My rant may not have pleased you, but it ended up as a GUEST COLUMN inFlorida Today Newspaper today. Click on this link to see it.
Have a nice day!
(To backfill the minds of my many readers who are not Better John, I now briefly explain that John the Mayer did submit a ranting, brief and lacking in vitriol, which I then did summarily reject, only to receive the above courier électronique in short order. I make to reply, below— Ed-i-C,. G.S.)
I must confess, hang-sackedly, that I had initially intended to reply to this with extreme of the snarkiness: "Oh!" I thought to exclaim, "The Guest Columnar are you of the great Florida Today Newspaper! Having house broken many a lonely cur, I am well acquainted with their fine offering. Is it true that their primary sales-source is yet to the homeless men seeking insulating warmth, or have the fish-mongers in need of wrapping and movers in need of packing overtaken those forgotten men in the buying-lines for this paragon of reportage? With the pride, indeed, you must cock-walkedly strut!" and from there I had much the mind to go onward to the insult of your person, and heritage, and the possible concupiscence and cupidity of your mother, especially as is in reference to the ponies of Shetland, milkmen, and the erotic ministrations of large household applianciea. But now, I have seen the lights. In your original submission, as I recall, this less-than-ranting rant bore the less-than-earth-shatteringly acute observation as title: "Corporate America is Spying On You." I note well that in its current incarnation, your essay, she is called "Spam Is Out To Get You." This confuses. As is ever the case with such nuggets americanum, I brought my confusion unto Rob, my loyal campaign advisor and lab assistant, and asked that he explain of the Spam, and the threats there-of.
"Spam? It's this gross-ass meat shit, sorta like corned beef hash and sorta like Alpo, comes in a pop-top can. But, you know, fattier. Poor fuckers in the South eat it, and militia guys, and Boy Scouts. Oh, and I used to work at this coffee shop with this Filipino mutherfucker, Teofisto, and he totally insisted that Spam was some sorta delicacy in the Philippines, which is just totally too fucked up to even think about."
"Indeed. The Spam, is she out to get me?"
"I dunno. They say it's made of pigs and shit— I mean, not shit, like actual shit, just, you know, other stuff that isn't pig. It ain't kosher, is all. I guess they could put space aliens like you in it. I remember this one guy— not Teofisto, that fucker— but this other dude, when I was a kid, who was, like, a Wee Blow Scout or whatever— not that he was molested or anything, that's just what they called 'em . . . course, he did end up being gay, which is totally fine even though I don't dig it, so maybe there's more to that Wee Blow shit than you think. He was a cool guy. Gave really good, like, foot rubs and back rubs and shit. Good wrestler, too . . ." and Rob paused long, "What were you asking about?"
More than a little of the panic had crept within, "The Spam, is she out to get me?"
"Oh, yeah, but, so he told me about this one time they were on some ass-long scout jambo-hike-athon where everything went to shit, and it rained the whole time and this one kid lopped off a finger with his hatchet on the first day and they had to tourniquet it and get all first aid and one leader and two other scouts totally had to rush the clumsy little fucker to the emergency room, and they couldn't find the finger anywhere around where he was chopping up kindling so they couldn't even sew the shit back on. But they were true scouts, right? Show must go on and shit. And they had this Spam. They totally avoided eating it for as long as possible, but then they couldn't avoid it anymore, so they had to crack the cans open, so they could fry it up with onions, and the can m'man cracked open . . ."
And here Rob paused. I leaned forward, ever closer to the glassy wall of my aquarial home, and he leaned forward as well.
"And then what, Rob?" I asked, my synthesized voice almost inaudible, so was I rapt.
"IT HAD A FINGER IN IT!"
I started back. "No!"
"Yeah! Even more fucked up, it was the very same finger that clumsy fuck had cut off on day one. M'man the scout figures the Spam had slunk out in the night, like a monster comin' in under the clouds faceless, and had gobbled the thing up. Cannibal Spam. Just like the Attack of the Killer Tomatoes."
"KIller Tomatoes?" I gasped.
"Yeah Lord A., true shit. It's a fucked up world."
I recalled in the original rantless essay the claim that "cookies could be the death of the Internet," which was of interest, but hardly of concern to one such as I, who lives in a pressurized water tank where cookies seldom survive and are naught to flourish, but this canned spiced ham in the can, she could be a much more deadly enemy.
I apologize now, Better John, for neglecting to properly appreciate the threat you have so subtly and artfully outlined— subtle and artful, in fact, to the point of complete obfuscation. I shall meditate upon your warning further, and may the variegated Lords and Forces have mercy upon my Soul.
As for the nice day, it would seem increasingly rare and fanciful for me to posses of one, as the culinary threats, they do disturb deeply.
Your Giant Squid
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