Many of the readers who visit this blog are real, living human beings. I know many of you personally. You’ve seen me out in the real world and said that you read and enjoyed pieces on this site.

However, as with all things internet, there are readers who are not real people. There are robots and computer programs out there, living that spam lifestyle. Often times, they’ll try to leave a comment on one of my posts. Once in a while, I’ll approve their comment, if it looks plausible that it came from a real person. Check out the vibrant comment section on this little read This Week In Hoops post from a few months ago.

None of those came from real people, clearly. But hey, nothing wrong with a nice robot reader. Thanks for visiting the blog, fellas. Take it easy on me when you take over the world.

Anyway, that brings me to the spam comments I don’t allow to be shown on the site. Many are simply jumbles of code or have links that surely lead to Virustown. Others are simply odd. There must be something in them that leads to a virus or a scam, but taken at face value, they are damn near beautiful. They are computer generated poems. I don’t know how they found their way to Palestra Back, but I’d regret not sharing them with you folks.

Here now, are the goofiest and strangest spam comments I’ve received while running this site (Not counting one or two that were way inappropriate for print):

This one was the first that caught my eye. I read it about 14 times before I could parse together what was going on. That is to say, I still haven’t figured it out. I’ve just read it that many times. I didn’t mention a molding of a deer anywhere, nor do I even have one. But apparently, it needs a bottom.

Now this one makes more sense. We’re talking hoops…after a quick anecdote about swimming in the Dead Sea. Did Larry Brown swim with you? Am I a normal sports fan? WHAT APPLICATION ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? This back and forth of making sense and not making sense has happened other times:

First step to finding out your husband is a cheater? Admit that Jordan is the greatest! Actually, Michael Jordan might have written this one himself.

I’m no dentist, but I don’t follow this one at all. What’s going on in Houston? Why are those youngsters wailing? Maybe they’d enjoy the calming sounds of flowing water in the break room.

I’m somewhat certain the first half of this comment is Michael Jackson related and the second half is Biblical. I’m too lazy to check, but this could be lyrics from the Free Willy song.

I’m glad to know there’s research being done, but you can’t leave me on a cliff hanger like that. What did you find? TELL ME!

So we start with a math problem that despite my AP Calculus coursework, is way outside my parameters, then I’m told I need to pay $49 a month to enjoy it? I’m out. I don’t need your paid math, growing up hopeful nonsense.

Look, I’m this blog’s biggest fan. I’m its writer and creator, but if your little brother is looking for something updated from the most up-to-date news update, I don’t think I’m his guy. I mean, this pile of computer spam is the only thing I’ve posted in a week.

I love the three distinct stages of this comment, separated by nothing by your average common word space. Starts strong. Sure, we have no idea how or why we’re serving the oldsters and guests of honor, but we’re in the ballpark of a normal English sentence. Then, out of nowhere, you’re shelling for Taylor Swift tickets. Is this my fault for the heavy T-Swift post early in the year? Probably. But just as we are ready to talk “Blank Space” and classic like “Love Story”, we get a John Oliver-esque rant about payday loans.

But thanks for the comments, guys. Keep them coming. In fact, inform your little brothers to pay visits to the site.

Palestra Back: Basketball Blogging for Robots!

Shane McNichol is the founder, editor, and writer at PalestraBack.com. He has also contributed to SALTMoney.org and ESPN.com. Follow him on Twitter @OnTheShaneTrain.

If you have any suggestions, tips, ideas, or questions, email them to palestraback@gmail.com