005-02-23 08:20 am UTC (link)
Her legs, as the men were wont to say, really did "go all the way down to the floor". But Babs Langston wanted more out of life than just sequined costumes and catcalls from the balcony. She also wanted vodka. The more the better. And a parrot that would call her by name.

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[info]lupschada
2005-02-23 08:43 am UTC (link)
I laughed and laughed.

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[info]telemachus73
2005-02-23 08:34 am UTC (link)
Hunter Tuttle lived in a hut by the outskirts of the village. Few of the women would approach, mostly due to the smell from the carcasses that dried in the trees nearby. It wasn't fair, he thought, that he, the strongest of them all would feed them with his mighty spear and yet he was outcast. He brooded and vowed that he would have the hand of the village beauty, regardless of what those pencil pushers in town thought. He growled, "You can count on that, Numbers Cowan."

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[info]lupschada
2005-02-23 08:44 am UTC (link)
This pleased me to the gills. I actually GREW gills to be pleased to, I was so pleased.

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[info]khakipants
2005-02-23 08:56 am UTC (link)
Gilbert Alford and Theodore Harrington were very different sorts of boys. Gil was small and skinny and freckly and short-sighted. He attended a school for gifted boys and excelled at chess. Theo was big and broad and a better football player at age 9 then most members of the local high school team. He wanted to be a police officer, like his favorite uncle. The boys lived only two blocks from each other, but had never met. One day, their paths crossed on a country lane in their town. On the side of the track near where they walked, a tiny bird struggled on the ground where it had fallen from its nest. Each boy averted his eyes and hurried on his own way, acknowledging neither each other nor the suffering creature. Its pitiful squeaks sounded in their ears for much of the rest of their lives.

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[info]lupschada
2005-02-23 09:00 am UTC (link)
Edgardo Butts is on his way to court. He has waited for this day for many years. He has long been ashamed of his name, known that it diminished his standing in social situations like a weak chin. "It's a family name!" his father would shout, too forcefully, as if a lash from the belt would make it true. "You should be proud of your family!"

But father has passed, and Edgardo Butts makes his way downtown, certain that today is the first day of his new, wonderful life. His new name will pave golden roads of success. He says it aloud for the first time, savoring it. "Harold. Harry. Harry Butts."

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[info]telemachus73
2005-02-23 09:12 am UTC (link)
Hee hee.

Astrid used to know a guy named Harry Grossballs.

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Augustin Olariu
(Anonymous)
2005-02-23 10:26 am UTC (link)
Augustin pushed his thick glasses back up his oily nose and squinted at the woman in front of him. "What this?" he asked pointing at her breasts. She gasped, outraged. "How dare you!"
She thought about slapping him, but his skin grossed her out and she settled for spitting and flounced away.
Augustin adjusted his pants, and pulled them up over his belly button. American women are such sluts. In his village in spain he was king.

-Gail

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Re: Augustin Olariu
[info]lupschada
2005-02-23 10:28 am UTC (link)
This is my best friend Gail. Now you see she is a golden god.

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[info]jaubertmoniker
2005-02-23 01:45 pm UTC (link)
Wieland Amos, or "Heinous Amos", as he was known to those who knowingly knew of him (for he had no real friends), lived a tragically miserable and altogether unfortunate life. He was born with a gruesome, distended lower jaw and ensconced bodily within a cloud of noisome stench and dust, as if some bizarre and terrible amalgamation of the fictionals Popeye and Pigpen from Sunday funnies of yore. It was this duo of infirmities that earned him his nickname, which would follow him to his foul, misshapen grave.

Abandoned by his parents, he spent his lonely days and nights tiringin filthy dishabille over small figurines he would whittle from chunks of wood found in the trainyard near his orphanage, every awkward thrust and parry of his knife shaving another millimeter closer to something that looked slightly human, though just as disfigured as he himself. Wieland took some solace in his handcrafted bagatelles, and would often be seen performing atrocious vignettes with them, only to be scolded by his caretaker for the obscenities he used to pepper the dialogue, invariably committed to memory from the other boys' taunts.

What talent the creature may have had, however, was never to be known. For one day he simply started a purblind stumble eastward down the tracks, his asymmetrical visage and grey-brown aura never to be seen again.

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