When I was a kid you were nothing more than a yummy meat. You and I met for breakfast a couple times a week.
In my teens, in the early 90s, you gained more meaning: you were not just a meat, you were a slang term, but not as we know you now. No, you were a rental cop – a mall security guard, a library bouncer. You did not carry a gun, like real cops. You were fake ham, not quite a pig.
Lovely spam, wonderful spam. Even now, I still wonder if half a bee must ipso facto half not be. And if one's mother really does smell of elder berries. But back in the mid 90s, I found you in music. A British choral arrangement sang your praises.
The late 90s came, and you became my bane. You became a flood of useless information, advertisements. Oh the inches you promise, oh the wonders. How many Nigerian princes can there possibly be? How much of their fortune can they really afford to part with? How many Granny Transsexuals "riding" horses can one actually view before one goes blind?
I still eat you as meat, if one can consider yourself meat. I still fry you with eggs and even eat you raw. I don't like pork, but I do like you. But I tell you this, dear spam, if you don't get away from my in box, I may storm the gates of Hormel and burn your factories down.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Posted by Aaron.j.edwards at 7:03 PM
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