The Spammogram

by Louise and Suzanne Kelman

I opened the door to the clinic,
gave my name and waited in fear.
The nurse's shadow was like the Grim Reaper,
The moment I dreaded was here.

She shouted my name like a drill sergeant,
I followed behind like a lamb.
I knew that the machine was waiting
to turn my boobs into Spam.

She boomed out the General Procedure.
I stripped to my waist as was told.
She took hold of my breast like fresh mincemeat
and slapped it into the mold.

She pushed a whole lot of buttons
grinning coldly from where she was sat
saying, ''This won't hurt a bit, dear''
as the machine came down with a splat!

I kept my lips tightly sealed.
The pain in my breasts was ablaze.
As pummeling and squeezing continued
the rest went into a haze.

At last the torture was over.
I peeled myself off the bar.
She rolled my breasts up like sausages
and dropped them into my bra.

Stunned, I went to the waiting room,
visions dancing away in my mind —
of finding the machines inventor
seeing him and his machine intertwined.

Then I'd slam it down on his Manhood
with a thundering splat and a thud,
asking his wife is she preferred better
her all-new flat-packed stud.

''Can I get you something for the pain, dear?''
said the receptionist with a smug grin.
I said, ''Have you got two sesame buns
to put these two hamburgers in?''

She looked at me half-amused
as I paid without making a fuss.
Then grabbing hold of my composure
I made my way to the bus.

The bus driver was rather chatty,
he said his name was Sam.
Asked what I was cooking for dinner,
I said, ''Well, I know it won't be Spam.''

Originally published in Big Purple Undies.

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