A while back I posted about band width poachers, and how they suck. I told the story of how I found out that I had some, and where they seemed to be coming from. A couple of folks offered sugestions on how to stop it. I let it pass.

Recent trolling through my stats showed that it wasn't just the photo of my glamorous red shoes (the ones in the comment window) that was being poached, but my masthead, other photos of shoes, even a photo of my dear, dead grandfather. That one was accompanied by snotty remarks about his "hotness" or lack thereof. Which, in all honesty, since the picture was taken around the turn of the last century, were probably justified.

That isn't what's got my knickers in a twist, though. It is the glee with which the poachers announced that I had discovered the theft and bitched about it. They encouraged each other to steal more images. They ridiculed me for caring. They thought they should "force" me to join their chat group.

And that's another thing. Their chat group, as far as I can figure, is comprised of teenage boys with penis size issues, an average IQ in the mere double digits, and an awful lot of time on their hands, which they use to post lame photos, make even lamer jokes, and beg and plead for someone of the opposite sex to fall into their site and stay. They come from all over the world, which makes me sad for women.

And then there is this: even though they are detestable little creatures, they are driving the stats up on my site. When you open your doors to the public, you can't complain when the public walks in.

Or, in this instance, the machine.

Got an e-mail from an old client/acquaintance: Your recent e-mail contained a virus.

First, I didn't send her an e-mail. Second, I run Norton 24-7. Third, I NEVER open e-mail from people I don't know with subject lines like: "a good joke" and an executable file attached. For that matter, I routinely trash e-mail of a certain size: approximately 132K, because that seems like the standard size for the Klez virus.

But, being a responsible adult user of computer technology, I shut down all my programs and started a Norton scan. Well, it's been over an hour and a half, we are only half way through the scan, and not even to my second hard drive. But as I anticipated, there isn't so much as a hint of a virus.

Bah and humbug. No pun intended.

I went shopping yesterday, and almost came to the end of my patience with the human condition. Every single store I went into, and I was only shopping independently owned boutiques in a small downtown area, had the shoddiest, snottiest help I've ever had to deal with. It is a miracle that I didn't turn into Edina on the spot and tell each and every one of those ratty-assed salesgirls to "get over the attitude, sweetie, you only work in a shop."

Store the First: I go in to pick up my new glasses, which I had confirmed on Thursday would be ready for Saturday pickup. They were, to a certain degree: the one pair wasn't ready because THEIR vendor had sent the lenses without the requested coating. The other pair WAS ready, except for the tint, which hadn't been applied. Could I come back in 20 minutes to an hour. Sure.

Store the Second: My favorite up-scale shoe store is in the middle of their biannual 2 for 1 sale. There are two sales clerks. One is behind the register, the other on the floor. I walk in. I am ignored. I peruse the sale rack, all the while overhearing the girl on the floor in a deep, and to me, personal conversation about breast enhancement surgery. The customer is showing off her new size D- es, but they may be considered C+s. They are discussing the exact size in ccs, and I cannot remember the difference between 500 and whatever the other number was.

Even while she is vaguely considering getting a shoe for me, my clerk is discussing her upcoming boob job with the other customer. This is pissing me off, big time, and nobody is catching the vibes, although, frankly, I think that they are capable of being picked up on a seismic scale.

For what it's worth, these two women were conscious of the impropriety of discussing their boob jobs with the general public: each talked about the dos and don'ts of telling your very young daughter about what Mommy had done. Each concurred that small girls are town gossips. Even a third customer contributed to that discussion about what a six-year-old knows about plastic surgery. For what it's worth: this conversation took place on Saturday, January 25, 2003 on Sunset Drive in South Miami, Florida in a shop called Capretto's. The sales clerk in question is 5'10" tall (I know this because she justified wanting D cups by repeating the phrase: "I'm five-ten, I'm a big girl." over and over. I don't know her name, but perhaps you do. She's having surgery on February 8th at Baptist Hospital as part of a symposium and the fee for the Vanderbuilt University surgeon is only $1,500 which really ticked off the other customer, who had paid $6,500 for her tits.

Hey, bitches: there WAS another human being who spoke English within 3 fucking feet of you. If you think it's inappropriate for me to repeat all this, well think about it the next time you open your fucking traps in public and announce with pride the inner workings of your petty little lives.

PS: I don't care a rat's ass about you, your tit size or the number of children you have.

Store the Third: The shop was completely empty, except for exhorbitantly priced slips of chiffon, poorly sewn into size 0 slut wear. I was asked twice in five minutes if I'd like a bottle of water.

Store the Fourth: In the middle of another sale, all clothing is in a disordered heap in the middle of the room. Nobody asks me anything.

Store the Fifth: Not only do they not carry what I am looking for (very expensive, over-dyed embroidery floss), they "don't pay any attention to what the other shops sell" when I ask if their competitor shop down the street carries it. They argue with me when I tell them that when I stopped in the previous week an hour and a half before their posted closing time, the store was locked and shut. They give me the fish eye and they get none of my money, despite the fact that I like the canvases they have.

Store the Sixth: My glasses still aren't ready, but the sales girls insist on having me wait, while they pour me a glass of wine, offer me nibbly things and apologize for the delay.

OK, readers, which store am I going back to? Of course, the one which offers service. I will never stop doing business with Edward Beiner Opticals, because they understand the concept: If you want me to pay more for something, then you have to offer something more. And they do. They offer service. They remember your name. They are customer-driven.

I find bandwidth poachers just the lowest. It's bad enough that they use one's images without credit and steal one's intellectual property, but to do so by using your own bandwidth is just beyond low. If you like the photo of my glamorous red shoes so much, then right click on your fucking mouse and download it to your own hard drive.

I'm checking my stats and I see a few hundred referrals from a page I can't identify, so I follow the electronic track backwards and find my girlyshoes stuck in the middle of a page of yapping, uh.... well I can't exactly figure out what this particular chat site is about. It may be a room full of yapping perverts, there certainly seems to be enough of them there, but then my shoes are dropped in among a ton of photos of fuzzy little kittens.

I can't tell if the kitten snaps are sarcasm, either, based on what else is on eatpoo.com

Ah well, why should I expect civility from the web any more than I expect it in the meat world.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I hate the living.

In the original Men In Black Linda Fiorentino delivers that line when an EMT leaves her with a dead body and a live cat. It's just so true. And every day, I get more disheartened and jaded, and it becomes truer and truer.

Human beings are highly over-rated as a species. We are blessed with self awareness, and then waste it on an unlimited capacity to be fascinated with ourselves. Our own, petty, individual selves. Why, even this blog is an excuse to find myself entertaining. As if I need an excuse.

Yep. Those are actually today's shoes. How come nobody seems to understand the concept of gridlock as it applies to traffic? If there's no room for your car, it isn't going to help matters to drive into the intersection and then block access for the next group of people. And since when did the law become 2X2 through a stop sign. Back in the dark ages, when I took driver's ed, it went like this: First person at the intersection goes first, and then everyone else goes through, one at a time, from the right to the left. Right of way, get it? Here in Miami, maybe because there are so many boaters, people seem to drive according to the laws of gross tonnage. The more tonnage you have, the more right of way you have. And since most people are in SUVs, pickup trucks and minivans, that leaves people like me in the dust. Literally and figuratively.