Home > Musings of a Decorative Ham Man > Musings of a Decorative Ham Man by Chris Vitiello

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man by Chris Vitiello

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For the final hour of our negotiations with the Players Union, I sat quietly in a corner with my whip extended.

I cannot describe the self-control that was required. I simply wanted to rise, soundlessly move across the carpet and thrash everyone mercilessly.

But I abstained.

In the decorative ham world, there is no room for negotiation. We do not sit around tables in windowless rooms. We do not order large trays of colored bagels. There are no soup tureens with little cans of fire beneath. There is no ice.

My first partner once attempted to give me a birthday party. I was asked to cut the cake. I took the knife and with absolutely no expression on my face, quartered it perfectly, sliding each section across the table and into a trashcan. The icing left a long smear upon the surface. Then I turned over the cardboard bottom and then the table. “I HAVE SPOKEN,” I said, dramatically. Everyone knew after that.

I took the rest of that day off and went to a mall. I entered a men’s store, elbowing several people out of the way, still maintaining that cold, expressionless visage. “You will sell me two suits, both as black as night,” I told the clerk. “I will NOT be measured.” The clerk eyed my form fearfully. “Socks?” he asked. I thought about this. “Yes, you will sell me two pairs. Black. Black as the bottom of the grave.”

“And the beneath-pants,” he said, his voice quivering. “We have…white soft cotton…they hug the nether regions. And we have longer…longer beneath-pants. Some have designs.”

“NO,” I yelled.

Twenty minutes later, I left with two suits. They have served me in the precise manner that I desired.

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