A particularly creative header popped up in my spam box today:
Touch her heart with your new babymaker
I’m trying to visualize this, particularly how said babymaker is supposed to get past my cervix, fundus, and diaphragm in order to make its way into my chest cavity. And how I’m supposed to breathe once it’s there. I’m sort of picturing it like an anti-IUD, implanted like a pacemaker, but in the shape of a penis.
I suppose it could be a newfangled version of the old wandering womb myth, with the heart now being the mobile organ? Honestly, that sounds preferable to having a disembodied dick making the rounds, internally.
The body of the email rather anticlimactically promises:
We have everything to cure your masculinity.
I hate to imagine where that masculinity might end up transplanted – maybe onto the recipient’s forehead?
I’ll stop now before we discover what lies on the far side of the NC-17 rating.