I’ve been fascinated with it for roughly fifteen years. This blog (with some profanity) recounts the experience of eating it.

I’ve been fascinated with potted meat — which makes Spam seem like foie gras — ever since I shared an apartment one summer during college with a bunch of guys, and one of them loved potted meat. I don’t want to break the bonds of the solid PG-rating we try to maintain in the Corner. But let me share with you one of the more scarring experiences of my youth.

One of the things I found so fascinating was that my friend not only ate potted meat, but ate it every day. He came home, took out some generic wonder bread, smeared a healthy dollop of mayo, and then thhhhhwwwwwumped-out a few spoonfuls of P.M. before he went on a sojourn into the bathroom. I’d never known that people were capable of eating while, uh, sitting down in the bathroom. There’s that whole phrase about doing X where you Y. Y = “eat.”

But I would often find plates next to the throne with a few crusts, some yellowing mayo and a few globs of aging potted meat on them. But what really elevated this horrific scene into something akin to poetry was that in the middle of the plate there was usually a stubbed-out cigarette. What a summer.

Good times, good times.