It's another odd little "Who'da thunk it?" sign of global recession: Apparently when times get tough, the tough buy Spam. My secret coyote sources tell me that Hormel Inc, manufacturer of the delicacy, is already cheering it's fat(ty) windfall profits. Even added extra shifts to the assembly line to meet surging demand. But anyone warming up for a swan dive into the dietary Spambyss should note that, though we coyotes will eat most any damn thing, we won't touch that stuff. (Note to early Christmas shoppers: We prefer chocolate, and large, slow cats, and sugary baked goods but really, we're not fussy... I digress)
You're baffled, you say? All of Great Britain lived on the stuff during the Second World War, you say? It can't be that bad, you say? Who wouldn't like unidentifiable parts of porker, frappé-ed to vaguely pinkish molecules in some industrial-sized Cuisinart, then suspended in gelatinous yellow goo comprising half fat and half salt, you say? Then welded into a metal-jacketed brick of maybe-meat, you say? Resembling food? You say?
Oh, wait, you say. Except that Great Britain immediately after the war had to invent the National Health System to counteract its effects. One 12-ounce block (Remember ounces? I digress again...) serves you 180 per cent of an average human's normal daily dose of salt, 150 per cent of the total fat, and 170 per cent of the saturated fat. Oh, and, like, rather more than a thousand calories. That's a lot of goodness in one unassuming little can.
Which, judging by my speed-reading-on-the-fly the last time Hartman's Independent Grocer stockboys were chasing me out with brooms, ain't that cheap compared to like, food, anyway. It's all so... unappetizing.
Let's get very clear here: buying Spam is not about economizing, it's about self-flagellation for goin' all greedhead and buying those sub-prime mortgage futures your idiot brother-in-law was flogging, even when you knew the economic model sounded like utter lunacy. Is it coincidence that penitence and penury share prefixes? But for those that feel a need to maintain certain standards of social decorum and gracious living in a global meltdown, we look to Hawaii for a ray of hope: Spam sushi. Because even while you're killing yourself, you can hang onto a vestige of your old panache doing it.
