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Musings of a Decorative Ham Man: The Horror of Fire Point

September 22, 2015 Leave a comment
By Chris Vitiello

By Chris Vitiello

It overlooked my village on a steep hill of rocks and crags, accessible via a brush-choked driveway and a series of dilapidated staircases. It had been the home of the Maldonado Brothers Seminary and for many years had provided great spiritual warmth for a few select pasty individuals. But it had long since closed, fallen into shocking disrepair, been the site of vigorous and yet jejune coitus and then left forgotten. I purchased the site three years ago.

There had been many mysterious fires– 246 by the realtor Gorcheck’s count. “It became known as Fire Point,” he noted, as he kicked an errant piece of mortar into the woods. I desired to whip him but remained calm. “You’ll note that the building is a shell and that it is about to fall over,” he said, looking away. “But the grounds are nice and you sure can’t beat the view of the valley.”

Gorcheck was right, on both counts. The once-magnificent four story seminary had been utterly destroyed– only a skeleton remained. A small outbuilding and various sheds sat surrounding, their doors open in a frank, almost sexual way. But one could plainly see all of the valley and the village below, my hometown.

I wrote the realtor a check. He was shocked. “There is some paperwork, we can’t just…” I pushed him into some leaves. “Mind yourself, Mr. Gorcheck. Mind yourself.” My hand twitched over the hidden whip but I abstained.

I contracted to have the seminary demolished and several senseless quonset huts constructed. “A fiery balloon crashed into the cliff,” the foreman told me over the phone after two weeks had passed. “But otherwise things are progressing as outlined.” There was something tentative about his lower class voice that made me both desire to whip him and to probe him further. “It sounds as if there is something else,” I queried. There was a long silence. A noise like a basketball being shoved into a closet could be heard in the background. Finally, he responded.

“We…well…many of the men believe that the site is damned. It may be something that you need to see for yourself.”

I resented being called away from my decorative ham business but I made the trip to the great hill.

The driveway had been cleared and repaved and I instructed the driver to proceed to the top. He seemed tentative and for a moment there was no movement. “What is the problem, Throats?” I asked. Throats fingered the steering wheel. “I got a feeling, boss. It came over me suddenly like the odor of freshly-spun cotton candy at a small backyard event overlooking a cracked alley. This place is damned.”

“You are not the first to offer this mongoloid explanation, Mr. Throats.” I urged him on. I was suddenly quite hungry.

At the top, some workmen were listlessly pushing long steel rods beneath rocks or buffing the smooth edges of the quonset huts. I located the foreman, a grim little man with a pinched face and abbreviated womanish feet. He was running a moistened towel over his forehead and neck and staring down at the earth. He did not look up at my approach.

I wound the whip around my shoulder. It was gold-braided and appeared striking against my shapeless purple chemise.

“What is the trouble here?” I was suddenly hit with a stream of bad air.

“No trouble,” the foreman said, continuing to stare at the dirt. “We are all hexed, we are all without hope but the quonset huts are excellent. Better than I expected. Remarkable staying power, these quonset huts.”

A fiery balloon suddenly crashed into a cliff across the valley. Screams could be heard in the distance. Still, the foreman did not look up. And it was then that I noticed the horrible transmogrification.

It became deathly still. Throats, who stood beside me in his decorative ham driving uniform, suddenly expired. The foreman turned his head slightly to stare at the fallen. He grinned and it was then that I could see that his teeth had dramatically sharpened and that his eyes had turned an ungodly pale shade of green. I spun and saw that the workers had all gathered together and that they too were changing. An interminable period of tension ensued. And then I began running off into the woods.

A path led away from the former seminary and deep into the forest. Dilapidated religious statuary could be seen every fifty feet and, in several places, small temples, covered in graffiti. There is no type of person that deserves to be whipped more than the so-called graffiti artist I thought to myself. But now was no time for such profundity. The transmogrified were right behind me.

I took refuge in a train tunnel alcove. The transmogrified passed quickly before me. I could hear their strange, echoing grunts far down track. Then they were gone. I headed back the way I came in.

At the tunnel mouth, I noticed something queer in another alcove. There was a little old man there, seated on a chair reading a modern paperback. He was clad in a tan great coat, a dark regency vest and, for some reason, a white soft bonnet. Upon my approach, he quickly removed the bonnet.

He stood up and put his hands on the long lapels of the great coat thereby affecting a rather stately look.

“Did you see the transmogrified?” I asked.

“Yes, yes I did,” he responded, in a gentle, grandfatherly way; I had only a slight desire to whip him. “Spirits are reacting to your…your construction up there,” he said, waving disconsolately in the direction of Fire Point.

He had raised my ire. “What concern is it of yours, old man? It was my thirst to purchase this Godforsaken hill and I have quenched it with the building of quonset huts. I could build even more, if I wish.”

He laughed. “Oh, I would advise against that.” His round eyeglasses somehow twinkled in the nigh-darkness. “I know you, I remember you from the village,” he suddenly added.

I studied his face further. He remained a stranger.

“No, it was long ago. Your father and I once purchased a barrel together. 55 gallons– it was a beauty. But we argued constantly over it. I wanted to fill the barrel with this, he wanted to fill the barrel with that. There were over twelve fistfights. Finally, one sodden night, your father dumped the barrel into the river. It was a good thing, too, because it had been my intent to kill him, chop him up and send his remains down the river in that very barrel so…” He trailed off.

“What point are you trying to emphasize, you codger?”

“Actually, my very reason for purchasing the barrel was to dispose of remains….and perhaps…if someone needed sauces…or…” He trailed off again.

I left him. I would not conquer Fire Point, that much was clear. It was a horror, a cosmic deviation, a veritable hell on earth.

It is the only time I have failed.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

August 19, 2015 Leave a comment
By Chris Vitiello

By Chris Vitiello

It is important to be sure that a client will not behave idiotically in front of a decorative ham. Therefore, we have developed a short test.

A Vitiello Decorative Ham makes a great gift. Show that you care today.

A Vitiello Decorative Ham makes a great gift. Show that you care today.

The ham is placed in the client’s home, office or vehicle. One of the lesser men (generally the gasket fitter) will begin making lewd comments. I stand as judge of how the client responds to these comments. If he responds in a dignified manner, thus the ham remains. If he joins in the barbaric, lascivious discussion, then it is to be assumed that he will eventually turn into an idiot. Therefore, he cannot have the decorative ham. It is packed away and he will never be a client again. Upon occasion, he is whipped.

The Vitello Decorative Ham factory has been the scene of many a violent affray. I have organized some of these myself. You want the masses to believe that they are teetering on the edge of anarchy at all times. You want to be there for them with the offer of one, two, or a thousand decorative hams. The business of Lankville is business.

It is seldom that I am wrong.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

July 17, 2015 1 comment
By Chris Vitiello

By Chris Vitiello

In his later years, my father rarely left his second-story rooms above the antique store. Most of his time was spent composing simplistic paintings of bears while crying. I would often catch him at this– on his little stool, bereft of upholstery, his back quaking with emotion as he executed a childish bear face in cheap oils. Finished, he would tape the painting awkwardly to his walls (while still sobbing) where it would remain for years– growing dusty and edge curled, faded by the sunlight.

I would bring him a brown sack of groceries– fish, beans, rice and the like– staples that he himself had forgotten. Upon the occasion of my next visit, most of the sack would be where I had placed it, untouched. And I would wander through the rooms until I came upon him again in some distant corner, crying while painting a happy bear face. I would often leave without a hint of acknowledgement.

Finally, I enlisted the services of a man called “Castles”, a local psychiatrist. Castles and I made a slow tour of the rooms until we came upon the old man, as usual, bawling while painting. Castles observed him for some time– through the entire process and completion of yet another happy bear portrait.

“Well?” I asked. The old man paid us no mind. He continued to wail helplessly.

“I think it’s alright,” said Castles. “Yeah, there’s nothing really the matter here.”

“Is that so?” I questioned. I would whip him. There could be no doubt of that.

And later, as I walked Castles back to his car, we came upon an old alley, paved in ancient, uneven stones. With my shoulder, I guided Castles into the dark lane and proceeded to flog him mercilessly.

I received no bill.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

June 22, 2015 Leave a comment
By Chris Vitiello

By Chris Vitiello

The only grocer in my tiny childhood village was an aged man who operated a small corner store that was often bereft of useful items. The name on the sign was “H.W. Yeast and Sons” but everyone referred to the man as “Old Yeast”.

Dad would say, “Go up to Old Yeast’s and see if he has any hangers. We never have enough hangers in this house. Look at all the clothes that just sit around in torn boxes.” He would hand me some money then and go back to watching small motel girl wrestling on a little television propped up by a phone book.

I would walk up the big hill, past the cramped avenue of derelict shops and houses and finally arrive at Old Yeast’s. There were always a series of wooden boxes out front with a selection of desiccated fruits and vegetables thrown in for effect.

The door had an old cowbell that rang unnaturally loud and then you would wait awhile in the dusty haze until Old Yeast suddenly appeared. It was always a most uncanny entrance for there was no further room from which the little man could emerge and there was no back door. I would always keep my eyes focused directly on the dim area behind the counter but invariably I would be distracted by something– some canned good perhaps or a poorly-presented display case chuck and suddenly the strange figure would be before me in his blood-stained waist apron, immaculate white shirt and short black tie.

“You have not corralled your wardrobe properly,” he said, on that particular day. “You require hangers”.

I could not speak. Old Yeast had read my mind.

“I admire an organized man,” said Old Yeast. “A man who can get dressed in the morning with minimal effort. A series of brisk, yet controlled movements. Only a mongrel would dress out of cardboard boxes.”

He mused on this.

“When the necessary elimination comes, only the organized will survive.”

I stared at a suddenly animated pinwheel sticking out of a tall barrel.

“Dad wants…the hangers,” I said, extending a crumpled bill.

“Oh, yes, well I don’t have any. I haven’t had hangers in years. They’re on order.” And suddenly Old Yeast seemed to disappear. I could no longer locate him in the dim area behind the counter and he did not respond to my calls.

A fog suddenly crept in and it became even darker in the dim shop. I left and walked back down the hill to the disused train station and the lichen-covered stone walls. To my amazement, Old Yeast suddenly appeared before me.

“Can you envision a sort of fierce, uncompromising train that would come along here?” he asked. He stared at the tracks above, a line long out of service. He was patently younger. “This would be a train that would have no earthy destination,” he said again.

“Do you mean…it would be…it would go to the moon?” I asked, nervously.

“No,” Old Yeast said softly. “Space does not exist. I mean a train that would travel to some inner world destination. Some sort of nether region. I don’t really care for groceries.”

The latter comment seemed an afterthought.

We waited by the station for some time. Rain began to fall. I grew agitated. I knew that Dad would be expecting hangers. Or perhaps not. He was a forgetful sort of man.

“It will come,” Old Yeast assured me.

I have forgotten how the day ended.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

March 24, 2015 Leave a comment
By Chris Vitiello

By Chris Vitiello

The Vitiello name that graces the packaging of every decorative ham is an ancient one.

I have traced the Vitiello’s with ease back to the famed reign of Pirrapods. Many were chandlers, house men, makers of some boats. And before that, they were to be found living on the island of La Hardy, where they flourished as builders of great but senseless stone walls.

During the Lankvillian Restoration, there was Adolphus Vitiello, a respected cleric. But the name devolved after Adolphus and generation after generation produced nothing but halfwits, teethless men and the very short. And these inferiors, in turn, married other inferiors and the pool became murky and darkness descended over the name for over three hundred years.

The past century produced my great-grandfather, Randy, a drunken repairer of sashes. It is said that he was last seen vomiting into his own hat while pushing an island prostitute into a rented hut. My grandfather, known affectionately as “The Elk” but also sometimes as “Excrement”, disappeared into a small hole. And my father. You know already about him.

These men of the past century married equally despicable women. They were of no consequence and should have been whipped mercilessly.

But now the name is enjoying a rebirth. It is to be seen on millions of decorative hams all over Lankville.

And this is the sign of greatness.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

December 4, 2014 Leave a comment
By Chris Vitiello

By Chris Vitiello

The year was 1979 and I was a young boy. There was a man in our village who, it was rumored, was pioneering a most fantastic invention and he invited me to see it.

In the back of his ill-kempt, failing general store, he provided me with a demonstration. From a wooden box, he produced what appeared to be an ordinary soccer ball. However, upon further inspection, I noticed a series of strange lines, numbers and letters printed in a small box on its surface. “But what is that?” I asked volubly. He had been rubbing the box in a methodical way upon my interruption. “Shut your goddamn hole or, by Jesus’ ghost, I will shut it for you,” he replied.

It was then that I learned the meaning of deference.

The ray will be read by this device and then transmitted to the green screen and the decorative hams.

The ray will be read by this device and then transmitted to the glowing green screen and, ultimately, each Vitiello decorative ham.

Finally, after what seemed an interminable period, he placed the soccer ball upon an ornamental wooden dais, carved with mysterious figures from antiquity and made haste to open a silver box which, at first glance, would appear to contain jewelry or perhaps toiletries for travel. Imagine my surprise, however, when a glowing green ray emerged from within, which the inventor handled with a strange protective glove. He ordered me to don a pair of darkened goggles and he did the same. He then aimed the ray in the direction of the soccer ball. I remained silent.

For some time, the ray seemed to penetrate the ball and ultimately its wave engulfed it entirely. During this odd procedure, the inventor brought forth a small screen– it appeared to be a television/radio combination with long antennae but I noticed that after some time, the screen shone with the same color as the ray and an ominous hum filled the chamber.

Finally, the ray began to flame out and then expire. The inventor then directed my attention to the glowing green screen. A single word suddenly appeared and the word was “ROUND”.

The inventor nodded approvingly and I was instantly struck by his genius.

My decorative hams all incorporate this same code. You need only take note of the underside of each, where you will find a similar series of lines and numbers and, if you possess the proper technology, you can run a ray across it at which time the word “MEAT” will appear on an applicable screen.

It is his legacy.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

November 17, 2014 Leave a comment
By Chris Vitiello

By Chris Vitiello

Chris Vitiello is the founder and CEO of Vitiello Decorative Hams, Inc.

My childhood backyard was carpeted in strips of Astroturf.

They said, “Jesus Christ, this is terrible Astroturf.”  But my father demurred.  “This Astroturf is fine,” he said.  “The packaging says Quality on it.  That’s the name of the company, in fact.  “Quality Astroturf.”

I began crying. A swingset was promised.

I began crying.  A swingset was promised.

“It’s breaking apart as we lay it,” they said.  “It emits terrible fumes.”

“Naw, it’s fine,” said my father.  He sat down at the picnic table with a can of beer.

I walked along the fence.  They were having fun in the next yard.  The father was sunning himself on a chaise-lounge and the children were playing in a plastic swimming pool.  Everyone wore fashionable sunglasses.

“This Astroturf is made of dangerous materials,” they said.  “Someone lit a match earlier and a strip of this Astroturf erupted in flames.”

“It’s fine.  It’ll be fine,” my father said.

I began crying again.

That was the occasion of my 9th birthday.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

October 17, 2014 Leave a comment
Chris Vitiello of Vitiello Decorative Hams, Inc.

Chris Vitiello of Vitiello Decorative Hams, Inc.

In the great white room, I found a series of tables. Many were sans chairs. There were booths along one wall, the far wall, and some banners commemorating challenges bested in sport. The carpet was black with red diamonds.

I found a lone purveyor around the corner. She had a series of meat patties lying in filth behind a display case. The menu above was lit but only faintly. At first, I decided against eating but then thought better of it and purchased a factory-wrapped sack containing snacks and a fountain beverage. I consumed these things while leaning against a bare wall.

After that, I wandered up some confusing staircases and in and out of derelict elevators. There was a small machine that dispensed printed cards yet it was unclear for what purpose. There were newspaper boxes left unfilled. There was one other guy.

And that is what my college experience was like.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

September 24, 2014 Leave a comment
By Chris Vitiello

By Chris Vitiello

Every year, as Thanksgiving approaches, people advise, “You should put out a line of decorative turkeys.” For a time, I nodded politely. Now, I immediately produce the whip. Such advice is not solicited.

In the late 90s, a man called “Bunbritt” opened a factory across the river. From here, he peddled poorly-made decorative turkeys. At Thanksgiving, he would taunt me. I would receive late-night anonymous phone calls, mysterious faxes showing lists of huge sums, and crates of dung disguised as large appliances. Bunbritt became my mortal enemy with his fat, paisley ties and his dress slacks and it became my obsession to vanquish him. I placed a trusted man in charge of final decorative ham quality control and took a leave of absence.

For the next two months I trained in secret. I became well-versed in the arts of mixed, restrained combat and purchased some satiny pants with thick knee guards. I spent nights on roofs, unmoving, overlooking Eastern Lankville and then, very suddenly, plunging down a perilous fire escape. I timed myself at 40 seconds.

That is all it would take. I knew that and I think that eventually Bunbritt knew that. He became fearful. He insisted on leaving at night under armed guard. He bought houses and then sold them. Finally, he was driven mad. The decorative turkey factory closed shortly thereafter.

I resumed my regular activities immediately.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

June 5, 2014 1 comment
Chris Vitiello

By Chris Vitiello

It is my custom to eat alone and quite late at night. I have a small kitchen table– enough room for only two (though it is only ever one) and it is here that I first prepare the custom Vitiello Decorative Ham for gazing purposes. This composition takes one hour.

When it is placed precisely at the corner and tilted at a 20-degree angle, I commence with cooking. I require only two pots but they are of the finest quality, imported directly from distant Lankvillian outposts. I make a spare meal of one slice of water-boiled specialized meat chuck, one LaRette potato (chosen for its silkiness) and one spoonful of field sprouts.

It was with these gastronomic endeavors that I was engaged when I suddenly heard the outer gate alarm ring. I glanced at the monitor. Indeed, it appeared that two prowlers had entered the confines. I lowered the flame on the pots and made my way quietly to the great room. I extinguished the dim lighting, made my way along the glass-encased decorative hams that adorn the outer wall and entered the study. Here, I selected two whips.

By now they were within the inner gate. I realized then that these two miscreants had made some sort of a deal with Hartenstein, the oafish night watchman.  He will be arrested I thought but not before he is whipped mercilessly.   And with that in mind, I selected a third whip– this with a quirt at the end of the romal.

The quirt at the end of the romal.

The quirt at the end of the romal.

By now, they had entered the lobby. “The hams are in the room on the left,” I heard Hartenstein whisper. A flashlight beam went close to me as I ducked behind a plush leather chair. “Are you sure they are worth anything?” one of the miscreants asked. “Are you kidding?” Hartenstein replied, no longer whispering. “Those are prototypes. They’re priceless.”

All three were now fumbling with the lock as per my design. It is an overly-complicated lock– I submitted the plans myself. I recall standing over the locksmith Backmiller, a doddering coot who operated a shop nearby. “I can’t figure it out at all,” he kept saying, as he stared hopelessly at my drawings. “That is precisely the point, Backmiller,” I replied, my hand on the very same whip that I would soon use on Hartenstein.

I now took pleasure in watching the trio of brainless buffoons fumble with my lock, all three whips at the ready, as I creeped along the carpet. “The glass, I can’t break it,” one of the miscreants said, as he hopelessly pounded on what was indeed, not glass at all, but a special transparent solid developed by mistake at the factory for the purpose of coating decorative hams. “We better get out of here,” the other said but Hartenstein demurred. “We gotta’ to be able to break this– it…it can’t be.”

“It can indeed, Hartenstein,” I said, calmly raising myself from the floor. “And now I would like you to tell these boys what will happen.”

I don’t recall the interval between the moment the heist was exposed and the moment the police arrived. It may have been five minutes, it may have been an hour. I do know that my dinner was perfectly cooked by the time I got back to it and that three lovely whips were broken in the process.

The next day, I dispensed with having a watchman and merely added a third and fourth exterior gate.

 

Chris Vitiello is the founder of Vitiello Decorative Hams.

Vitiello Introduces Decorative Slow-Roasted Pig

March 12, 2014 Leave a comment
By Lance Pepsid, Special Fashion Correspondent

By Lance Pepsid, Special Fashion Correspondent

Vitiello Decorative Hams, Inc. announced today that they will begin selling decorative slow-roasted pigs in time for Summer, 2014.

“We have accomplished everything we hoped to accomplish with the Decorative Ham and it is now time to move on to the decorative slow-roasted pig,” noted founder and CEO Chris Vitiello, who gave a short press conference clad in flowing white robes with two braided whips wound around each shoulder. “You may transmit this information to your whorish readers in whatever manner you see fit.”

Vitiello Decorative Slow-Roasted Pig (prototype)

Vitiello Decorative Slow-Roasted Pig (prototype)

Later, Vitiello sat down with Lankville Daily News fashion correspondent Lance Pepsid.

CV: It is one of the great wonders of our day, Mr. Pepsid, that you continue to be dispatched to cover stories for which you are shamelessly ill-suited.
LP: Tell us about the decorative slow-roasted pigs– will they be available for the BBQ season?
CV: When is the BBQ season exactly, Mr. Pepsid. Can you mark that on any earthly calendar?
LP: Well, how they can be utilized in the backyard…
CV: Let’s make something clear, Mr. Pepsid. Use of a Vitiello Decorative Slow-Roasted Pig in an outdoor setting requires further permits that be very difficult to acquire. A Vitiello Decorative Slow-Roasted Pig is ideally suited for the living room. That is the room for which it was designed.
LP: It seems like it would be nice for outdoors…
CV: Are you questioning the intent of the designer, Mr. Pepsid?
LP: Let’s move on. How much do they cost?
CV: Cost should never be a consideration when purchasing an item from Vitiello Decorative Hams.  People with such concerns should frequent those shuddersome dollar stores that continue to be a blight on our landscape and which profess to sell oriental rugs for $20 (Lankville).
LP: I’m sure people would like an estimate.
CV: Move your chair towards the wall Mr. Pepsid.

Pepsid was whipped mercilessly.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

February 6, 2014 Leave a comment
https://ahsahtapress.org/assets/Chris-website.jpg

File Photo

By Chris Vitiello
Decorative Ham Magnate

The bulk of my teenage years were spent in isolation.

There was a hilly dirt path that led away from the village and deep into the woods. Eventually, it let out on a grassy field that overlooked a rambling cold storage facility, seemingly bereft of human activity. There was a concrete sewer pipe that rose vertically from the ground and I used to place a small portable cook stove on its surface and grill hot dogs and buttered half-corns while listening to the sound of the wind through the grasses. It was seldom that I brought a book or radio along.

A Vitiello Decorative Ham makes a great gift.  Show that you care today.

A Vitiello Decorative Ham makes a great gift. Show that you care today.

I had executed this ritual for a month before I noticed a distinct change. The wind became distinctly more fitful and temperamental (though only when I was cooking hot dogs in the grassy field)– indeed, it was remarked within the confines of the village how seasonable the weather had been that summer.

And then the storms came. It happened first during a visit in early August. A meteorological agitation that came suddenly and without warning and was accompanied by a demented but obscure shout, terse but horrifying. Then, a vicious wind through the grasses that carried off my grill and hot dogs into the sky where they disappeared in a series of black clouds that blotted out all light. I had to take cover against the cement sewer pipe and then, just as abruptly as it appeared, the storm ended and it became warm and bright once again.

This happened on each visit, without fail, throughout the month of August and into September. I accepted it unfailingly, though it required repeated purchases of new cook stoves. “You buy an awful lot of these son,” said the overalled owner of the county line feed store. “You’re not planning some sort of revolutionary attack are you?” I mollified him with long, tiresome stories of charitable camping excursions to buy time. I needed to see the end of this thing through.

The denouement came in early October. It had grown cold. I was on my tenth cook stove. The demented tempest came suddenly; indeed, the coals had just begun to grow orange and my first hot dog had just been placed over the burgeoning fire when it was whisked away. “WHERE WILL IT GO?” I demanded. I was in tears– my emotion had come on as quickly as the storm itself. “I WANT TO KNOW!” And then my sorrow was turned into inexplicable joy. There were no black clouds this time– I could follow the grill as it bobbed in the current like a kite. I watched until it disappeared entirely.

It was then that I knew.

And I never returned.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

January 30, 2014 Leave a comment
https://ahsahtapress.org/assets/Chris-website.jpg

FIle Photo

By Chris Vitiello

You cannot stack decorative hams. They are not meant to occupy space. They must be laid professionally on proper surfaces. I have known men– these are crude, unschooled men– who will attempt to suspend decorative hams from ceilings using only the hemp or perhaps raw cable. Later, these men will represent grim portrayals of lives bound to the soil.

A Vitiello Decorative Ham

A Vitiello Decorative Ham

It has been said that if you run through the streets, saying you imitate a lunatic, you are in fact a lunatic. Thusly, if you hang a decorative ham, saying you imitate a decorative ham man, you are in fact nothing and should be whipped. This is an excellent example of a “play on words”.

There have been times when great sums are proffered. And a man will say, “Please put these decorative hams in the shape of a sphere and hang them over the swimming pool.” And I will say, “I will not” and I immediately gather up the hams and begin packing them in their crates. And the man will say, “But I have paid for these, I can have them presented in whatever fashion I wish” and I merely whisper a quiet, “No” and continue packing. And if the man persists, I will whip him and suspend him above his swimming pool.

You must not push me.

Designer Decorative Ham Line “Christo” Walks Runway

January 28, 2014 Leave a comment
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File Photo

By Lance Pepsid
Special Fashion Correspondent

Only days after announcing a series of special spring loafs, innovator Chris Vitiello unveiled his new designer decorative ham line “Christo” before an appreciative crowd at fashion week here in Lankville City.

Model sports a Kenzo Ham Dress.  Meat outfits are evidently huge this year.

Model sports a Kenzo Ham Dress. Meat outfits are evidently huge this year.

The line of twelve different decorative hams were carted down the runway by models, clad in ham-inspired outfits designed by many leading lights of fashion including Kinnith Coles, Christians La-Crux, Dolce Porches, and Hermes Kenzo.

Vitiello, who sat in the front row sporting a specially-designed haute couture bedsheet with a large “whip pocket”, smiled mildly throughout the show.

“The important thing was getting the message out there,” the magnate and hockey executive said later. “But it was difficult to sit amongst this aggregation of little whores without wanting to whip everyone senseless and end this garish, profane exposition of visual prattle with one crack of the whip.”

Vitiello left quickly and issued no further statement.

“I thought “Christo” was just tres chic,” said noted designer and critic Cabbages Boy. “I can definitely see the hams becoming deluxe and underground and a common accessory. I saw the first ham and I thought– PURSE!” added Cabbages Boy in a homosexual manner.

Further reviews of “Christo” are expected in the fashion magazines later this month.

Musings of a Decorative Ham Man

January 19, 2014 Leave a comment

By Chris Vitiello
https://ahsahtapress.org/assets/Chris-website.jpg
File photo

HAMMY LAND: A DIGRESSION

Five years ago, at the advice of a now odious colleague, I opened “Hammy Land”, an amusement/theme park.  A decorative ham mascot “Hammy” was created and his smiling visage became a common sight on t-shirts, ballcaps and elastic limb bands in and around Lankville.  In its first two years of existence, “Hammy Land” netted nearly a billion (Lankville) dollars.

Hammy Land: Closed for "the Season".

Hammy Land: Closed for “the Season”.

The incident which I am about to describe took place a little before Easter of the third year.  Millions had gathered that holiday and we had created a special “crucifixion Hammy” cap that was flying off the shelves.  Our cramped, airless, basement restaurant was packed day and night and the “throwing fields” (pastures where decorative hams could be hurled for sport) were constantly engaged.  Late arrivals began complaining.  “We cannot get a room at Vitiello Restrained Hotels, we cannot get a table at the restaurant, we cannot get on any of the rides,” they would say in their collective nasal groan.  We had completely run out of crucifixion Hammy’s.

To our amazement, more vacationers continued to funnel in, even as the weekend approached its most welcome end.  The complaints became louder, somehow more desperate and my arm and shoulder became weary from the endless required whippings.  I remember the moment when I looked out over the filthy restaurant- the uncleared tables, the demanding throng still waiting in the lobby, the lost and crushed crucifixion Hammy hats on the fetid carpet.  “NO!” I suddenly announced.  Everything quieted.  “GET OUT VERMIN!” I shouted again.  Within minutes, I had a plan of action.  “Hammy Land” would be no more.  I removed immediately to my suite at the top of the hotel and gave instructions to a trusted coterie of administrators.  They were to close the gates and shut down all operations.  Lastly, they would let themselves out, leaving the keys.

The next morning, I walked the desolate and abandoned grounds.  Idiotic detritus was everywhere.  I tore down several homemade banners of Hammy on the cross.  I came upon the main entrance and let myself out.  I never looked back.

Two weeks later “Hammy Land” (at my command) was permanently shuttered.  I had contemplated annihilation but thought better of it.  Let it stand as a warning.  A warning that I will not be tested.

Weeds have grown over the gates.  It is still possible however to walk along the perimeter and occasionally find a clear view of the greying, fading restaurant or the paint-peeled roller coaster, its cars still in the middle of their last ride.  It is possible.  It is also possible that you will suddenly find yourself face to face with the owner of this ghost and that you will be whipped mercilessly for trespass.

It is best to remember Hammy Land in your mind.