The bygone greatness of email spam

Today I clicked open my inbox (at work, no less!) and found a letter from Madam Beatrice Elubo. The message had been shipped to the trashbox by my spam filter, but I was curious what kind of woman referred to herself as “madam.” I opened the letter.

Inside I found one of those old-school scams, the kind of letter that made me nostalgic for the days when I was 13 and believed my email could change the world. I still remember my first petition: it was on behalf of a Botswanan boy whom, for lack of memory, I’ll call Ted. Ted had no arms, no legs, no parents and no liver. He had no liver because he’d been poisoned by his evil uncle as part of a vicious inheritance battle that had already claimed 100 Botswanan lives. Despite the apparent hopelessness (not to mention biological inviability) of his situation, Ted held out hope that kind strangers like myself would sign his email, bringing him one name closer to the 1,000,000 signatures required for a free liver transplant in his home country.

I signed another on behalf of the woman of Afghanistan, who were treated like cattle under the Taliban. Despite the tragic melodrama attached to descriptions of these women’s lives, we now know that much of these abuses reflected the truth. It’s too bad my sign of support never reached anyone in power. It strikes me in retrospect that it might have been misplaced email spam, along with fear of terrorism, that softened the President’s stony Texan heart and inspired him to invade.

Looking back, the point of these scams eludes me. They certainly weren’t targeted at swindling me out of cash. Perhaps email spam provides an outlet for stunted creative writers trapped in midlevel managerial positions. It certainly sounds like the kind of thing I would do, given time and unrestricted Internet access.

Today’s letter was more of the same. The madam in question begged sanctuary in the US for herself and her young son. She had been entrusted by her dying husband with 8.5 million dollars, and she needed refuge and investment advice. Midway through the heartfelt missive, the madam revealed that she’d pay 15% of her fortune in exchange for these services. Never mind the unlikeliness of an African royal emailing random American strangers. What upset me is that it was so out of character for a desperate woman to switch from pleading for her very existence to haggling like a real estate broker over the commission.

Perversely, I wanted to respond. I wanted to say that for only 5% more, I’d get her refuge, investment advice, and a lifelong membership with the Friends of the National Zoo. Surely she, living on the wild side in Africa, understands the value of preserving the pride and glory of our planet’s endangered species?