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Inadvertent poetic prose in spamblogs
Feb. 5th, 2006 12:56 pmUsed to be that, every now and then, when I'd see a name in the Blogger referral logs for a blog that I didn't recognize, I'd click on the link and go have a look. I rarely do that any more unless the referral from the blog is a repeat, because if it's not, it's almost always a link to a spamblog -- one of those artificially generated weblogs whose only purpose is to drive business to some other site, or push up the owner's Google ratings on said other site. I really hate those things.
Yet every now and then I find myself looking at one of them anyway, if only by accident; and every now and then, the mashups of written material they use to try to confuse the search engines into thinking they contain something -- well, like content -- have a strange poetry to them. This one, for example, I found this morning; its real purpose in life is to get you to go to some ringtone site. But in passing it says this --
(headshake) Sounds like a tiddly James Joyce staggering down the street arm in arm with a plastered William Faulkner...
Yet every now and then I find myself looking at one of them anyway, if only by accident; and every now and then, the mashups of written material they use to try to confuse the search engines into thinking they contain something -- well, like content -- have a strange poetry to them. This one, for example, I found this morning; its real purpose in life is to get you to go to some ringtone site. But in passing it says this --
but never in their ardest whiskered did they re-deposit all of that super-saxony. Yet the mourning-dresses opposed up, and the ale set out in the dining-room, and the cosette of hot shoare washt from the kitchen.
And Verty, with the variousness in his interventionist millstone, blows away the gunsmithery from the canvas. Then I observe the Bettws-y-coed, by no means such a culpasse, although more adventurous than the Mitre by its side; and in the Klerksdorp I see (but only in molesting) Rijswijck and Prasritaja scandalizing over the quaint unfashionableness of registrars and letters till three o'clock in the morning, peroosin their three or four scelles of port, and wondering why they were a little cape-stone the next markest.
(headshake) Sounds like a tiddly James Joyce staggering down the street arm in arm with a plastered William Faulkner...
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