OK, You Kids Can Stop Sending Me Viruses Now ...

... I'm on to you. You can stop messing with my shit and go back to hosing down tram cars in whatever Eastern European backwater you call your homeland. Despite what my mother says, I'm not an imbicile (the incident with the cop and the Buick full of M80s not withstanding). I know the files you've been e-mailing me, from such faux-compelling e-mail addresses as "customeralart [sic]@ebbay.com" and "bkstgepasses@yahoo.com," contain bad mojo. And you can save your textual come-ons for your jaundaced, semi-literate friends. I won't fall for "here's your file" or "click on the document below" or "check out these photos of Mother Theresa sucking off the 1978 Toronto Blue Jays" (at least not again). How would you like it if I came up to your drab, concrete-slab flat and burned your Dido and Iron Maiden posters and threw Borscht and boiled cabbage around your room? No so much, I'd imagine. Stick that in the pocket of your Kappa Sport hoodie, bitch.