This is a post in a series of spam responses I’m doing after creating a new domain for my website. After receiving a flood of sales calls and emails, I’m deciding to have some fun.
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Logo Cheese - USA
Ahh yes, this reminds me of the times my father and I spent in the English countryside…
YES A LOGO!!!!! That is what my website is missing!! I knew something was off about my website, but I simple could not put my finger on it. I will certainly Activate My Offer and I would like to order twenty of your finest logos. Please have them sent directly to this email and I will certainly remit payment after I have the logos.
Now, I know that your logo company specifically makes logos of various cheeses, but I am going to request that you do logos of things OTHER than cheese. I know this is a lot to ask of Logo Cheese - USA but hear me out. When I was but a young lad, my father used to take my brothers and myself horseback riding into the Yorkshire hills. We would laugh and sing and eat assortments of cheeses into the early evening. Then we would ride to my grandpapa’s estate and spend the week eating more cheese and chuckling over fresh cups of English breakfast tea. Not the store-bought tea you find at the local grocers, being bought by the common coupon-waving trash. No, we would have the finest handmade teas with the most expensive ingredients delivered personally by the craftsman himself, I think his name was Edward. No, it must have been Bartholomew. I believe Edward was the local butcher, who would give us the finest cuts of beefs shoulder one could possibly eat!! The beef was from the most expensive cows in all the land, and Edward would let us pick out the cow and would butcher it, alive, right in front of us. It was delightful! You see, if you kill a cow and then butcher it, much of the flavor is lost. So we would all take turns butchering the poor beast as Edward cheered us on! A truly magnificent experience! Then Edward would package our meat and we would feast that very night!!! We would eat our beef shoulder roasts at my grandpapa’s 30-person dining table, waited on by his staff of servants, and then we would sit by the fire and talk of of times past as we drank our English Breakfast tea, hand-delivered by Bartholomew himself. Now, Bartholomew was a character! The days he visited were some of the most exciting, because not only did he craft and deliver our tea, but the man was a magician!! You can imagine how wonderful that would be for a young lad, to drink his tea whilst watching a magic show right before him!! It was safe to say the Bartholomew was one of our greatest companions!! I digress, though.
You see, one time, in the hillsides, as we were eating our artisanal cheeses and laughing and singing, just before riding to my grandpapa’s house and spending the week drinking the finest tea and eating the finest beef shoulder money can buy, we noticed a shadowy figure approaching from the Northern hills. Years before, papa had instructed us never to go into the Northern hills. There were stories of awful, sickly creatures there, but also of a village deep in the forest where a group of bandits was exiled by King George himself. As the tales go, the bandits had to choose either mating with each other or with the various beasts roaming the hillsides for generations. You can imagine the result! I personally once tried to mate with my father’s prize sheep, but the wretched thing would not sit still long enough. A man of my stature does not take kindly to anyone, or anything, refusing him. Thus, I relished sending that awful sheep to the butcher one day as my father was away on business. But that’s another story!
As this shadowy figure approached, it became more and more grotesque in appearance. Its shirt (if you can call it that!!) had a stain of some sort right on the chest, and the hem around the trousers looked like it had come undone days ago! I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the disgusting, vile creature. As it came even closer though, I could make out its face. It was Bartholomew!! I had never seen him look so disheveled. It made me want to vomit. But papa says vomiting is for the peasants and the sickly, so I just looked away in disgust instead and tried to think of my mother’s fourty-acre garden, instead of the monstrous image of Bartholomew, lurching through the hillsides with stains on his shirt and tattered trousers.
My father got in between us and Bartholomew, protecting us from the vile image. Bartholomew spoke: “HELLLLLP…..ME…..” His raspy voice grated on my ears. Must he keep speaking in that despicable voice? Drink a cup of tea, man!
“Really, Bartholomew,” said father, bravely. “Get a hold of yourself man. You’re scaring the children You ought to be ashamed, wandering the hillside looking like the common London street trash.”
“I certainly shall not! I refuse to help a man who will not help himself, who staggers around in tattered clothing, expecting a hand out from those who work hard for themselves. It goes without saying we will no longer be needing your services at the estate, and I shall personally see to it that nobody else in the town of Yorkshire ever buys tea from Bartholomew Dunscrup ever again!”
With that, father turned on his heel, gathered us onto the horses, and we set off for grandapapa’s house. But something was different this evening. The sky was a deep maroon color and the air stank of flesh. We had only made it halfway to grandpapa’s house when the horses slowed, then stopped. Nothing we could do would make them budge. We kicked and pushed, but they sat, still and silent, as if they had given up, like that wretched man we once knew as Bartholomew.. The thought of him sickened me.
Then it hit me. A hunger I cannot describe. It was not for the countryside’s finest beef shoulder. It was a deep hunger for something else. I could not determine the cause of it until I saw my youngest brother’s neck. My body lurched for him, uncontrollable. Everything turned red. When I came to, hours later (or so it felt), my brothers lay strewn across the hill, missing various body parts. My shirt was covered in what looked like blood, and I had bits of flesh between my teeth. What happened? I did not know. Someone had killed my brothers, and from the looks of it had almost killed me. I looked into the distance and saw a man running! I made chase. Perhaps this fine gentleman could tell me of the events prior! Perhaps he witnessed this occurrence and could help investigate!
As I gained on the gentleman, I noticed he had a familiar gait. It was father! He looked back at me and screamed.
“Father, wait!” I shouted. But his pace only quickened. As I gained on him, I noticed a familiar feeling creeping in. A hunger. It gave me an energy I had not felt in the past, and my legs seemed move on their own, accelerating beyond what I thought was possible. Just as I reached father, my vision turned red again.
I woke up, in the dark, in a pool of father’s blood. Whoever had murdered my brothers had murdered father as well!! I swore vengeance to myself. You see, I did not care much for my brothers, but father was very dear to me.
Then it struck me!! There was one other person in the hills that night. It was Bartholomew! The vile man had obviously done this to father! I rushed back to town and awoke the constable. He was a dear family friend, and as soon as he heard what had happened, what Bartholomew had done, he rounded up the entire police force and their most capable hounds, and we set off for an evening hunt. I have always loved a good fox hunt, you see, but had never had the opportunity to participate in a hunt at night!! The constable and I laughed together as we spoke of previous hunts and how we would surely catch Bartholomew on this eve!
Not a minute after we reached the hillside, the dogs picked up a scent. I knew in my heart it was Bartholomew. We made haste and came to a clearing, lit only by the moon, where we saw the same shadowy figure from before, on its knees, crying into its hands. Aha! I thought to myself. We found the wretch!
We dismounted our horses and as we walked toward the figure, I recognized its unnerving voice.
Oh, I would help it, certainly. I would help it shed its mortal coil and release its vile soul back to the hell it came from. As I neared closer the figure, I felt the same hunger from before. It must have been Bartholomew, causing this odd feeling! It’s proof! My vision went red again.
I awoke, but this time it was day. The entire hunting party, all their hounds, and Bartholomew lay strewn before me, their chewed and ravaged corpses beginning to cook slightly in the growing morning sun. Somehow Bartholomew had killed all the policemen, but from the looks of it the dogs must have torn him to shreds.
I searched the pockets of the creature, more disgusted by him than ever before, and found that not only had he slain my brothers, my father, and the entire Yorkshire police department, but he has stolen cheese from my grandfather!!
I was in quite a rage at finding this, and you see, to this day, after inheriting my father’s wealth and my grandfather’s estate, after living through this horrid event and living to tell the tale, and after finding the cheese in Bartholomew’s pocket, I no longer can eat cheese.
Please consider this when sending the logos I have requested.
Father would be proud that I am carrying on his legacy. I think of him every day. In fact, I am reminded of a time when we…