Some people go to the trouble of baking their hams and dressing it up with pineapple. Maybe some glacé cherries. They tuck it away in the fridge and rationalize, pretending they're not thinking about it at all and really prefer to be trapped in a hamless state, probably on an uncomfortable chair in an overheated room somewhere listening to Uncle ---'s interminable gout/dementia stories or wishing Aunty --- would drop another Ritalin or three in Little ---'s fruit juice while she bitches
about ----''s ex-wife.
But for us, life is short.
Enter the hamsicle.
Comes but once a year.
Fuck smalltalk, and fuck crackers and bread. Don't answer the phone. Wedge a shitload of champagne-cured free range ham onto a fork and walk around the house in your underwear ripping bits off with your teeth and dropping it down the front of you. The dog/cat will get the stuff that ends up on the floor. No one will judge you. Least of all us.