[Sca-cooks] It's raining Turkey Spam!

[Philip & Susan Troy]

Hullo, the list!

So I'm sitting here, sipping a large pu-ni (that's pu-erh tea to you
Mandarin-speakers), minding my bidness and catching up on e-mail, with
the radio news playing softly in the background.

My attention is captured by a sound, a hitherto inexperienced
experience. It _sounds_ like a turkey, or an incredible simulation,
gobbling the fanfare to Richard Strauss's "Also Sprach Zarathustra," the
tune most of us associate with Kubrick's "2001." It is a radio spot
advertising Spam Oven-Roasted Turkey. They seem intent on making it
clear that this is not Turkey Spam, because of course that would be
vile, but rather, Spam (tm) Oven-Roasted Turkey.

I'm wondering which wrist to slash first, thinking that's the simplest
permanent solution, when my life is saved. I'm reprieved by the
doorbell. Over the intercom, the mailman announces that I have a
package, and asks me to come down and get it.

Clutching at straws, or anything that'll get me away from the Evil
Influence of the Spam Oven-Roasted Turkey, I race down to the lobby to
find the mailman filling the 85 little mailboxes. He stops what he's
doing and walks over with a small, heavy-ish package, the kind that
might contain a new order of checks from the bank, or a small book. The
mail man tells me the busy season for packages is beginning. The box is
addressed in a neat hand, sealed with duct tape (how could I not have
foreseen it?), with a return address for a single name ("Olwen",) and a
P.O. Box.

Snickering a little suspiciously, I take the Opinel pocketknife from my
pocket and carefully slit the duct tape. I can't wait to see what's
inside... the mailman watches, breathless. I open the box flaps...

I look inside... I snicker a little more...

I remove from the box an amalgam of several small plastic bags. Looking
over my shoulder, the postman sees a flash of color, a lovely rusty
russet such as one finds in foods containing saunders, or perhaps the
skin of roasted poultry. Also a flash of a bright blue, distinctive
label. Knowing exactly what this is, I begin to laugh hysterically.

The postal carrier shrieks the "a-word", drops everybody's mail, and
runs from the building. He continues to shriek about suspicious packages
with fake return addresses sealed with duct tape, containing reddish,
grainy particles. Something about spores...

The post office is only a couple of blocks away. I'm back upstairs at my
desk, enjoying the spectacle of Olwen's delivery of a marzipan can of
Spam Oven-Roasted Turkey, containing two small, marzipan turkeys. The
workmanship is lovely, some minor damage in transit, but overall a
magnificent project. I can hear the first police and ambulance sirens,
and think to myself, "Well, you're the only kid on the block _this_ is
happening to."

As I write, the doorbell is ringing again, and there appears to be a
bunch of guys in flak jackets rapelling down the front of the building.
They're all shouting something like, "Hup. Hup. Hup."

Thank you, Olwen, for the lovely gift! You have made my week, and it had
already gotten off to a lousy start, so it's doubly appreciated. But I
gotta go now...

Adamantius
--
Phil & Susan Troy

troy at asan.com

"It was so blatant that Roger threw at him.  Clemens gets away with
things that get other people thrown out of games.  As long as they
let him get away with it, it's going  to continue." -- Joe Torre, 9/98