I had been running for quite some time in the black moldy tunnels. My effervescent mother was surely far behind me, but the thought of having to face her again was haunting enough to keep me going. However, I knew as long I was in this underground maze my mother would eventually find me. Luckily, I found a scratched steel door at the end of one of the snaking tunnels. Knowing whatever was beyond the door would certainly be better than my maternal doom, I opened it, shielded my eyes, and stepped through.

When my vision adjusted to the brightness of the massive room, I was amazed by what could only be the legendary underground Spam factory, as clarified by the elephantine banner proclaiming, "Welcome to the Legendary Underground Spam Factory." Finally, I had an opportunity to discover the secret ingredients of Spam, a mythical knowledge next to only the secrets to immortality and world peace, both of which I had already found and been horribly disappointed about.

A simple wooden desk sat in the middle of the otherwise empty polished steel room. On that desk was a simple bell. I rang it and the sound reverberated through the steel walls, giving me a clear idea of how large the Legendary Underground Spam Factory was.

A few minutes later, I was pacing in front of the desk; there had been no response. I decided to ring again.

Yet more time passed. I was about to ring the bell for a third time when I noticed a door, an previously inconspicuous door that was now opening to permit the entrance of what looked to be Uncle Sam.

"Welcome to the Legendary Underground Spam Factory. I'm the manager, Uncle Sam."

I inclined my head upward (Uncle Sam was ten feet tall) and replied, "Hi, I'm Bob Quartzenkofferloferous. Are you the Uncle Sam-the symbol of everything America stands for?"

"Of course I am. Who else do you think keeps Spam from being discontinued?"

"Uh, well ... I thought some people, somewhere bought it." I was one of those people, but I did not want to admit it, even to Uncle Sam.

"Indeed they do. But even with those admirable few, Spam would not be where it is today if I had not stepped in."

"You mean in a Legendary Underground Factory?"

"No, I mean still in business."

"Oh. Are you wearing stilts?" I could no longer avoid the question. He was just too tall.

"Yes, I am, and no, I am not removing them," he answered tersely.

"OK ... Well, do I get a tour for being here? You don't seem to have too many guests." Perhaps I could find the secret ingredients in this Legendary Underground Spam Factory.

"Certainly. Follow me and you'll see a world of pure imagination."

"This place is imaginary? It seems quite real to me."

"Sorry, I was trying to quote Willy Wonka. Do not worry yourself about it."

I nodded and followed Uncle Sam through the door to a room more miraculous than the first, which itself was not spectacular besides in dimension. However, this new room was spectacular. It was a greenhouse of Spam-a Spam Eden-for everything was made of that wonderful gelatinous meat product, from the grass to the flowers to the trees. Spam firs, Spam bottlebrushes, Spam roses and Spam daisies were speckled in the grand garden.

"All you see here is clearly Spam. Feel free to eat as much as you wish. We rarely get visitors and make new Spam faster than it can be consumed," said my helpful tour guide. Not wanting to die in the factory, I decided to just take a juicy pink apple and continue the tour.

"Impressive. Can we go to where the Spam is made?" I asked.

"Very well, but first we must pass through the Research and Development department." This could prove even better than I thought; knowledge of future Spam is even better than the Spam of today!

Another heavy steel door led us into a mess of jars, tubes, vials, smoke, and multi-colored bubbling liquids. There were enough tubes to be molded to form the words "Legendary Underground Spam Factory Research and Development Laboratory."

Uncle Sam made a sharp turn to the left and guided me past the grade-B science fiction movie equipment to a well-lit area with several small vats and tables and little pink men with puffy pink hair and pink sequined jumpsuits.

"Who are those little pink men?" I inquired.

Uncle Sam informed me, "They are the Ittle Bittles from Ittle Bittle Land. They come from a deprived island in search of a better life here, so we employ all of them in this Legendary Underground Spam Factory. I doubt the American public would handle their appearance very well."

"No, I suppose not." They did look like freaks, but Uncle Sam gave me a large enough hint to refrain from saying that.

The abnormally tall figure in red, white, and blue whispered something to the abnormally short figure in pink, pink, and pink. He nodded his Ittle Bittle head and handed Uncle Sam a tray. The living icon presented the tray to me and said, "This is the top secret Spam of the future. You must not tell anyone about this." I nodded, and he proceeded to explain what was on the tray.

"This is Spam Color." He pointed to the red, green, blue, and yellow gelatinous squares.

"This is Spoym. It is made of soy to placate our vegetarian customers." He pointed to the squares that looked exactly like Spam but had an aura of inauthenticity.

"And this is Spam in a jar." He pointed to a small jar with Spam inside.

"Absolutely amazing," I commented, awestruck by the future of Hormel's gelatinous meat product.

"Now on to the production room as you requested. Follow me." I took a bite of my Spam apple and accompanied him through another steel door, several hallways, and a thick soundproof door.

Inside was government-grade industrial machinery and mammoth vats of various ingredients, labeled in giant block letters on the side. Multitudes of Ittle Bittles were scattered throughout the area. Uncle Sam turned to me, moved his mouth, put on a helmet, and handed me similar headgear. I put it on.

"This is the production room, where Spam is made," I heard through earphones in the protective gear. We walked past several vats and he pointed them out one by one.

"The ham, the pork shoulder, the salt, the water, the sugar, the sodium nitrite, and this one here is the secret ingredient." Finally, I would know what the secret ingredient of Spam was!

"Could you possibly tell me what the secret ingredient is? I promise not to tell anybody." I really wouldn't, because nobody cares as much about Spam as I do anyway.

"Sorry, I can't. That would compromise our entire operation."

"Please?" I begged.

"No."

"Pretty please with sugar on top?"

"No."

This would require a different approach. "Uh ... Well ... Would you excuse me for a bit?"

"Sure." That was easy. I ran around the vat labeled "SECRET INGREDIENT" until I found an Ittle Bittle working on some sort of machinery.

"Excuse me," I asked, pointing to the vat, "what is in that enormous container?"

"Pickles," he replied in a tiny yet unfriendly grunt.

"Pickles!"

"Yeah, buddy. Pickles," he affirmed and continued his work.

I ran back to Uncle Sam waving my arms frantically and shouting, "Spam is pickles! Spam is pickles!"

Uncle Sam frowned and suggested I quiet down, but at this point I was unstoppable. I screamed "Spam is pickles!" and scrambled to the nearest door, labeled "Ittle Bittle Choir."

Inside was a group of Ittle Bittles about to sing, who I promptly interrupted with my fanatic shouts of "Spam is pickles! Spam is pickles!" A final door marked "EXIT" led me to the outside world, unknowing and uncaring that Spam was indeed made with pickles.

Back in the choir room, the Ittle Bittles resumed their practice.

"Ittle Bittle, Dittle-dee da,
If you know too much, you won't go far.
Ittle Bittle, Dittle-da dee,
If you are wise, you'll listen to me.
What do you get when you learn about Spam:
Pork shoulder, salt, water, sugar and ham.
What do you get knowing our secrets?
You will go insane and have fits.
You'll get no ... you'll get no ... you'll get no ...
You'll get no mental content.
Ittle Bittle, Dittle-dee doo,
Knowing the truth is too much for you.
You can live in happiness, too
If you ... don't care ... If you don't care like Ittle Bittles do."