Spam Spam Spam

By Mike Johnson

I love Spam.

The kind you eat, not the kind you don't read.

Fixate on anything and it becomes big in your windscreen. Analogies and metaphors fly from the ethers everywhere.

I preferred Spam when it was packaged with the little metal key. It was like a secret handshake. You couldn't get in without knowledge of how to slip the key in the tab and slowly roll off the lid. Today, the pull tab allows any commoner to get in. There goes the neighborhood. Stick a pork in it, it's done. With that key system, come the apocalypse, today's kids would starve to death.

Hey you kids! Get off my bunker!

Every generation degrades a little bit more. Star Trek called it "genetic drift."

The truth is, we defend old ways of doing things not because they are better, but because we had to tolerate them. They built character. Experiencing hard times makes us appreciate good times. If all our good times come easy we feel entitled. And react petty and bitter when the slightest things go wrong.

When I grew up, Spam was a step above bologna. Which made it a treat. Fried Spam was a culinary event! So I still look at it fondly, even though my food choices are now unlimited.

Two-thirds the fun of achieving your dreams is appreciating what you've overcome.


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