Steve H? Hardly. He hunts with axes and broadswords. Spamorama prefers the rapier.
Tom (BR), excellent induction from a small detail overlooked by all others--the detail of omission. How accurate the induction? Could I know? And if I did, would I be capable of telling? Reminds me of a line from Spencer's "Faerie Queene": I who seem not I, Duessa am.
Splicing that possibility onto Spamorama's confused version of the Yahweh disclosure announcement ("I am Who I am" vs. "I who am, be Spam") could lead someone to the easy speculation that Torges be indeed Spamorama, a sociopathic schizoid with delusions of grandeur. Has a nice ring, don't it?
Men aspiring to be angels fell, angels aspiring to be gods...morphed into Spamorama?
Yes, of course, clear-sighted Hawkeye. The anagram, stupid. The logic, and the paradigm (LongTombo) seem irrefutable. But could Spamorama have carelessly left so many clues--these and including the ones I've catalogued in secret--to Ransom's door and still, by disposition wield a rapier? Incongruous, is it not? Or has this master of deception, who has tried through the course of his postings to tempt us with a taste of Spam so that we might grow more god-like, pulled the rabbit trick of backtracking and then jumping aside to observe, or, more likely, taken up the grinning possum's posture to find concealment by playing dead in the open.
Back to the Opossum's post for more clues? We shall see what we see.
Sonnet for Spam
In Spam GOM Dean was so fully immersed
We looked on aghast as Haggis raged
Poor Dean, exhausted from these wars in verse,
Will withdraw,alas, from this Leather page.
One last Quest! Spamorama we must seek!
Before Dean in osage curls lays his heavy head.
Well earned rest! But Dean just once more will peek
To see if to Spam-o our quest has led.
Ransom quakes- could he be the fetid one?
Hints from Ohio borne by shop dust wind
Point to that pinkly gelatin stained son.
But Mussato, Gowins, also have sinned!
Oh noble search! Glorious task! Our heads bow,
Oh Noble Dean, we will not fail you now!
Let us not be fooled by Deans' latest post,
He's simply digging and prying to shake answer loose.
Deans' feeling us up...er out,
Has no confidence in guess.
Don't give him help,
Let him fix his own mess.
Times running out, he must give answer soon,
Keep muddying the waters, 'til his heads in a swoon.
One last clue Dean and then I quit this,
It's not me nor you, all others still on list.
Listen up people. Spamarama uses the tepee chatline and usually uses that nickname. Just look at the domain name and do a search...viola! I think its jim-nv anyways.
Yes, you right. Spamarama is Jim-NV but we looking for Spamorama. It's Ric Anderson but you didn't hear that from me.
I know Spamorama.
Spamorama is a friend of mine.
And Alan Ransom is no Spamorama.(No offense intended A.R.)
Here's a clue: "Search the archives and you shall see, Spammies other 'handle' begins with a 'G'."
Awesome revelation, enormous implications. Spamorama as cloaked Fallen Archangel Hisoneself, hissing us on, tempting us at every opportunity--lunch, dinners, breakfast, snax--to take bites from Spam. Was Haggis right all along? Does Haggis live in this truth? Did his warnings to us cost him his life? I shudder at these metaphysical implications, but must follow them to their conclusion. No time for cowardice now. Must clear the fence cleanly.
Braer' Hawkeye...jocularity my keen-eyed raptor, a jousting jest for amusements' sake only I assure you. Do not judge me too harshly for I have grown a bit weary. My apologies for the implied character assassination for you are too pure of heart and keen of mind to have succumbed to the sultry and sinister world of Spamophalia.
Back to the task at hand. I must applaud the Deanderthal tactics used by my nemesis for the effect is likened to a mid-summer's day heat rash with the talcum bottle just out of arm's reach. It appears that the hobbling lawyer-baker-cabinet maker believes his coup de graces is drawing near, the keen blade of his foil at the ready, twitching with anticipation. For some reason, there are those who believe I am like the rabbit put to flight from the relentless pack of hounds (syndicated TV vernacular = guns for hire) commissioned by the Greek Mystique. Query: ever watch a rabbit run a dog into a fence? Sweet Annie's Fannie how I do love the chase!
Bays and wails as the dogs bare their teeth...how appropriate the image in a world gone mad. Until we meet again.
Spamorama, surely you distinguish between braying, dull-witted beagle who announces his presence with every bound, and fox who sits ahead waiting for a rabbit looking back over its shoulder grinning at a beagle and prospects of the woven wire fence dodge.
Dean, sitting upon trained three-legged stool, waiting, Torges
Deano,Deano, bowyer supreme, Why must you dilute all that we dream? The identity of Spamorama must remain cloaked in melodrama, a tribute to your verbal talent it seems.
Dean likes wabbits. Elmer Fudd likes wabbits. Spudley looks like Elmer Fudd. Spudley is Dean.
This looks more like a wild goose chase, than a fox on a trail.
Seems to me, before we start gloating over the few suspects left through this process of elimination, we ought to admit that the cast of characters, and, ergo, suspects, is much wider than these listed so far. What of Huntington and Graysquirrel? Bearman? Joe Don? They all posted fairly often during GSSC. And how can you leave out George Stout and still conduct a credible investigation? He loved the stuff flambeau. Sang its praises. (Down here, Georgie boy, all you have to do is open a can, impale it on a stick and hold it out. Voila! Instant flambeau.)
Voice of a Shade from the Netherworld
Thanks Will, but please don't get us mixed up in this.
VSN several of those you mention crossed my mind as well. Ruled out for some reason. Perhaps time will tell. Really thought hard on Cliff.
Spotted one, I'll tell you what I've seen on the rice prairies, if you tell me what you've seen in the Great Northwest.
I can't believe I read the whole thing!
Visited Tmuss, read the whole sick perverted thing. I now know I am in way over my head.
Hawkeye, how could I be such a fool, I apologize for my hasty accusation. Am too simple minded and easily misled. The trails of the few looking like many have left me bewildered and damn near blind.
Good luck, Dean, in your quest. I don't envy your task. I came to this thread by the lure of your prowess in prose and depart humbled by the depths of deciet.
My guess stands. (I like my Osage clear AND straight)
Well, this is proving more burdensome an undertaking than I first expected. What I expected was a confession of guilt and/or involvement after truce and peace treaties were signed at the cessation of hostilities last summer (when almost every principle lay strewn about in corpse form). Everyone came forward but Spamorama.
Not to worry, methought. I have time. The noose drew smaller as the clock ticked down. Yew-plucking fingers began pointing to A. R.--convincingly, too, I might add. But at the 10th hour VSN comes from the grave to inveigh against smugness. So I go back over the evidence again. I read all the posts once more.
And then it hits me. What I took to be a typo may have instead been clever subterfuge, calculated so that the hemispheric eyes of the rabbit could look in both directions, Janus-like, behind toward the yapping pursuer and forward to the sly ambush, smiling from both sides of it's bucktoothed mouth. There it was, the Rosetta Post. Hawk's: "I could only be Alan Ransom, you can tell by that NW accent! "
But if Hawk is Alan Ransom, where does this leave Mickie? What deeper meaning lies here, and how could he tell accent from printed word unless he referred to the accented syllables in the definitions of, of what, Ratiocination? Callow? Which is the key? And what the hell is an NW accent? Is that 2/3rds of the equation again? Do I have to factor in now some hip-hopping, rap slapping NW-A incomprehensibility?
Too much intrigue, too many possibilities for this simple country boy, put to sleep at night long ago to muffled radio strains of Hawkshaw Hawkins Hisownself over station WWVA, 1170 on the AM dial, singing simple songs of simple joys.
I may have tried to jump too high. You are correct, Sir Noble LongTombo, "Oh what tangled webs we weave...."
Dean, second thoughts, Torges
Oh linguistic one who's hair is gray, who whittles bow from day to day, tis' of thy self me thinks you mean, who is this Spamorama bein', your words betray your pseudonym, I say it's you that must be him! Forever flambeau, George
Kilt him a minotar when he was three - sung to the tune of Davie Crockett!
This guy may not be *him* be he knows who *he* is...
Dean, Give it up. It's been fun. The smeller is the feller.
Torges....I'ma callin' you out. Friday, high noon (that's central time folks). No more runnin'. No more deceit. I'm a tired of looking up all them big fancy 5 syllable words of yours. It's time to go toe to toe...mano a mano, hombre. Take your best shot you steely-eyed gladiator and pray that your aim be true cuz ifin' you miss I'll be all over you like maple syrup on crunchy fried Spam. Strike me down and I'll confess and concede. Men, keep your children and women folk off the cyber streets...this could turn ugly.
I'm looking around here for some help and feeling kinda lonely. Maybe even set up. I welcome this encounter, I think, because as evidenced by some sincere posts here, many people think I am indeed, in some convoluted, self-deceived way, the Spam Man. So I welcome the opportunity to clear my name.
That I have been set up is an undeniable reality to me. Indeed, I can see now how I was manipulated to begin this thread by a cleverly placed taunt from the beady one hisownself in my goodbye testimonial thread, Message from Dean. Sneaky, Weez. I understand your monicker a little better now. You require neither eyes nor nose to work in the dark, just the killer's instinct. And in tandem the two of you worked me, herded me, as it were. You yourself goaded me several posts later, in case my course of action should still remain clouded to me.
So I started this thread and hoped that the gentle villagers of the Leatherwall would arm themselves and align with me to root you out. One by one I have watched them peel off from my side and duck back into the sanctuary of their homes and businesses as the high hour approached. Worse yet, I've come now to strongly suspect that every original participant in the GSSC knows who you are, everyone, that is, but me and my naive deputy, Hawkeye. BC? LongTombo? Et tu, LongTombo?
And now even Hawkeye seems to have deserted me, temporarily distracted by his new NAO woolens sent to him with curious timing by a man I never until now would have suspected as a conspirator, Marc Barger hisownself. Does there require more proof than this of the corrupting, insidious nature of SPAM? One bite and it's yield to the Dark Side. And those too pure of heart to infect have been decoyed into 60 degree weather, dressed in heavy new wool, casting about for deer long since gone.
I have underestimated the enemy. An elementary mistake, Watson.
I hear the strains of an old song in the background as Mary leaves for work. The lyrics--I can barely make them out. Yes, sounds like the muffled voice of Red Sovine over WWVA accompanied by the high moan of a pedal steel "Do not forsake me oh my darling...."
It's lonely out here.
"You yourself goaded me several posts later, in case my course of action should still remain clouded to me."
Did I? Or didn't I?