Examining Internets Hams

Don't have any news at the moment, so I thought it would be a good time to examine internets hams. These are photos culled from the internets; they are not my personal hams. I don't even eat hams.

If, upon examining these internets hams, you spot a clue, please note it in the comments field. I have been examining these hams for several minutes and I can't come up with any workable clues.


Gift Ham


Business Ham


Canned Ham


Ham of Distinction

Continental Breakfast Does Not Include Sausages of Any Kind

Would have posted sooner, but my coffee didn’t show up until ten o’clock. Was going to tell you a true story of darkest calumny on the morris dancing circuit, but never mind all that. The good news is I just kicked a fine 5”x 8” hole in the wall; the bad news is I can now see and hear the pasty chortlers and haw-haw men on the other side, so I’d better check out of this hotel toot sweet.

I Don't Want to Hear Stories About Dolphins or Teenagers with Cars

I was just remembering that my mother bought me a beach towel in 1984. I had to bring the beach towel to the municipal pool because I didn’t have a beach.

I would like to add that everyone I knew had her own beach towel (or towels) long before I had a beach towel of my own. This caused me pain. I’m not saying this so that you will counter with your own stories of deprivation and suffering. I don’t want to hear those stories. I want to hear stories about hobos with sinister agendas, or ghost horses that diagnose lymphoma – that sort of thing. I also like stories about old ladies who die and then come back to life in disgust because heaven didn't cover its sofa cushions with plastic.

What?

I have been trying for months to return to my online worldwide internets blog, but to no avail. Not blogging is like sleeping on a superb U.S.-manufactured mattress or drowning in a bowl of cooked groats – alarming, then blissful. Nothing pulling the conscience forward, no sulking over site statistics, no bathing, no communicating with savages via moderated comment. No beautiful contempt writ large, no punitive anecdotes, no shopworn exhortations for cash. It’s sad, really.

I remember the days when blogs lent meaning to life with their gunslinging and confederate gibber-jabber and pervasive cat photos.