Why I Eat SPAM

My love affair with the pork-based superfood, SPAM, began initially on the frozen tundra of the Siberian island of Novalya Zemla. I was location scouting there for a new movie I was planning, tentatively titled "Resink The Bismark!"when I discovered that enterprising snow foxes (bless 'em!) had crept into my camp late the night before and had decimated my store of food. Yes, they had only taken ten percent of the available total but the ninety percent of what was left consited solely of a job lot of a strange-looking tinned meat that I had been keeping until last due to the sinister overtones associated with the design on the cans.
As i looked at the cans I realised that there must have been something about them which had warded the snow foxes off. Gingerly I tore the top off of one can and slid the contents onto the cooking stove. By the time it was frying nicely and my mouth was beginning to water there came a cry from outside the tent. I froze. It was the unmistakeable cry of the polar bear! Hurriedly I looked around for a weapon but I had foolishly used my M40 carbine in plaace of one of the tent posts when setting up camp. I realised with mounting horror that the only weaponish object in the whole of Novalya Zemla right now was the frying pan upon which the SPAM sizzled.
I had not a moment to waste. Like a man possessed I crammed the spiced ham product into my gullet as outside the polar bear cries became more and more insistant.
As soon as the SPAM had been eaten, however, I underwent an epiphany. I have never been a heroic man, but now I strode forth through the tent-flap and calmly faced the beast. It's huge white, rippling bulk meant nothing to me as I belted it straight between the eyes. It crumpled to the icy ground, stunned, and I was able to break camp and leave it to be devoured alive by snow foxes in peace. As I left the icy Russian waste in my space-capable helicopter I wondered at the source of my instant courage. I glanced across at the co-pilot's seat and saw, through the open flap of my trusty old rucksack, the tins of SPAM therein, and I knew.
I achieved orbital insertion and waited while the good work of Sir Isaac Newton took me back to Australia, all the while thanking my lucky stars that i'd bought that itinerant Russian's food parcel and not his sister as he had intended. While I find it hard to condone cannibalism at the best of times I doubt that even she, wiry and strong-hipped as he had advertised, would have been of as much use to me as that small tin of luncheon meat.
And that's why I eat SPAM.