January 23, 2006

# 32

I've loved word association games (especially with the time limitation set to two seconds) for as long as I can remember, especially when playing with someone whose grasp of humour rivals my own delivery of inducing fits of laughter.

The second paragraph relates to the first by way of a lose thread: I'm prone to ignore and delete without having read most of what enters my inbox at Gmail, figuring it to be the cautionary thing to do in this time of prolific misinformation. The vast majority of it, as you're aware, is geared to ensure I don't miss the latest imaginary price reduction in all manner of products essential to keeping that smile on my dial: products which increase my libido and/or fertility; those that limit incidents of sexual embarrassment (such as falling off the wing of a plane during take-off whilst consummating foreplay); those that improve the dimensions (including breadth?) of my reproduction-capable member of society; software I can't read for its ingenious spelling alterations let alone use, and items whose relevance to my needs shatter the notion that advertising reaches its desired target audience.

But now, I've discovered something even I cannot ignore. It's as true as the Bermuda Triangle shape of three birthmarks on the skin nearest my right ribs. The question "How does one become a chef par excellence thanks to the concept of word association at Gmail and Spam?" sprang to life before my disbelieving eyes, jiggled its features in the manner of a virtual lap dance and answered itself in the time it took to left-click the mouse.

And I think I'll only now be able to admit the boundary which exists between being the conduit in the food heating process and the preparer from start to finish of a meal able to be certified as 100% smacktastic.*

I'm caught on a stick not visible above the waterline in expressing the relief I felt this morning upon entering the forbidden zone, whose identity I'll mask by calling it the Gmail Spam Zone. It must have been the first time in almost a month that a bolded two-digit number wasn't directly referring to the number of house guests prodding at their own virtual waste in the Gmail Spam Zone. Naturally, my curiosity level increased in direct proportion to my decreasing erection, which was directly proportional to the exuberation I felt at questioning whether today would be the day that my apathy for any Microsoft product ceased.

Curiously, I tripped over Gmail's word association game by accident when my eyes wandered over three salivatory words: Spam Breakfast Burritos. I had to know more, so I followed the link.

"Bake 5-10 minutes. Serve with salsa. Add a bit of this. Mix through with a little of that." Could it be true? Could I have discovered the secret to being a God to the bellies of chicks and blokes alike? I argued with myself that it was so and it seemed as easy as baking a pie using only a blender, mince meat of unknown origin and prayer.

There was no doubt in my mind that this was the sliced bread of the new millennium. And I had to play again.

Spam Fajitas! Could it be true? Could fajitas really be made using Spam? Had I really struck gold or was there a more thrilling installment of this Gmail ruled electronic revolution of word association?

Vineyard Spam Salad! Heavens to Murgetroid! I was CLUELESS of the power of Spam. Could it have been the freshest, tastiest, most memorable meat-in-a-can money could buy without me even knowing it? Could it be that Spam had such diversity at its disposal? It left me in the capable hands of no doubt that it was. Spam was the Andy Symonds, the Lex Luthor, the Penguin, the Joker, Cat Woman, La Encantadora, Bizarro, Imperiex and Senior Oliveira da Figueira rolled into one stupendous creation in the fabulous world of quote-unquote meat.

Spam Hashbrown Bake! Oh, my word, yes! And it serves no less than eight! Holy fuck, that has to be delicious to where the definition itself concludes with three period marks for a lack of adequate praise.

But alas, the end was nigh. Spam Skillet Casserole, Savoury Spam Crescents and Ginger Spam Salad all featured in this timely game of word association before the inevitable regeneration of words associating with the word Spam came rolling around.

It left me feeling blonde about the latest developments in the wonderful world of software, flaccid - just because - and feeling as randy as a rambutan on the wrong end of a Ginzu knife.

Tonight's plan: I've gotta drive to every food outlet in the district likely to sell the 100% smacktastic* Spam so that some other asshole doesn't beat me to it.


* Not affiliated with pro-wrestling or pro-stitution.

8 comments:

Buddy Belcher said...

Monty Python have a spam song... I heard someplace that spam, the junk mail, was named after the song... you'd have to hear the song to understand why.

Kaufman said...

Like most of what MP did, the spam song is a timeless classic. I hadn't heard about spam for years until my recent brush with it at Gmail.

I heard Spielberg's shooting a fillum about it as we speak: War of the Spams or Jurassic Spam or Memoirs of a Spam or Artificial Spam: AS or The Spam Terminal or Men in Spam or Saving Private Spam or Schindler's Spam or Joe Versus the Spam or The Color Spam or whatever it'll be called.

Personally, I'm gunning for the title Recanned: Uprising of the Spam but he rarely listens.

Chloe said...

What, no spam-kabobs? Deviled spam? Spam frittatas?

Aminah said...

Any game you can play in the safety of your car during a traffic jam that prevents petrol-fume induced psychotic episodes is a good thing by me.

Mrs DC said...

Spam is almost as good as the word pants for substituting in titles.

Manic Street preachers - if you tollerate this then your children will be spam.

You can do both together - If you tolerate spam then your children will be pants.


This is quite possibly how Jeff beck writes all his songs

Captain Berk said...

Jeff beck is illiterate because all his fingers are made of paper. He won't write on it for fear of hurting it.

That is if spock is to be believed.

Kaufman said...

Err... Sorry for not addressing your comments... I didn't realise anyone was still reading all the way down here.

Chloe: It's a concern that you know about those additional recipes for the canned ham. I thought you were of Greek manufacture and, therefore, less likely to know about the questionable foods out there. Maybe you were being sarcastic?

Aminah: I'm not arguing with you on that one. If only my windows were tinted.

DDC: Yes, yes, yes, yes and yes to all of that. We should do one and the same next time we're in the process of obliterating our minds. I'm in.

Captain Berk: To get a comment from you AND Ultra on the same day after an absence of many weeks has a fishy smell. Are you sure you're not the same people? Anyway, I had no idea what we were talking about with the Jeff Beck reference. Then I read DDC's comment. Great to have you back in the swing of things as well.

Captain Berk said...

That fishy smell is just me.