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From: tariat@aol.com (TariaT)
Subject: {ASSD} Mal's contest: SPAM CONTEST by Taria
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Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
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SPAM CONTEST

by Taria

___________________________


"So!" the old man barked from behind the gargantuan desk, his rheumy
eyes swimming as they struggled to focus.  "Jackson, is it?
Infomercial Sciences?" Extending a yellowed fingertip, he flicked the
ash from the end of a long dark cigar.  The embers flaked off onto his
jacket sleeve, where they rested unnoticed, blackening the grey
fabric.

The young executive standing at attention cleared his throat and spoke
in a timid voice.  "Actually it's Johnson, sir.  Information
Services."

The old man gestured vaguely at him with the cigar.  "Quite right,
quite right.  Infotainment it is.  So what exactly are you here for,
Jameson?"

The young man swallowed hard.  "The special project, sir...you know,
the Web Site we discussed last week?"

The old man blinked several times and scratched his chin.  "Web Foot?
I don't recall any --"

"You remember, sir," the young executive interjected.  "The computer
plans?   For the Internet?" 

"Internet?" grated the old man.  "Computers?  What kind of -- Oh!
That thing with all the 'w's...what was it...comdot-w-something..."

The young man mopped his brow surreptitiously on his shirt cuff.
"That's right, Mr. Hormel, sir.  The web site.  'www.spam.com.'  Our
new advertising campaign."

The old man rumbled in assent, the rumble turning liquid and viscous.
He coughed and spat, aiming for a brass spitoon which sat on the floor
near his desk.  He missed, and his ejaculation left a spot on the
carpet.  It gleamed wetly.

"Spam on the computer!  What won't they think of next!"  He chuckled
and smiled.  "What would Old Grammy Spam have thought of that, I
wonder."  The old man sighed.  "So how's the project going then, in
your estimation?"

The young executive was sweating noticeably, perspiration staining his
jacket beneath his arms.  "Well, sir, there's no easy way to say this,
but...we seem to be encountering some difficulty with the site, sir."

The old man scowled at him.  "What's that?  Explain yourself!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hormel," the young man stammered.  "I've never seen
anything like it before!  For the first few days we didn't have any
hits at all.  That is, nobody with a computer seemed to want to visit
spam-dot-com, sir."

"Whyever not?" the old man exploded.  "Who could ever have anything
against Spam?  Everybody loves Spam!"

"That's exactly what I wondered, sir.  Especially after we started
getting these messages from visitors.  'I hate Spam,' one said.  And
'Get off the Net, you good-for-nothing Spam Bozos!'  And some I can't
even repeat, sir, they were so hateful and...vitriolic.  I just never
expected to find so many people out there who feel so negative about
Spam!"

The old man grunted in assent.  "Downright un-American, that's what it
is.  To write something like that about Spam...why, we're an
institution!  A national treasure!  Hell, without Spam our boys could
never have marched to hell and back to save our great country...damn
kids nowadays, no respect, that's all.   Just no respect..."  His
words trailed off and his eyes closed, and the young executive feared
he had fallen asleep.  Then he slowly opened one eye and gazed
balefully at the young man in front of him.  "So that's all you have?"
he demanded.  "Them computer geeps hate Spam?"

The young man reddened and loosened his tie.  "There is one promising
sign, Mr.  Hormel.  I found it on the newsgroups, which is where some
of the more creative types hang out online."  The old man frowned, and
the executive hurried to continue.  "It seems that some of them are
holding some sort of Spam Contest, sir.  They're offering some sort of
prize, and there seems to be significant interest out there."

Two shaggy white beetle-brows lifted in unison.  "Spam Contest?"

The young man nodded vigorously.  "That's right, sir.  I haven't had
the time to read any of the entries, but thousands of them are pouring
in every day.   And a lot of them are in capital letters, which
apparently indicates excitement and enthusiasm, or so I'm told."

The corners of the old man's mouth twitched.  "Enthusiasm?
Excitement?"

"Yes, sir.  They have some odd ideas for contest entries, though.  A
lot of them start off with exclamation points and stars, and then tell
people about the Spam sites in cyberspace."  The old man was
incredulous.  "There's OTHER Spam sites out there besides ours?" he
asked.

"Apparently so," the young man responded.  "And a lot of the entries
are from women -- there's a Kim, a Tara, someone named Sabrina, a
Barbie...too many to count, sir.  Some of them talk about how 'it
tastes so good,' and how all these girls and their friends just love
it.  I've seen 'I NEED IT' and 'I LOVE IT' and 'I WANT IT' over and
over again, sir.  Then there were a whole group of celebrity entrants
-- I saw Wayne Gretzky, and Magic Johnson, and Marv Albert, and a
whole bunch of other famous people who apparently have a special taste
for some kind of Pink Spam dish.  But some of the messages are kind of
strange, though.  There's one that said 'GIRL 18 BI' that I just
didn't get at all."

"Hmm," the old man mused.  "Maybe it's a girl who wants to buy
eighteen cases of Spam?"

"I'm not sure, sir.  But there do seem to be a lot of BI GIRLS out
there -- that's odd...they all spelled 'buy' incorrectly -- so you may
be right.  The weirdest one I can't figure out for the life of me.
'YOUNG, DUMB, AND FULL OF' -- I can't make this last word out, but I
think it might be 'RUM,' sir."

The old man behind the desk meditated thoughtfully.  "Yung dung...?
Dammit, I can barely even say the words!  What was that again?  Yum
Dum...?"

"Young Dumb, sir."

"Sounds like Chinese food to me.  'Young Dumb and Fulla Rum.'  What's
that got to do with a Spam-Eating Contest?"

The young executive scratched his head.  "Honestly, sir, I haven't the
vaguest idea.  To be honest, I'm not even sure that the contest is
about EATING Spam at all.  There seems to be a lot of sucking going on
in the entry titles, and that just doesn't sound like Spam to me,
sir."

The old man dropped his cigar on his desk and sat bolt upright, his
eyes wide.   "By gum!" he said, nearly shouting.  "That's BRILLIANT!
What a tremendous idea!  Liquid Spam!  Why haven't we ever thought of
that before?"

"Erm...LIQUID Spam, sir?"

"Absolutely!  It's healthy and tasty, good for you and your whole
family.  Why, it's even packed with nutrition and vitamins for
children.  Babies, Jefferson!  Even babies could get their Spam!"

The young man looked thoughtful.  "Maybe, sir, just maybe.  That might
be what those contestants might've meant when they kept talking about
'sucking' and 'nipples' in their posts."

The old man smacked his palm on the surface of his desk, oblivious to
the fact that he had just crushed his cigar.  "Exactly!" he
expostulated, and he rubbed his hands together.  "We could use that
tagline you just mentioned -- 'Young, Rum,'...no...'YOUNG, FUN, AND
FULL OF SPAM.'  That's it!"

The young executive nodded vehemently, his face aglow with the
prospects of spearheading this nationwide campaign, his future
corporate success and career advancement now assured.  "Yes, sir!" he
crowed.  "We'll do it!  We'll take the world by storm!"

The old man lurched to his feet, leaning on his desk for support.  "Go
to it, Young Jetson!  Spread the word!  As of right now...

...SPAM SUCKS!!!"


_______________________


Apologies to everyone, 'specially Malinov, who seemed sincere about
this "Spam Contest" thing.  I was going to stick with the 1000-word
sex story based on Spam, I really was.  But this idea just popped out
of nowhere, and it just refused to go away.

Hey -- consider yourself lucky.  I nearly tried to work in the Python
"Spammity Spam" song into the story, which would be especially
appropriate given the "My Nipples Explode With Delight" contest title.

But then, that would obviously have been just TOO much.

Thanks for reading.

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