I was in the world's largest retailer the other day picking up a jar or "MO-JO," world's only solvent proven effectively enough to remove the funky residue I had inadvertantly dribbled on my shirt front after a wonderous lunch of "SLT" sandwiches and guess what did my eyes spy? A beautiful, light blue ball cap with bold, red letters across the front shouting that hallowed word, SPAM! For those who may desire the latest in a fashion statement and for a measly $7.95 + tax, you too can walk proudly and proclaim your allegiance to the gourmet of canned critters!
Alas, it appears that this thread is finally succumbing, as have many of its participants.
A good thing, perhaps, but one wonders if there is a government conspiracy (what with the alleged CIA involvement and all)to cover it up. Perhaps we can enTREET Gingrich the Newt and Field Marshal Reno to investigate.
I can see the headlines now: SPAMGATE CONSPIRACY ALLEGED!
Hau, yes, it has alway's been the way of Wausicun to tire of the chase just at the moment when Meat's blood cry's out, and the arrow is ready -waiting- to sing for joy.
The future hold's forth a silver arrow, and none but one can have it. Could SPAM and it's distractive nature be but a ruse to eliminate the best, before the test of shooting at a distance fit for a man.
On a midsumme's afternoon, there will be a reckoning.
Sooo-o-o, was Haggis a shill for Treat, a patriot in the cut of Paul Revere, a cross section of the Scottish sheep industry (literally), a bipolar paranoiac, or a bad taste in Buz's well water? Was Snorkle's name really an anagram for Rosicrucian illumination and did he in death take with him the ancient mysteries of the Roswell Archers? Whatever happened to his colleague Willy? Did Frenchmen pin his feet to a board with crossbow bolts and force feed him Spam, or did his liver look that way from guzzling Hawk's liquid cargo? Can Spamophiles ever garnish with a pate spread again? Does Hawkeye's mysterious disappearance lower the Injun number by one? Is he sleeping with graysquirrel's lost Osage logs, and will the shameful secret life of this Sunday school teacher become a tabloid headline? Will Dean wolf down Spam disguised as a ball of Amish bacon, buy a house near a suburban mall and bark out Madison Avenue copy for Spam, or will he flee to some rain forest in search of new bow woods and lithe Amazonian women with back quivers strapped across their chests? How does Spotted Owl fry up as a Spamstitute, or is it possible to have real meat substitute for a meat substitute? If you need answers to these questions, remember, season opens in just a coupla more months.
You know, Grump, you've sparked an idea in me on how to sell my book beyond its narrow target market and gain a title for it at the same time. Once Hawkeye's peccadillos catch their attention in grocery store checkout lines, couldn't I display nearby advertising for: "Roswell Relics: How I Learned To Build Self Bows From Alien Archers"? I think it might work.
Forget the Owl. I told you once before that I ate it--it's a substitute for nothing.
I've just returned from a trip to the hinterlands of the North over this past weekend. The proud bird on which I flew smelled of aviation fuel, and had none of the stealth or grace of our own Hawk or Spotted Owl, but it did provide me with a valuable opportunity. As I flew above the patchwork mosaic of IL, MO, IA, and MN, I looked diligently for signs of our own dear Haggis. I saw nothing, although a lump near the municipal sewage treatment pond at Cedar Rapids looked vaguely familiar. I tried to get the pilot to swing over the Berrien Springs region of MI, and a certain small town near Colombus, OH, but he made some lame excuse about FAA regulations and TWA's flight schedule, and refused to help me out.
Although the recon mission was a dreadful failure, the rest of the trip was a success. Because of a coup-de-grace scored late in the business trip, I have an announcement to make.
As a smelly old farmer, lousy archer, and quasi-successful businessman, I have decided to offer to sponsor the GSSC through my thriving business empire. I have procured and donated to our noble cause the championship prize and purse for the GSSC. With his permission, the winner's treasure will be on display at Dean's both for the duration of the GSSC, with the prize being awarded on the final day. As big-time corporate sponsor, I will serve as judge to determine the winner, though I might be persuaded to let Dean help in exchange for one of his bows.
This is no small reward... I think all will be impressed. Come... shoot... see who will be declared GSSC champion for 1997. Who, then, will it be???
Longbo, is your eye sharp? Bearman... are you in top form after all the Spam and maple syrup? Dean, do those bows really shoot, or are they just Dacron-strung centerpieces? Grumpy, do you need an attitude adjustment before you can find peak performance? Doe-Boy, can you shoot as well as you talk? Hawk and SO, how do you hold a longbow with talons? Guano, what smells? George, Cliff, greysquirrel... are you brave enough to show? Haggis, WHERE ARE YOU??????
It has cost me plenty, but I'm footing the bill to find out the answers to these and many other questions... and to see once and for all who the best durned shot in all the GSSC may turn out to be. I'd let my beautiful wife present the prize if I thought I could trust you guys around her... oh, well.... I guess I'll be giving it away myself!!
What I do, I do not for personal glory or fame, but for the good of all that is right and good, and for the very spirit of the GSSC. I hope the winner is willing to receive it in the same vein.
With the countdown under two weeks, I remain...
Is this first prize edible? Will determine how much effort is put into my practice sessions and whether or not "Ole Reliable" makes the trip north with me.
aaahhhhh, but would the hoary headed vermine with sharp teeth love to venture forth to the northlands (hoary means gray in old english gargin) but alas!!! Two children getting off to a higher education has put a major crimp in what is considered luxurious playtime by the LORD HIGH EXECUTIONER in my placial abode (thats my wife)
One day I will Hawkeye, one day I will, by then I am sure I will qualify for the Senior division. I hear they are not allowed to get anywhere near spam
I'll be there, Hawkeye, contesting for the prize. Meantime, my search for Haggis, based on a slip of the tongue by Dean Torges on another thread, has taken me to deep forest near the mouth of the Amazon. No Haggis here, but met a shaman whose catalyst for mystical revelations and descents into the nether world are provided by none other than Spam uncanned! Gets stranger and stranger.
Seems years ago some strait-laced Sunday-school-teaching Christian missionary had his dinner interrupted when these savages came for supper. On his plate at that time was a single slab of Spam. When the savages a day or so later decided to loot the vacant place, they discovered the Spam, transformed. A blue velvet-like growth had swollen its mass by three (remember, hot and humid tropics, here), and in the center of that blue was the likeness of a Greek god. They scraped away some of the excess, enhancing his shock of black hair, his Roman nose and his thick lips, and discovered as well that he was holding an acoustic instrument, gyrating and playing rock and roll.
To make a very long story short as I can, the shaman and several others ingested the excess suede-like mold and were immediately transported through psychedelic visions to a world where past, present and future blurred into one, so that residents there spoke in verbs all of one tense, and referred to the Spam that their great, great grandparents scraped in the very same language as the Spam their sometime descendants might someday scrape.
Tonight they take me to the missionary's hut, which has since been remodeled into a shrine. My hope is (was, will be?) that I might scrape some of the blue stuff for myself and thereby determine the fate of Haggis (and others).
Wow, Grump. This explains much. I'm beginning to see through the propaganda more clearly now. Be careful.
Be VERY careful. You may be becoming involved with forces with which you have no business dealing. The Netherworld is a dark and dangerous place. I learned that in Sunday School.
While you are in the presence of the Shaman in the Missionary Hut, avoid at ALL costs the Missionary Position. Oh, the horrors of it all. Beware... Beware....
Yeah, and if you drop your wallet, make sure you kick it up north of the equator before you bend over to pick it up.
Hawkeye, unfortunately, I'm not able to bless the olfactory senses of the masses at GSSC with my fragrant aroma this year. Perhaps another time, another s&%t -- oops, I meant shoot. In the meantime, watch out where you step.
None of your ****, Guano. Anyone who don't show up will be declared an impostor, no excuse short of cyberdeath acceptable.
Hawkeye, have been reading from this missionary's journal while biding my time for the seance this evening. His name was Daryl and he lived somewhere in the midwest, toiling the fields and raising hogs before grabbing up the Bible and a knapsack of Spam and leaving everything (wife, family, land) to anwer his calling. What exactly is your first and last name and where in Iowa do you call home and have you ever had intimations of a parallel universe? Very interesting. The circles begin to close and tighten.
Must go now and genuflect before the craven image of the King (as they call the Velveteen Spam here, requiring such tribute morning and evening).
Oh, no! Spam and Velveta? Aaarrgghh!
Hawkeye...you are a witty little devil (not to imply that you have connections to the Netherworld mind you). And folks, don't let a little blue fuzz on a de-canned Spam create a left-brain, right-brain tug of war with your taste buds and common sense. Ever seen aged beef, summer sausage, or yogurt? Hmmmm...come to think of it, just how does one know when yogurt's gone bad? I say, scrape the fuzz, grab a can of cheez-whiz, a box of Ritz, crank up some Merl Haggard and dream up a new cresting pattern for this season's hunting arrows.
First taste of Sprouted Spam a psychedelic delight. Perhaps, Spamorama, we have found fuzz for comman cause.
Attendant vision: through a kaleidoscope of bow and arrow parts stepped a man as out of a fog, and in one hand he carried a familiar banner, a bodkin centered Spam loaf on a rampant field of crushed and empty cans, and in the other hand he carried a custom deluxe Jerry Pierce recurve, plucked from the air as though it were King Arthur's sword itself, and he waved both about and said "Haggis is dead. Follow me lads." He hoisted the banner and legions of honorable men fell in behind him.
I called out to him, "Who are you, Stranger?" He anwered indistinctly with a flick of his bow arm, mumbling that I would recognize him at the GSSC as the contestant with the spectactular weapon.
The vision blurs. Am going back for another fuzz scraping. Must be careful and not imperil The King's image.
"The Green Spam of Summer" (sung to the tune of "The Green Leaves of Summer" [theme from The Alamo]
'Twas so good to be spamslimed Haggis face down in the dirt And the green spam of summer Is calling me to GSSC.
Damn, Grump, you actually sounded polite and civil in that last post. Eat some more of that stuff!
Effects of scrape wearing off. Go to bed Guano.
Is this SPAM shoot going to be one of those deals where you TRY to lose?
My tent is definately going to be upwind of everyone and everything!!
But....then again...something about that maple surup.
For those of you attending the GSSC, the menu is as follows:
For breakfast, green eggs and Spam with imitation maple syrup on the side, or a Spam breakfast burrito, liberally garnished with cheese whiz and pico de gallo.
For lunch, Spam tacos al carbon, Spam sandwiches and Alka Seltzer. Chocolate Ex-Lax ice cream for dessert.
As a mid-afternoon snack, Spam fondue and Spam kabobs will be featured. Vienna sausages also available. Candy bowls laden with flavored Tums will be provided as well.
For the evening meal, you have a choice of roast Spam au jus, prime Spam, Spamsteak broiled to perfection (even extra crispy, Bearman), barbecued Spam, or a steaming bowl of Spam Brand chili. Cream of Maalox soup available also.
Happening to me, too. Seeing Spam everywhere. Ever seen intoxicated savages waving disemboweled Spam cans impaled on truncheons, singing verse after verse of "Don't [You] Step On My Blue Suede Spam", all the while beating ritual barefoot circles into the ground around uncanned Spam, as though it were some Mexican sombrero?
Don't know if it happened or if I'm now hallucinating beyond measure, in Spam freefall.
Beginning to fear death by this means.
John F., is invite still open for groundhog supper (I hope!). Things are not looking too good right now.
Tom (longbo) and all...If it's groundhog ye seek, bring ye here to Bedford County, Pa. There's an orchard owner who is trying like heck to rid himself of the little bark-biters, but he is fighting a losing battle. We took a trip over there a few days ago but it was too late in the day and much too hot. Need to get there right after sunrise or just before dusk. He welcomes all who wish to ambush the clover clippers. Beautiful country, many hogs, and lots of spam on the store shelves....sounds like heaven to me. George
Who started the Spam stuff anyway?
George, you are sitting on a goldmine there. I envy you. Whistlepigs have been scarce here for years and I guard with diligence the few good places I have to hunt them.
Jeff, you should be shot! Or at the very least made to attend GSSC this year.
I wish I could make it, but there is no way.
Jeff, if you can get yourself as far as Illinois I can get you the rest of the way. If I looked around real hard I could probably even find you a longbow to use until your Marriah arrives. Afraid it would be bamboo though and not that fancy stuff :-)
Guano, trilogy not a fantasy! Not from where I scrape. Frodo lives.
Hermit, fill thy truck to overflowing and avoid temptation.
Grump, my onetime friend, tempted and fallen, succumbed to the unholy trinity: drugs, sex and Spam.
It is fit that this thread languishes. The good have all gone. No one left to fight the good fight.
From someone you once knew, someone who walked in sunshine and warned all of S.P.A.M., I remain,
Voice of a Shade from the Netherworld
Bowing and scraping, my a?@
Hey, Grump;got room for one more?
Message to hippies (ex??) w/computers: THE THOUGHT POOLICE ARE LISTENING! THERE IS NO HIDING FROM A SPAM-SNIFFING RHINO!!
Wait, don't flush it! Just kidding!
Just had breakfast- sourdough biscuits, elderberry jelly, bacon, and, just to stay in the mood, a piece of fried spam (no fuzz). Had to quit the fuzz- it made me do posts like the last one.....
About 250 posts ago, Haggis told us of Brian's plans for the GSSC. Since then, what started out as a charming idea for an innocent diversion has wound through a confusing labyrinth of intrigue, deception, corportate greed, poisoned foodstuffs, acrimony, accusation and denial, hallucinogens, subversion, political corruption, sex, defection (no, not deflection--defection, dammit!), and maybe even murder, all with a grotesque archery leitmotif to more or less justify its continued existence on the Wall.
Now it grows time to shoot shafts, unmask villains, cook Spam and bring this thread to a merciful conclusion (though I'd be satisfied with any conclusion, merciful or not). I'm sure the Spam course will be a dilly, even if it consists only of a lone Spam can on a hunnert yard hickory wand in the middle of a crowded parking lot, and I intend to contest for first prize and not to be intimidated by the one who walks amongst us with the new Jerry Pierce custom-built-and-not-for-sale-at-any-price recurve.
But the part that puzzles me is the cook-off part. I want to contest for this, too, since Haggis is no longer with us to warn me off. I have a recipe that I want to enter, and I want to know when is the tasting, who is the judge and what are the ground rules?
If this thread continues true to form, the answers to these questions are anybody's good guess. So, I'm stepping forth with an appointment to a judgeship (no, not a nomination, an appointment, dammit!), the hour of ingestion and the conditions thereof.
JUDGE. Bearman be de judge. A self-confessed aficionado of this meat substitute. If he fail to show, by default Tom Mussatto, a self-confessed beggar of meals.
HOUR. Saturday evening sometime [after things slow down], wherever [the beer flows most freely].
CONDITIONS. One freshly uncanned SPAM per entrant, unadorned (no additives beyond its own label-acknowledged deadly mix), unglazed, no sides, no embellishments, cooked clean through (i.e., warm enough to kill parasites), by any means, such as boiling, pan frying, manifold baking. In the spirit of competition and as evidence of Spam fairly taken, each loaf must bear one field point or one two- or three-blade hole clean through its middle (use of explandables results in immediate DQ, no appeals). In the spirit of this thread, such skewering may take place deceptively (by hand, from behind, at close quarters, when no one's looking, immediately prior to cooking). Spam also may be entered as object of bare shaft testing for double points. Spam to be presented on styrofoam plate with plastic utensil included, entrant's name or sign marked on underside of plate, invisible to judge.
PRIZE. Whatever Hawkeye sez.
See you there, mebbe with bare shafts flying.
Damn it, Dean, that's defecation! You have your threads confused.
And explanables? You been tasting some of Grump's fuzz?
Wish I could be there. But if someone shows up who looks like Smilin' Chuck with a really rank-smelling stocking cap, it's probably Doe-Boy.
Guano, that's defection, not defecation, dammit! I understand your confusion, however, you bein' Guano and all. Besides, ain't defection til I eat some, and ain't done that yet.
No, swore off Grump's fuzz. That's how I got to be an old hippy--and fearless to boot.
I count Doe-Boy amongst the casualties. Don't think he'll make it, or if he do, smell won't be from his cap.
That's expandables, not explanables, dammit.
Oh, poo! Because this is a G-rated BB. I think.
Deen, sum uh them Okie's spelin airs iz rubbin off on u.
You guys are still SICK PUPPIES, can't you BURY real deep this spam stuff and dig it up as a twinkie, doughnut(JELLY) or little sugar doughnut, or something that actually is edible when you are not starving.
By the way guys, at the Mac shoot we are going to set up a spam shoot. Can a spam at 150 yds, 1 buck for 2 shoots, first one hits the spam gets the pot. Thats the only decent thing I can think of to do with a can of this cra*** (excuse) stuff
Snyder - if I can get to Joe Don's before you I'm gonna take my magic marker than write Spamastic on the back of your bow for that "OKIE" remark - either that or draw a picture of a squirrel on the bamboo part and paint it gray
And I'll throw in a can of vienna sausages! No extra charge for the tobasco sauce.
greysquirrel, when it comes to my shooting 150 yards might as well be 1000 miles. If I send you a buck can I enter your shoot? Just post on board when it's my turn on the line and I will aim 2 to the south and launch in your direction.
You'd be surprise after 5 bucks work of shots how close one can get to a target when money is riding the line, we put up a clay pidgeon on an 80 yds bale on one shoot and this little short shrimp of a real squirrel called JOE DON LOONEY (no kin to Joe Don who makes bows although they do come from the same area) hit that sucker on the second arrow. That guy is the luckiest turkey I know
Hey, greysquirrel, you forgot to put a period at the end of your sentence. :-}
You mess with my selfbow and I'll wave that Bighorn in front of Red's nose and get him to sic his wife on you!
Twinkies? Jelly donuts?
Yeah!!!! Twinkies and jelly donuts, how else can a traditional shooter create and solid stabilizer above the belt line that will not move in the mightest of wind - darn sure can't do it with spam
GRAYSQUIRREL, I have my doubts that ole Joe Don, was the only looney at that shoot!!!!!!!!!!
Bruce, My bighorn looks like someone took a chain saw to it. My buddy pulled it back today and the top limb really blew up, nothing but splinters and glass. Oh well, they make new limbs everyday I guess. I might have to sell off my cache of Spam to get a pair. beware of rabid squirrels! SPUDLEY
Hell, I can't do it anyhow. When I was a college student and was 5'7" and weighed 135, my old man said just wait 'til you're 30. When I was 30 and went about 140, he said just wait 'til you're 40. Well, I'm 45 now, still 5'7", and am 145 lb of mostly muscle and a measured 10% body fat. Yeah, I'm bragging. I'm a little more careful with my diet, but I like beer and a good cigar. I gotta admit, though, I gotta work at keeping the physique of a Greek god. (Hope you got your hip boots on, greysquirrel. Btw, the correct spelling is "gray." Couldn't help it; it's the writer/editor in me.)
Unfortunately, my old man can no longer tell me, wait 'til you're 50. He's now slowly dying of Alzheimer's disease. He gave all of his adult life in service to his country, but all he's gonna get in return is a grave at Arlington National Cemetary.