Welcome to my spam
Unless you live in an old-growth forest without WiFi, you've bumped up against limitations. Life holds us back. We all want to be all we can be, but all too often we find ourselves face-to-face with nameless faceless agents of Big Internet. Big Internet holds us down under the guise of Quality Content and other assorted un-measurable metrics. You can whine like a baseball manager on a hot August afternoon in a pennant race, but your digital umpire will dust off home place and continue the game with or without you.
Herein we provide intentional spam. In the hopes of bypassing online gatekeepers we freely admit to publishing spammy elements. We embrace spam in all its' forms. Heretofore our attempts at humor met with decidedly unfunny enforcement of vaguely incomplete rules known only to those writing them.
We online authors toil beneath digital lashes understood by residents of broadband ivory towers. They can't read our minds but they can read our compositions. We cower, we comply, we step and fetch oodles of gerunds, conjunctions, and articles as we delete previously crafted product capsules for the sake of "Featured" status. I, for one, pretty much give up. I welcome my online overlords and I toss them copious spam for consumption.
Going outside shirtless invites Zicka virus and sunburn. A spammy shirt provides protection. None among us wants to wake up from an epic 4th of July picnic only to discover communicable diseases contracted from backyard invaders. Most among us now grasp the concept of skin damage relative to what used to be referred to as a 'healthy tan.' Smoking was good for us at one time. Bacon was good for us. Now a tan will kill us as it colors us.
So, order up a spammy wearable from online vendors. Give them as gifts in celebration of events. Send a copy to your favorite presidential candidate, or all of them. I know I will. I have probably worn this shirt and I find it to be everything it's advertised to be. I found myself attracting attention from jealous super models who dine on fizzy water and a grape. I was actually interviewed on the evening news because they thought I was vegan.
Who among us might deny the deliciousness produced from such an unassuming can of foodstuff? Born and raised in Hawaii, Spam holds a revered position well beyond what it actually is, which you really don't want to know about.
It persists forever. A Twinkie goes stale as a can of Spam resides comfortably in your larder. Rumors suggest Henry Ford invented it as emergency rations for laborers pulling double shifts in his Model-T factory. We doubt that, but we adore our Spam. We endear ourselves to spiced ham molded into a handy carrying can that will survive a zombie attack.
Here is my favorite SPAM recipe: open the can, let the product gently slide out onto a microwaveable plate, microwave for 1-4 minutes. Enjoy with hot sauce and shredded mozzarella cheese. Any left-overs can be stored for up to 2.4 light-years in a mostly airtight container.
SPAM is more than undesired email
As you look in your electronic mail you observe 100 out of 101 messages originate from Nigeria. Erstwhile princes long to exchange funds with you. Imaginative folks dubbed such missives 'spam' in obvious references to spiced ham in a can but not in a good way. It hurts, I must admit. You can't eat your email. You can't fry it up in the pan. You can't make a sandwich out of your excess attachments. You can't browse to online grocers and order up excess inbox content.
Instead, let us take back the name. Together we shall usurp the seemingly un-usurpable. We will collude together in chat rooms to re-appropriate the moniker SPAM to what nature intended: oval ham that plops when you flip over the can.
In conclusion, we conclude the veracity of Spam. We gratefully open our hearts and mouths. We vigorously retake the name originally assigned to a seemingly salty meat-based product. We gently reject the digital boot of unseen critics and editors as they press upon our collective necks and keyboards. We readily admit to loading up on spam in our creative writing and our Saturday evening meal with family and friends.
Take this handy SPAM poll
SPAM was invented inSee results without voting
Spam Island, Kiribati
More by this Author
It's true: people read my laundry articles. There's hope for this Little Blue Marble we call Earth.
You know you want to.
Ever been to a NASCAR race? I thought not. Here are my top 10 reasons why NASCAR racing doesn't rock.