From feeling fresh as lightning, to being made of Spam, the beleagured Nebraska family staggers inside. “Inside”. Inside? Belly of the beast, inside. Fifty thousand beleagured leagues beneath the sea in a high-tech armory-like way-out bus station slash submarine.
Way-out Far-out, yet the most we can say about Nebraska is it is outside NYC’s city limits.
There is no TV inside the bus station, but if there was, I bet it would display an ad, a TV ad for,
“Grey Poupon,”
It is yellow, Tarzan, and you wake me with a whack, a clickety clack,
Grey Poupon should be grey, Tarzan, not yellow. You, Tarzan, are yellow.
Of the apes, yellow. Lookee over there, Tarzan, a silver back!
Ah, these apes are your aboriginals!
As you spread Grey Poupon on your energy bar, and mix it in with your protein powder.
But then again, you Tarzan of Tanzan (ia) are also Lord Greystoke, if I recollect correct. Ooops! You spilled Grey Poupon on the seat of your Rolls Royce. You have your wits about you, and your killer instincts, but is your reaction time diminished…
…You who once swang sung song vine to vine, wine to wine, at that tiny time, could have catched that brown poop-on so as not to spoil and stain the leather.
Spam of Human Affection 
Leave a comment