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You’ve received this email because you visited our website, because you did business with us in the past, or because at some point you gave somebody your email address, and they stuck it in a database along with forty million other email addresses and sold them to anybody with ten bucks. Sure, maybe you’re not crazy about hearing from us seventeen times a day, but that’s no reason to do anything rash. You don’t need to unsubscribe. We both know that you never actually asked for email about enlarging your penis or finding busty Russian gals to come over and service you, so who cares what anybody thinks?

If you really have to unsubscribe, click here, but you’re going to be sorry. When hundreds of popup windows advertising fetish websites swamp your screen you’ll realize your mistake. Frantically click at them while they multiply like rabbits, but there’s no way you can keep up. And what’s the repairman going to think when your PC freezes with a picture of Mushie Marvin the Cream Pie Guy front and center? He’s going to think you’re a perv, and it’s going to take him even longer to restore your hard drive because he’ll refuse to sit in any of your chairs. All because Mr. Particular didn’t like getting a few emails. Was it worth it? Ask yourself that when the divorce papers come.

Should you happen to navigate through the Endless Stream of Popups, don’t think you’re out of the woods yet. Now you’ve got to log in to edit your profile. We’ll level with you: we created your account, and we’re the ones who checked the little box that says you’re a porn-addicted, tiny-penised bachelor who loves to get email. The password we gave you is an eight-digit combination of letters, numbers, punctuation, and cyrillic characters we found on the keyboard at an internet cafe in Guam, and remember it’s case sensitive. It could be something like 2f!M_rPu, and you’re going to guess it right around the time chickens take over NASA. Meanwhile after every three unsuccessful attempts we’re going to send you a warning saying that someone is trying to break into your account along with twelve more emails about sex problems that’d make Donald Trump’s hair stand on end.

If you’re that one in a billion who figures out your password -- and you’ll be hit by lightning and dating Christy Turlington before that happens -- you’re still not finished. Now you need to check off all the lists you want to unsubscribe from. There’s the multilevel marketing list, the stock tip list, the giant hooters through hypnotherapy list. Our list of lists is longer than “Gone with the Wind.” And the popups, oh, the popups. One day John Steinbeck will write a book about people who tried to unsubscribe from us and it’ll make “The Grapes of Wrath” look like eating cheese. Get that mouse clicking like a geiger counter at Chernobyl and maybe you’ll manage to unsubscribe from a fraction of them. Pat yourself on the back! Savor the thrill you get when you finally hit that “Submit” button, and don’t think it subtracts from your impressive achievement when the next page tells you our server’s down.

If on the odd chance you’ve actually managed to unsubscribe from a list, remember you will not be removed immediately. That shouldn’t be too surprising: our webmaster used to work for the postal service but was fired for moving too slow. Though your email to us may reach us roughly 4.7x10⁷¹² times faster than U. S. mail, Wayne is a guy whose lack of initiative is rivalled only by his contempt for the public. He works only when someone important approaches his desk, and considering he hasn’t showered since the discovery of sand they’re not exactly clamoring for his attention. Needless to say, unsubscribe requests can take months to process, and that’s assuming Wayne’s playing a game he can pause.

Now, we’re not trying to be mean. It’s just that our subscribers are valuable to us, and not just because three out of every eight million of you actually act on stock tips sent by strangers. We’ll even give you a helpful tip: before you throw in the towel, remember operators are online twenty-four hours a day to answer any questions you might have. Magic 8-Balls have a larger vocabulary and they don’t need your American Express number before they’ll respond, but it’s worth a try. You’ll find the number on our website. To access it you’ll need Flash, Adobe Acrobat and Internet Explorer, and their version numbers have to match Ernest Borgnine’s age, Ricki Lake’s weight, and the price of today’s showcase on “The Price is Right,” respectively.

If you’re still determined to opt out we’ll understand. We’ll get over it. Be strong, concentrate on the task at hand, and remember those helpful operators. Jumping through all these hoops may seem like the Seven Labors of Hercules, but it’s not really that difficult.

Our Bottomless Pit of Fire is temporarily down for repairs.