Ed Helicopter Jones
03-05-2008, 11:51 AM
PILGRIMAGE VI - THE QUEST FOR SPAMTOPIA -- BACK TO BACK IN 2008 (Part I)
Greetings brothers and sisters of the SPAM. Gather ‘round, Chopper’s gonna tell ya’ll a little story…..
For those of you who don’t know me…my name is Edward Helicopter “Chopper” Jones, Esquire. I am a simple anglo negro man of asian decent, who at one time lived an ordinary life, in an ordinary town in the Pacific east coast region of the desert southwest. I had a thriving business as a "flaxseed oil" and vitamin B12 distributor to hundreds of professional athletes and trainers. I was a devoted family man with a beautiful wife, several mistresses, and one handsome young son--my namesake, Esquire Jr. Because my "flaxseed oil" sold for hundreds of dollars per application I was blessed enough to own a house on a mountainside overlooking the city, and in the evenings I’d eat a delicious dinner on the deck and then relax and watch the sunset while sipping a cocktail and fondling myself. Life, as I knew it, was as complete as it could get.
Then, suddenly, in late February of 2003 my life changed forever. While in the grocery store picking up some milk, eggs, nose hair clippers, my daily fifth of Jack Daniels, a Low Rider magazine, and $150 in Powerball tickets I turned down the potted meat aisle, not realizing the magnitude of this seemingly meaningless event. As I approached the now magical oblong blue cans of hydrogenated heaven I heard a faint voice calling my name—“Chopper…Chopper”-- the SPAM spoke, and my life has never been the same.
SPAM. Four little letters that stand for oh so much. Spurs Peak After March.
At the time, the Spurs and their fans had witnessed the Lakers reel off three straight championships, and the memory of the ’99 title seemed like a distant memory to many. The Spurs were playing only marginal basketball as seemingly happens each year from December to February. And, as happens each year from December to February cries of “fire Pop!” and “make an f’in trade!” and “headbands…more headbands!!” and “Let’s sacrifice another virgin to the basketball gods!” rang out in the forum. I obviously took exception to the whole “headband” idea, but despite my loyalty to the Spurs organization the other ideas were really beginning to make a lot of sense.
Then, I encountered the SPAM, and it told me that everything was going to be alright. That the Spurs would go on that year and win the title and that the Laker run was over. It then instructed me to take my message to the masses and proclaim it to anyone that would listen. And, thankfully many did. The chaos subsided. T Park who was on the alter as the fourth spring sacrifice, had his life spared…SPAMMEN!
Then, when the Spurs went on to win the title in 2003 the prophecy was fulfilled and SPAM became a synonymous with the Spurs ability to ‘flip the switch’ beginning in March and ride it all the way to the title. I was thrilled…the SPAM was real!! The SPAM IS REAL!!
At the end of my SPAM Pilgrimage 2007, those of you who can recall back (or do a thread search) might remember I was visited by a bald black man wearing an overcoat, and he offered me two pills…a red pill and a blue pill. I accidentally mistook him for a SPAMdamn Cuban, however, and shot him in the face with my BB gun. Then, after getting summarily pummeled, I never did receive the message he came to deliver. Then I woke up in a mental health facility with my case worker telling me “welcome to the real world, Chopper.”
“Real world. Real world.” I scoffed. “I’ve been living in the real world, beotch, and it’s made of delectable meat by-product!” After this proclamation I jumped up and jetted for the exit. Luckily for me they don’t make the security guards at mental health facilities quite like they used to. Also lucky for me is the fact that thanks to the combination of my all SPAM diet along with applying leftover "flaxseed oil" to my testicles and taking the vitamin B12 injections for the past five years I’m now a 6’3”, 400 pound SPAM machine with a size 17 hat and testicles that glow in the dark. Some people think that might make me look a little strange but I’ve been told I wear it well.
So…after bowling over the two very frightened security guards I ran into the arroyos near the hospital. From living as one with nature the last couple of years I’ve come to know the landscape by heart and had no trouble alluding the authorities since last year.
I laid low (as low as a 400 pound man with a ginormous melon can go) for a couple of months in my underground bunker until the heat was off. Fortunately for me back in 2004 I cashed in my 401K and built a small underground bunker in the New Mexico desert where I stored only the essentials that I would need to survive, namely 500,000 cans of SPAM, 200,000 bottles of Jack Daniels, 600 gallons of "flaxseed oil" and vitamin B12, 10 years of back issues of Black Juggs, Red Hot Botts, Oui, High Society, Panty Play and Over 40 magazines, every televised Spurs game on CD since 1976, a full-sized basketball court with two dozen new basketballs, and 3 gallons of water. When I built the bunker I figured that I could last there for at least 7 or 8 months should “D” day (otherwise known as Dallas winning an NBA championship) ever occur. I always figured that after 8 months or so it would be ok to return to the surface as most of the fallout surrounding Mark Cuban’s giant ego exploding would have subsided. (Please don’t quote me on the half life of Mark Cuban’s ego.)
When I felt it was safe to leave my Spurs SPAM sanctuary I set off in search of the man in the overcoat, the man who seemed to know a something about the SPAM.
For six months I searched for this man. Following the manhunt example set by my childhood hero, OJ Simpson, I started golfing at every course from California to the state of Florida searching for the man in the overcoat. I encountered several friends and acquaintances on the various courses and at opportune times I would search their wallets and blackberry devices looking for important phone numbers and also looking for information about the man in the black overcoat. Amazingly I was able to fund my entire search simply by the generous, albeit unknowing, donations made by my golfing partners. But unfortunately, no man in an overcoat was found.
Then one day I heard that OJ was no longer content to search for the real killers only on golf courses and had expanded his own search to a sports memorabilia show in Las Vegas, and had even made some new friends while he was there. OJ is so smart, I thought. That totally makes sense. So I began visiting every sports card and autograph show I could find. Surely I'd find the man in the long overcoat at one of these shows…and luckily for me, I did.
To be continued...
CHAPTER II
November 27, 2007. The Hoop Hall Experience autograph signing in Atlanta, Georgia. Sitting at a table with David Thompson and Walt Bellamy I saw him. As I drew closer I recognized the man who had visited me in my Spamshackle shack. The man who offered me a chance to see the world as it truly exists. Suddenly it hit me like a lightning bolt that the man who entered my cabin that cold rainy night in March, the man who I mistook for a Cuban and shot in the face, was none other than the Iceman himself, George Gervin.
My mind was racing…Can it be?!! Can it be?!! Why didn’t I recognize him that night?!! Well, it was dark, rainy, the shack has no electricity, and I was high on SPAM and Jack Daniels. Anything’s possible I suppose…but there’s no doubt that’s the man that visited me that evening!
He was sitting at a long table signing autographs for fans. I approached him cautiously. I knew others were within earshot so I didn’t want to say anything to alert the others as to anything out of the ordinary. I thought I’d be casual, just any other fan. Nothing unusual. Nothing weird……
“I like SPAM!” I said at last.
“Ok. That’s…that’s great young fella,” he responded coolly, flashing that famous smile of his. “Would you like an autograph?”
Still trying to stay inconspicuous I added “SPAM tastes really, really, REALLY good!”
“Great” George responded.
“Spurs Peak After March!” I blurted out, my eyes darting away from Gervin to Thompson to Bellamy to see if either of them were on to me.
“Heh, heh. Of course they do, son” he said calmly. “Now, do you have something for me to sign?”
Luckily I always carry around a duffel bag with half a dozen basketballs and so I pulled them out. He penned “George Gervin Ice” on each ball as smoothly as he used to shoot a jump shot.
When he was done signing I continued to stand there looking for him to give me some sort of a sign of recognition. Something. Anything.
But he just sat there smiling back at me. The awkward silence seemed to last for hours until he finally said “Well, there are a lot of other folks waiting to say hi to me. I sure hope you enjoy the rest of the show.”
The line of autograph seekers behind me pushed me along and suddenly I found myself standing several feet past where Ice was sitting. Realizing my opportunity to speak with him was soon to be lost, and not knowing if I’d ever get this chance again I shouted out “I shot you in the face!” “I shot you in the face!” “Don’t you remember when you visited me in my shack?” “You told me you’d show me the world!” “I SHOT YOU IN THE FACE AND THEN YOU PUMMELLED ME ON MY BED!!!” “DON’T YOU REMEMBER?!!!” “DON’T YOU REMEMBER PUMMELLING ME ON MY BED?!!!” “SPAM!!!” “SPAM!!!” “SPAAAAMMMM!!!” “SPA…………………..”
I never actually saw David Thompson hit me over the head with George’s scoring title plaque from the ’77-’78 season, but when I woke up an hour or so later outside the exhibit hall the metal plate in the side of my head now read “27.22 points per game”. SPAMDAMN that hurt!
Dejected, I took a short walk and sat out on a curbside a couple of blocks from the building, not sure what I was going to do next. Since I had last seen George Gervin that night in my shack back in March the SPAM wasn’t speaking to me much anymore. Even though I tried to get messages from which to guide my life, everything seemed to come out in a gurgled murmur. Perhaps that red pill I took that night had messed up my receptors, who knows? Now, the man who came to visit me appeared to think I was crazy just like society did. Maybe I was delusional. Maybe the SPAM wasn’t real. The thought had never even crossed my mind before.
Was this all a waste? Was the SPAM speaking to me just a convenient coincidence? Did it just accidentally happened to coincide with the best five year stretch in the history of Spurs basketball? Was SPAM nothing more than a delicious luncheon meat and trillions of annoying electronic mail messages, or was it something more…something real and not imaginary like those other two things? I laughed, nervously.
For the first time in five years the thought crossed my mind that perhaps I had made it all up. Just a great big fabricated story. Maybe I was nothing more than a 400 pound man with a size 17 hat, glowing testicles, and the words “27.22 points per game” indented into the side of my head. Maybe I wasn’t the messenger for the SPAM. I pulled a bottle of “flaxseed oil” out of my pocket, squeezed a little out onto my hand and reached in my pants and to apply today's dosage as I pondered such a possibility.
Just then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I lifted my gaze from the gutter in front of me, put down the flaxseed oil and turned around to see a tall man in a long overcoat looking down at me.
“Chopper. I think we need to have a little talk”.
To be continued...
Greetings brothers and sisters of the SPAM. Gather ‘round, Chopper’s gonna tell ya’ll a little story…..
For those of you who don’t know me…my name is Edward Helicopter “Chopper” Jones, Esquire. I am a simple anglo negro man of asian decent, who at one time lived an ordinary life, in an ordinary town in the Pacific east coast region of the desert southwest. I had a thriving business as a "flaxseed oil" and vitamin B12 distributor to hundreds of professional athletes and trainers. I was a devoted family man with a beautiful wife, several mistresses, and one handsome young son--my namesake, Esquire Jr. Because my "flaxseed oil" sold for hundreds of dollars per application I was blessed enough to own a house on a mountainside overlooking the city, and in the evenings I’d eat a delicious dinner on the deck and then relax and watch the sunset while sipping a cocktail and fondling myself. Life, as I knew it, was as complete as it could get.
Then, suddenly, in late February of 2003 my life changed forever. While in the grocery store picking up some milk, eggs, nose hair clippers, my daily fifth of Jack Daniels, a Low Rider magazine, and $150 in Powerball tickets I turned down the potted meat aisle, not realizing the magnitude of this seemingly meaningless event. As I approached the now magical oblong blue cans of hydrogenated heaven I heard a faint voice calling my name—“Chopper…Chopper”-- the SPAM spoke, and my life has never been the same.
SPAM. Four little letters that stand for oh so much. Spurs Peak After March.
At the time, the Spurs and their fans had witnessed the Lakers reel off three straight championships, and the memory of the ’99 title seemed like a distant memory to many. The Spurs were playing only marginal basketball as seemingly happens each year from December to February. And, as happens each year from December to February cries of “fire Pop!” and “make an f’in trade!” and “headbands…more headbands!!” and “Let’s sacrifice another virgin to the basketball gods!” rang out in the forum. I obviously took exception to the whole “headband” idea, but despite my loyalty to the Spurs organization the other ideas were really beginning to make a lot of sense.
Then, I encountered the SPAM, and it told me that everything was going to be alright. That the Spurs would go on that year and win the title and that the Laker run was over. It then instructed me to take my message to the masses and proclaim it to anyone that would listen. And, thankfully many did. The chaos subsided. T Park who was on the alter as the fourth spring sacrifice, had his life spared…SPAMMEN!
Then, when the Spurs went on to win the title in 2003 the prophecy was fulfilled and SPAM became a synonymous with the Spurs ability to ‘flip the switch’ beginning in March and ride it all the way to the title. I was thrilled…the SPAM was real!! The SPAM IS REAL!!
At the end of my SPAM Pilgrimage 2007, those of you who can recall back (or do a thread search) might remember I was visited by a bald black man wearing an overcoat, and he offered me two pills…a red pill and a blue pill. I accidentally mistook him for a SPAMdamn Cuban, however, and shot him in the face with my BB gun. Then, after getting summarily pummeled, I never did receive the message he came to deliver. Then I woke up in a mental health facility with my case worker telling me “welcome to the real world, Chopper.”
“Real world. Real world.” I scoffed. “I’ve been living in the real world, beotch, and it’s made of delectable meat by-product!” After this proclamation I jumped up and jetted for the exit. Luckily for me they don’t make the security guards at mental health facilities quite like they used to. Also lucky for me is the fact that thanks to the combination of my all SPAM diet along with applying leftover "flaxseed oil" to my testicles and taking the vitamin B12 injections for the past five years I’m now a 6’3”, 400 pound SPAM machine with a size 17 hat and testicles that glow in the dark. Some people think that might make me look a little strange but I’ve been told I wear it well.
So…after bowling over the two very frightened security guards I ran into the arroyos near the hospital. From living as one with nature the last couple of years I’ve come to know the landscape by heart and had no trouble alluding the authorities since last year.
I laid low (as low as a 400 pound man with a ginormous melon can go) for a couple of months in my underground bunker until the heat was off. Fortunately for me back in 2004 I cashed in my 401K and built a small underground bunker in the New Mexico desert where I stored only the essentials that I would need to survive, namely 500,000 cans of SPAM, 200,000 bottles of Jack Daniels, 600 gallons of "flaxseed oil" and vitamin B12, 10 years of back issues of Black Juggs, Red Hot Botts, Oui, High Society, Panty Play and Over 40 magazines, every televised Spurs game on CD since 1976, a full-sized basketball court with two dozen new basketballs, and 3 gallons of water. When I built the bunker I figured that I could last there for at least 7 or 8 months should “D” day (otherwise known as Dallas winning an NBA championship) ever occur. I always figured that after 8 months or so it would be ok to return to the surface as most of the fallout surrounding Mark Cuban’s giant ego exploding would have subsided. (Please don’t quote me on the half life of Mark Cuban’s ego.)
When I felt it was safe to leave my Spurs SPAM sanctuary I set off in search of the man in the overcoat, the man who seemed to know a something about the SPAM.
For six months I searched for this man. Following the manhunt example set by my childhood hero, OJ Simpson, I started golfing at every course from California to the state of Florida searching for the man in the overcoat. I encountered several friends and acquaintances on the various courses and at opportune times I would search their wallets and blackberry devices looking for important phone numbers and also looking for information about the man in the black overcoat. Amazingly I was able to fund my entire search simply by the generous, albeit unknowing, donations made by my golfing partners. But unfortunately, no man in an overcoat was found.
Then one day I heard that OJ was no longer content to search for the real killers only on golf courses and had expanded his own search to a sports memorabilia show in Las Vegas, and had even made some new friends while he was there. OJ is so smart, I thought. That totally makes sense. So I began visiting every sports card and autograph show I could find. Surely I'd find the man in the long overcoat at one of these shows…and luckily for me, I did.
To be continued...
CHAPTER II
November 27, 2007. The Hoop Hall Experience autograph signing in Atlanta, Georgia. Sitting at a table with David Thompson and Walt Bellamy I saw him. As I drew closer I recognized the man who had visited me in my Spamshackle shack. The man who offered me a chance to see the world as it truly exists. Suddenly it hit me like a lightning bolt that the man who entered my cabin that cold rainy night in March, the man who I mistook for a Cuban and shot in the face, was none other than the Iceman himself, George Gervin.
My mind was racing…Can it be?!! Can it be?!! Why didn’t I recognize him that night?!! Well, it was dark, rainy, the shack has no electricity, and I was high on SPAM and Jack Daniels. Anything’s possible I suppose…but there’s no doubt that’s the man that visited me that evening!
He was sitting at a long table signing autographs for fans. I approached him cautiously. I knew others were within earshot so I didn’t want to say anything to alert the others as to anything out of the ordinary. I thought I’d be casual, just any other fan. Nothing unusual. Nothing weird……
“I like SPAM!” I said at last.
“Ok. That’s…that’s great young fella,” he responded coolly, flashing that famous smile of his. “Would you like an autograph?”
Still trying to stay inconspicuous I added “SPAM tastes really, really, REALLY good!”
“Great” George responded.
“Spurs Peak After March!” I blurted out, my eyes darting away from Gervin to Thompson to Bellamy to see if either of them were on to me.
“Heh, heh. Of course they do, son” he said calmly. “Now, do you have something for me to sign?”
Luckily I always carry around a duffel bag with half a dozen basketballs and so I pulled them out. He penned “George Gervin Ice” on each ball as smoothly as he used to shoot a jump shot.
When he was done signing I continued to stand there looking for him to give me some sort of a sign of recognition. Something. Anything.
But he just sat there smiling back at me. The awkward silence seemed to last for hours until he finally said “Well, there are a lot of other folks waiting to say hi to me. I sure hope you enjoy the rest of the show.”
The line of autograph seekers behind me pushed me along and suddenly I found myself standing several feet past where Ice was sitting. Realizing my opportunity to speak with him was soon to be lost, and not knowing if I’d ever get this chance again I shouted out “I shot you in the face!” “I shot you in the face!” “Don’t you remember when you visited me in my shack?” “You told me you’d show me the world!” “I SHOT YOU IN THE FACE AND THEN YOU PUMMELLED ME ON MY BED!!!” “DON’T YOU REMEMBER?!!!” “DON’T YOU REMEMBER PUMMELLING ME ON MY BED?!!!” “SPAM!!!” “SPAM!!!” “SPAAAAMMMM!!!” “SPA…………………..”
I never actually saw David Thompson hit me over the head with George’s scoring title plaque from the ’77-’78 season, but when I woke up an hour or so later outside the exhibit hall the metal plate in the side of my head now read “27.22 points per game”. SPAMDAMN that hurt!
Dejected, I took a short walk and sat out on a curbside a couple of blocks from the building, not sure what I was going to do next. Since I had last seen George Gervin that night in my shack back in March the SPAM wasn’t speaking to me much anymore. Even though I tried to get messages from which to guide my life, everything seemed to come out in a gurgled murmur. Perhaps that red pill I took that night had messed up my receptors, who knows? Now, the man who came to visit me appeared to think I was crazy just like society did. Maybe I was delusional. Maybe the SPAM wasn’t real. The thought had never even crossed my mind before.
Was this all a waste? Was the SPAM speaking to me just a convenient coincidence? Did it just accidentally happened to coincide with the best five year stretch in the history of Spurs basketball? Was SPAM nothing more than a delicious luncheon meat and trillions of annoying electronic mail messages, or was it something more…something real and not imaginary like those other two things? I laughed, nervously.
For the first time in five years the thought crossed my mind that perhaps I had made it all up. Just a great big fabricated story. Maybe I was nothing more than a 400 pound man with a size 17 hat, glowing testicles, and the words “27.22 points per game” indented into the side of my head. Maybe I wasn’t the messenger for the SPAM. I pulled a bottle of “flaxseed oil” out of my pocket, squeezed a little out onto my hand and reached in my pants and to apply today's dosage as I pondered such a possibility.
Just then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I lifted my gaze from the gutter in front of me, put down the flaxseed oil and turned around to see a tall man in a long overcoat looking down at me.
“Chopper. I think we need to have a little talk”.
To be continued...