Her final exam. The ultimate pentesting challenge, before certification to enter the world of industrial espionage. Her mission? Access the spam manufacturing plant. With a deep breath she slid her arms into the heavy coveralls before zipping up. At last, she walked through the swinging doors into the processing area.
“Spam, spam, spam, spam! Lovely spam!” The company jingle blared throughout the processing plant. Harvey glumly worked his station, another replaceable cog.
The Victorian Era sucked. This wasn’t the reformative innovation that had been promised.
Harvey kicked excess gelatin off his boots and hurled a spanner into the turning gears.
In the beginning was the word, and the word was spam. And God was not pleased, because He’d subscribed to the paid version precisely to avoid ads. And He smote the spammers, and they protested: Howso are we to make a living without targeted advertising; and God said, F*** off!
It was the meaty reek of Spam that haunted Bob’s dreams after twenty years of working the line at the factory. Patricia had left him because of that smell. Bob could never quite scrub it all away. Everyone thought he had quit, until they found his hair in the machines.
“Sir, the fusion reactor is ready to go”, ensign Codswallop announced.
“By all means, Ensign, full ahead”
The Spam Drive’s thrust smoothly took the ship into hyperspace. No one thought that a 20th century meat product would have been the secret interstellar travel.
Volcanic vents on Kilauea gave off powerful steam, but what to do with it? It couldn’t be used for transportation, nor power cities on the side of a volcano.
Hawaiian engineers found an answer. Steampunk Hawaii made the fastest and best Spam loaves.
Nobody remembers building The Mighty Meat Machine.
Nobody remembers the days they spent oiling its gears, sharpening its blades, laying the track, herding the cattle and sheep and chickens and...others.
Nobody remembers the beforetime meals of green leaves and eye-opening spices.
"Click, tick, whir." The machine plopped out the first fully automated, hands-free Spamburger. Jacob took it from the conveyor belt and tasted it. It was perfect. It was then he realized that the new machine installed in the kitchen had just replaced him. Time for a new line of work.
The rectangular hunk slid from the can with a satisfying splorp onto the cutting board. Slice. Dice. Fry. Plate. Inhale deeply. Lovely porky scent. Taste? Better than prior attempts.
Her employer would be pleased. She fed another meaty chunk into the processor, and ignored the screams.
Dear Sis, New says hurricane, but wasn’t. Small gale. Usual coverup. We killed it, but please send money, coal, aluminum, steel and the Doc. Prepare him for repairs, I hate to see him cry again.
“That’s the last, Cap’n!” the Vet Engineer 1st Class called out as the GenMod hamster nibbled the last bit of Spam from his fingers. The Tocino gave the hamsters a little more juice for their wheels, but would it be enough to get the wounded airship back to friendly skies?
Years of planning finally paid off. They knocked out the guards, bypassed the alarms, and quietly opened the loading doors. Hired muscle loaded her truck, stacking the cases of precious cargo floor to ceiling. Victorious, she drove away from the factory. At last! All the Tocino Spam she could eat!
“Challenge: Automate Meal Preparation”
Greg read this and was inspired. The Automatic Spam Plating Machine was his entry to the competition.
But spam, spam and yet more spam was not what anyone wanted.
The judges awarded the prize elsewhere. No restaurants would purchase it.
It was his most costly mistake.
Her final exam. The ultimate pentesting challenge, before certification to enter the world of industrial espionage. Her mission? Access the spam manufacturing plant. With a deep breath she slid her arms into the heavy coveralls before zipping up. At last, she walked through the swinging doors into the processing area.
“Spam, spam, spam, spam! Lovely spam!” The company jingle blared throughout the processing plant. Harvey glumly worked his station, another replaceable cog.
The Victorian Era sucked. This wasn’t the reformative innovation that had been promised.
Harvey kicked excess gelatin off his boots and hurled a spanner into the turning gears.
In the beginning was the word, and the word was spam. And God was not pleased, because He’d subscribed to the paid version precisely to avoid ads. And He smote the spammers, and they protested: Howso are we to make a living without targeted advertising; and God said, F*** off!
It was the meaty reek of Spam that haunted Bob’s dreams after twenty years of working the line at the factory. Patricia had left him because of that smell. Bob could never quite scrub it all away. Everyone thought he had quit, until they found his hair in the machines.
The smell of pork infused the ship
“Sir, the fusion reactor is ready to go”, ensign Codswallop announced.
“By all means, Ensign, full ahead”
The Spam Drive’s thrust smoothly took the ship into hyperspace. No one thought that a 20th century meat product would have been the secret interstellar travel.
"Hawaiian Steam"
Steampunk in Hawaii was different from elsewhere.
Volcanic vents on Kilauea gave off powerful steam, but what to do with it? It couldn’t be used for transportation, nor power cities on the side of a volcano.
Hawaiian engineers found an answer. Steampunk Hawaii made the fastest and best Spam loaves.
Wilbur blinked. Kansas had gone bye bye. Familiar trough and stalls were far behind, and… "Tell me the fuel for that isn't what it looks like!"
Orpheusmay answered. "Ages ago we were subsumed into a vast machine. Now you know the dark truth."
"Got any of those blue pills left?"
Nobody remembers building The Mighty Meat Machine.
Nobody remembers the days they spent oiling its gears, sharpening its blades, laying the track, herding the cattle and sheep and chickens and...others.
Nobody remembers the beforetime meals of green leaves and eye-opening spices.
All they know is the great Spam Shoggoth.
Eat well.
"Click, tick, whir." The machine plopped out the first fully automated, hands-free Spamburger. Jacob took it from the conveyor belt and tasted it. It was perfect. It was then he realized that the new machine installed in the kitchen had just replaced him. Time for a new line of work.
The rectangular hunk slid from the can with a satisfying splorp onto the cutting board. Slice. Dice. Fry. Plate. Inhale deeply. Lovely porky scent. Taste? Better than prior attempts.
Her employer would be pleased. She fed another meaty chunk into the processor, and ignored the screams.
Sam, Sam. Delicious Spam.
Roald Dahl had been his dearest inspiration. The words of magic and wonder filled his young head, and on through adulthood.
For years he worked, refined, and planned. His grandparents' inheritance provided funds, and he provided vision.
Alas, the world was not ready for Silas Scruggs and the Spam Factory.
Decoded from Telegraph Sept 12, 1882 Miami
Dear Sis, New says hurricane, but wasn’t. Small gale. Usual coverup. We killed it, but please send money, coal, aluminum, steel and the Doc. Prepare him for repairs, I hate to see him cry again.
Pete asks will you marry him now?
Tom
“That’s the last, Cap’n!” the Vet Engineer 1st Class called out as the GenMod hamster nibbled the last bit of Spam from his fingers. The Tocino gave the hamsters a little more juice for their wheels, but would it be enough to get the wounded airship back to friendly skies?
“Incredible!” said the President.
“Two-thousand cans an hour,” said the manager.
“Is it enough?”
“Dr. Pettyfog calculates it’s a ten percent margin.”
“Private Buckley will get the Medal of Honor, Posthumously. Fortunate his love of Spam.”
The conveyer-belt whirred, cans flying into the maw of the thing. “Yuuum,” it rumbled.
51--second hypen got you.
"The Heist"
Years of planning finally paid off. They knocked out the guards, bypassed the alarms, and quietly opened the loading doors. Hired muscle loaded her truck, stacking the cases of precious cargo floor to ceiling. Victorious, she drove away from the factory. At last! All the Tocino Spam she could eat!
And yes, Josh and I love Tocino Spam...
That’s only because it’s really good…
I think I have a can in the pantry, but it's only a few years old. I think it needs to age a little more.