The Economy - It Tastes Like Burning!

Analysts may have all of their fancy charts and doomsday predictions, but in the Workman house, the economy can be evaluated by the quantity of canned meats consumed. Times have apparently been grim since I first tasted Spam with Bacon!

Processed bricks of meat aren't all fun and games. Sure, it is exciting to slice it up after watching it slide out of the can. You don't know if the congealed bubble of saturated fat you're bound to discover will be the size of a dime or a golf ball. It's like a prize in a box of Cracker Jacks! That is, I suppose, if Cracker Jacks started giving away heart attacks.

Even the way the meat reveals itself is exciting. I did some extensive testing and realized that Spam drops from the can at the same speed as the New Year's countdown ball.

"Yay! Here I am!! You're poor!" says the Spam after sticking its landing on your plate.

You can try to jazz it up, but adding eggs and A1 won't make your Spam fancy. Pretend you're eating steak all you want; in your heart you know that "rib-eye" you're noisily masticating came from a blender.

My denial finally gave way to acceptance when I pushed away from the table while trying to roll Spam into seaweed and rice. I sobbed uncontrollably into my greasy palms. I had just dragged my beloved Sushi into an alley, beaten and raped it.

Sushi: I will spend the rest of my days (as long as I can chew solid food, at least) giving you the treatment you deserve. I will never take you for granted again.

Women who make poor choices with men must face the lonely walk of shame in the morning. Men who make poor choices with low-grade pseudo-meats must also deal with the consequences after the next dawn breaks. In the words of the brilliant Brian Regan, "It seems like everything on my insides wants to be on my outsides!"

Regretful and ashamed, you are forced to stand on the train platform early in the morning and ask yourself the tough questions:

"Its only 23 degrees. If I let this fart out, will it steam?"

Lunch consists of Saltines and Vienna Sausages. You bite into perhaps your 100th of the year and catch yourself thinking, "If Spam pooped, I bet it would look like this."

And now, 12 hours later, you ride the train home longing to get out to the platform. Cold or warm, the pressure valve must be purged. Your intestines seem as angry at Spam as you are at them.

Then, as the realization washes over you, a single tear escapes the clutches of your eyelid. You can't wait to get home. You're going straight to the stove to crank it to MED-HI. You're going to take out that fracking Spam pan, aren't you? You are! You can't wait to peel back that shiny gold lid! You're addicted, Buddy!

Forget Big-Tobacco and Big-Oil! Let us raise our fists and revolt against the processed meat conglomerates! Damn you Hormel! Damn you and your delicious Spam!!