I was inundated with spam email from a company selling "spy" cameras for $59.99. The camera was obviously nothing more than a basic web cam that can be purchased at any variety store for $29.99. Repeated attempts to have myself removed from their distribution list failed and blocking the emails was fruitless since the address changed from mailing to mailing. It was then that I noticed that I could send a request for more information to be sent via the U.S. Postal Service that would include a postage paid envelope for ordering by regular mail.

I figured I would take the advice of Dave Berry and get back at the company by stuffing the envelope with their own "more information," then send it back to them. I figured if I included a note asking them to remove me from their distribution list and was spending their dime to do it, that they might take me a bit more seriously.

Within a week my information arrived. I typed out a short request asking to be removed from the company's list and placed it in the postage paid envelope with the brochure they had sent. I was about to seal the envelope when I had a new and improved idea.

The term "spam," which is the common term for unsolicited mass commercial email, came from an old Monte Python's Flying Circus sketch. In the routine, the comedians repeatedly chant the word "Spam" to the point that it obliterates any other dialog. The "Spam" that Monte Python's Flying Circus referred to is a real potted meat product made by Hormel Foods. The origin of the actual potted meat is unknown.

I thought it might help to drive my point home if I included a can of the mystery meat with my mailing. First, I bought some Spam, attached a note to the can and packaged it inside a small box. I then taped the postage paid reply envelope, stuffed with my message and the company's brochure, to the box. Last, I dropped the package in a mailbox at the post office.

I can only imagine the surprise as someone opened the envelope stuffed with my unsubscribe request. It could only be unmatched by the opening of the box where the person would find a can of Spam with the message, "Please stop sending me this."

It has been several months since I sent the package. So far, I haven't received anymore offers to buy a "spy" camera.

A friend of mine runs a painting business in the Triad, North Carolina area. He and his brother originally started the company and since it was just the two of them in the beginning, they named the business "Two Guys Who Paint." His brother readily admitted that he hated to paint and he eventually left the business for other opportunities that didn't require the use of a brush or roller.

The business has grown over the years and the painting staff has expanded. In reality, "Two Guys Who Paint" now has several people under its wing. Having been in the painting business myself, I know that it is sometimes difficult to find qualified employees. Some folks don't know which end of a paintbrush to hold but will tell you they have had ten years experience in the business. Others will drop off the face of the Earth after getting paid only to reappear several days later, with a hangover, asking for an advance. Others are like the gentleman I am about to describe.

My friend hired a "painter" and, as his first assignment, told him to paint an exterior door of an apartment "Be sure to do this job first," he insisted. "The tenants are due to move in tomorrow and those doors absolutely must be painted today." He gave the new guy a few more assignments to keep him busy for the day and instructed him to come to the office in the morning for the next day's assignments.

It was late in the afternoon and my friend received a call from the apartment complex manager. "Are you going to paint those doors today?"

"They should already be done. I sent a guy out to do them this morning."

"Well, they aren't done. It looks like someone smeared a paint roller on one side of one of them but nothing else has been done. Do I need to hire someone else to do our painting?"

"No. I will be there in thirty minutes and I'll paint them myself."

After painting the doors, my friend went home and promptly called his new worker. "Why didn't you paint those doors today?"

"Well, I got lonely so I left."

"You got lonely? You have got to be kidding me!"

"No, I didn't have anybody to talk to so I came home."

"Okay look, you can't just leave because you're lonely. You're going to be by yourself a lot working this job. I suppose this means you didn't do anything else I gave you to do today."

Angered, my friend fired the gentleman and hung up.

Several weeks later, my friend gets a call from "Mr. Lonely" who asks when he can come by to pick up his check.

"And what check would that be?"

"The one for painting the door."

"You didn't paint any doors."

"I painted half of one."

"And how much do you think half a door is worth?"

"Fifty dollars."

"First of all, I don't pay fifty dollars for a whole door and second, I don't pay anything for half doors. I almost lost the contract with the apartment complex because of you and I had to rush out there that night and paint the doors myself. I'm not paying you anything."

"If you don't, I'll come over and take it out of your hide."

"I'll tell you what I'll do. You come over here and we'll fight. If you win, we'll call it even. If I win, we'll call it even. Either way, you're not getting a dime out of me but feel free to stop by and we'll settle things your way."

The lonely heart paused for a few moments and then said, "Well, okay then." My friend hasn't seen or heard from him since.

I bolted upright in the bed as I was awakened abruptly by the absence of the telephone ringing. I checked on the children only to find that they were all safe in their beds and there was no reason for me to worry. It was then that I knew that my worst nightmare had not been realized.

I didn't hear any strange noises so I went downstairs without caution. I must say I was not in the least bit afraid, as I had no anticipation of running into trouble. It was just yesterday that I didn't buy a weapon for just such an occasion as this and now I was glad that I didn't. I flipped on the light in the kitchen to find everything in its place except for the butcher knife. It was in the dishwasher.

Why was the butcher knife in the dishwasher and who had put it there? Was it clean or dirty? I opened the dishwasher and carefully examined the knife but was unable to answer my questions. While firmly gripping the knife in my hand, I slowly opened the refrigerator door and looked inside. No surprises there. I removed a large slab of roast beef and before I knew it, I was uncontrollably hacking at it with the butcher knife. The meat lay before me in a crumpled heap. What had I done? I began to panic.

I knew I would have to destroy the evidence and would need to do so quickly. My adrenaline was pumping as I reached for a loaf of bread. With the accuracy of a French chef, I piled the meat onto a slice of bread. "Okay," I thought. "I'm almost there. Nobody will ever suspect a thing." I knew I must hurry or risk being caught.

As I reopened the door to the refrigerator my heart jumped to my throat. "Where is it?" I thought. With much haste I rummaged through the icebox but to no avail. "What am I going to do now?" I was horrified. The jig was up. We were out of Miracle Whip.

It seems like just yesterday when my son was hollering out the number five. My wife was reading a magazine and couldn't figure out why he kept repeating, "Five." She flipped the magazine to the back cover to find an ad for Chanel Number 5. The ad had a big number five emblazoned across it and Malcolm had recognized it. My wife almost cried at the realization that he knew a number.

It not only amazes me how much my three-year old has learned since that day many months ago but how much he has learned on his own. My wife and I used to be bewildered by a growling noise he makes. My wife even called the doctor thinking that he might have a problem with his throat. "He's probably just clearing his throat," said the nurse. Then, one day, I loaded Malcolm into the car and just as I was starting the engine he made the growling noise. Eureka! There was nothing wrong with the boy. He was just imitating the starting of the car.

Once the mystery of the growling was solved, I noticed that he made the noise exclusively when he played with his toy cars. His cars were "started" thousands of times every day. If they had been real cars there is no telling how many starters would have been replaced by now. I can't wait for his sixteenth birthday. The car sound is something that he learned entirely on his own without any instruction. Soon after the manifestation of the car sound, certain additions such as squealing tires and brake noises were incorporated. Again, nobody taught him to make the sounds. It's just a boy thing.

Malcolms favorite activity at our local park is the swing set. He just can't get enough of them. I'll lather him up with plenty of sunscreen to insure that every speck of sand and dirt at the park will stick to him, strap him to a swing and what does he do? He makes car noises.

Not long ago he was running around making car noises when he invented a new sound. It was kind of a strange high-pitched squeal with an unusual low growl interjected at various points. He made the sound and stopped dead in his tracks. "What's that noise?" he said in a puzzled tone. He started running around again, repeated the noise, stopped dead in his tracks and said again, "What's that noise?" Rinse, lather, repeat. You get the point.

Anytime my wife or I go anywhere in the car, Malcolm has to go. My wife was shopping at a local discount store when she and Malcolm passed by the tropical fish in the pet section. My wife pointed at the fish and said, "Okay Malcolm, pick out a fish for supper." He just giggled.

A week or so later, Malcolm and I were in the very same store. As we passed by the tropical fish, he pointed at them and said, "Supper Daddy! Supper!" This struck me as a bit odd but not as odd as his still insisting that I get a tropical fish for supper as we moved away from the fish tanks. "Supper daddy! I want fish! Supper!" Heads were turning.

Asking to eat tropical fish for dinner, one wouldn't think that my kid is a finicky eater. Actually, he didn't used to be but he has gotten pickier with age. "Malcolm, do you want chicken for dinner?"

"No."

"No."

"Peanut butter and jelly?"

"No."

"Haggis?"

"Okay."

Now, the child has no idea what haggis is and for those of you who don't know, haggis is a traditional Scottish dish made from oatmeal, mutton, liver and/or kidney of a lamb and a sheep's heart all stuffed into a sheep stomach. It's not the sort of thing that one would imagine a three year old requesting for dinner. Malcolm will on occasion and without prompting, ask for haggis and be very insistent about it. He has yet to try it.

The kid knows what the pizza delivery vehicle looks like. "Pizza! Pizza Daddy!" The same goes for UPS or the mailman. "Packages!" A child is a very good monitor to find out who has arrived at your home and is an excellent gauge for telling you when you have ordered too much of something. For instance, if your child asks for a hamburger, "from the door," it's time to stop ordering delivery.