OPINION: I'm either addicted to porn or being scammed

Apparently, I’m addicted to pornography.

So says the federal Department of Internet Search History, which recently sent me a padded 6-inch by 9-inch white envelope stamped with a very official-looking Seal of the United States.

The face of the envelope screamed in large letters, “Porn Addict Recovery Packet.” Beneath those words, and in smaller type, was a message of encouragement: “It’s Time to Take Back Control.”

I’m grateful that there’s still hope for me. Hell, I didn’t even know I was a porn addict or that I was out of control.

It gets better.

Inside were two pages, also sporting the Seal of the United States. The first page explained that I had been flagged for mandatory 12-week enrollment in the department’s “Porn Addiction Recovery Initiative,” following a “comprehensive forensic audit” of my digital search history, in accordance with “Section 302 of the Digital Behavior Regulation and Recovery Act.”

The letter was signed by Dr. Samuel V. Chesterton, PhD, who possesses the lofty title of lead behavioral compliance officer for the Department of Internet Search History, and whose office is ironically listed on Integrity Parkway in Quantico, Virginia.

The second page is even more absurd, stating that mandatory enrollment will cost me $299.99, or $319.48 including taxes, to be charged to some debit card account that I will presumably furnish at a later time, and from which the fee will be deducted on a recurring monthly basis.

Obviously, this is a scam. An actual internet search can find no such entity as the Department of Internet Search History nor anything resembling a Digital Behavior Regulation and Recovery Act.

I can only assume that Dr. Chesterton is also a ghost. What is certain is that the packet was marked as having been mailed from a Gulfport, Florida, “fulfillment center,” yet another comedic irony.

Being a good citizen, I forwarded the Porn Addiction Recovery Packet via e-mail to the Albuquerque office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and received something of a boilerplate response.

“While we cannot comment on any specific incidents, the FBI routinely advises the public about cyber threats to help them guard against the actions of cyber criminals,” said FBI acting public affairs officer Emily Ashby. “We work with our interagency partners to identify, pursue, and defeat all those who partake in cybercrime. We urge anyone who is a victim of a scam to report it to the Internet Crime Complaint Center at www.IC3.gov.”

Although the FBI did not immediately spring into action with a nationwide task force to track down and apprehend the scammers, it did not dampen my enthusiasm for bragging to my friends that among some circles, I have a reputation as a 72-year-old sex icon. I can, however, see how others with a less finely honed sense of humor might panic after receiving a letter like this.

Consider Elon Musk’s Department of Government Efficiency and his 20-something-year-old techies, who commandeered a number of sensitive data bases, including the Social Security Administration and the Treasury Department, both containing personal information of millions of private citizens.

And then there’s the near daily reports and video of ICE agents, hidden behind face masks and covering their name tags as they arrest people off the streets or yank them out of the their homes, often without producing warrants.

It’s enough to make people wonder if, in fact, some obscure government department has been monitoring their online presence. Did they click on some porn site for a cheap thrill? What will happen if their employers or neighbors find out about their sordid sexual predilections?

The letter is kind of ingenious for its attention to detail. For example, the crack team at the Department of Internet Search History found me guilty of “gooning,” or engaging in online sessions that exceed “medically recognized screen exposure limits.”

In addition, I apparently have “over leveraged financial commitments” to adult porn services, as well as to webcam services utilized “during work hours and family events.” This is particularly funny because anyone who knows me will tell you I’m both retired and too cheap to pay for subscription porn services.

Assuming there were such a rehabilitation program to cure my out-of-control libidinous desires, what would I get for my recurring $319 monthly fee?

Rehabilitation Manual:

• “From Goon to Greatness, Rebuilding Your Life One Day a Time.”

Post-Nut Clarity Handbook:

• “A 45-page field guide to making practical decisions during vulnerable moments.”

Subscription Amnesty Form:

• “A notarized document” to facilitate severing ties to “OnlyFans creators.”

Goon Disruption Timer:

• A wristwatch that beeps after 14 minutes of screen time without mouse activity.

I’m reminded of the story about the young man who wanted to give his grandfather a special gift for his upcoming 90th birthday. He hires the services of a good-natured escort to go to the grandfather’s home, wearing noting but a fur coat, and when he answers the door bell she is to flash open her coat and politely proposition him.

On the appointed day, the grandfather stands in the entryway of his home and sees the woman, who flings open her coat and says, “Happy birthday, grandpa. How’d you like some super sex?”

After a contemplative pause, the old man responds: “What kind of soup is it?”

While I’m honored to have been singled out (no doubt along with thousands of others) for my alleged intractable sex drive, I must disabuse my legion of fans, inside and outside of pretend government agencies. In truth, given the choice between a prolonged session at an online porn site, or a protracted and uninterrupted nap, I’ll go with the nap every time — preferably after a nice warm bowl of soup.