<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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, “Okay, Dick, it sounds like you need some support.”</p>
<p>“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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><em>Television personality Dick Wolfsie writes this weekly column for the Daily Journal. Send comments to <a href="mailto:[email protected]">[email protected]</a>.</em></p>
