Slim Jim Haikus

When I first started working on the Music Genome Project, the company who paid my checks, and whose task it was to capitalize upon this extensive research project, was called Savage Beast.¬† “Music soothes the savage beast” and all that.

Savage Beast created kiosks that displayed music-recommendation software, which helped customers in Best Buy and Borders find new music.

Within a year, the company had hired a CEO, and changed direction to create radio playlists instead of just providing lists of recommended albums.  It also changed its name to the less literary but more friendly and human Pandora.

Anyhow, we started to see some upgrades to the facility with the new name and direction.¬† Less backache-inducing office chairs, a bit of room between desks, new shelves, and so on.¬† The company’s previous name lived on in the form of our new kitchen area, dubbed the Savage Bistro.

Food was all free of charge in the Savage Bistro, as the prevailing philosophy was that a well-fed office would be a happier and more productive office.¬† However, early on in the kitchen’s run, the food options were somewhat limited.¬† Trail mix, bags of peanuts, and an endless supply of single-serving spiced meat:¬† Slim Jims.

Soon, a taped note appeared on the door of the supply closet bearing a haiku praising the individually-wrapped product for its spicy flavor and oily demeanor.

The next day, another anonymous poet printed out a series of blank lines in sets of three, with an encouragement at the top to add new haikus to the mix.

Within a few weeks, we had several dozen beef jerky-inspired haikus plastered across the wall of the Savage Bistro.

Many were complaints of indigestion and the deleterious effects of excessive sodium consumption, several were odes to Slender James himself, and a few were requests to management for more varied snack-food options.

I’m looking to see if anyone kept these many, many sheets, but I think they may have faded into early-Pandora memory at this point.

Kevin