It has, on occasion, been said that a director and her ham are soon parted. Additionally, one should stand by your ham, and a ham on the desk is worth two that can't be found any day. 

Little Bo-peep has lost her ham, And can't tell where to find it; Leave it alone, and it'll come home, And bring its tail behind it (hopefully on rye with a nice crunchy pickle and some cheddar cheese). 

Perhaps the ham is (even I blush at this a bit) on the lam?

If a ham isn't on a desk, does the ham exist? Is there a platonic state to the ham, and, if we are more enlightened, would it be visible?

A haiku:

Silent ham weeping
Contemplate; beauty of loss
When is the potluck?

Dr. Lecter: What became of your ham, Pat?
Clarice (Nee' Pat): They took him.
Dr. Lecter: You still wake up sometimes, don't you? You wake up in the dark and hear the screaming of the hams.

Sorry for the tedium of an inside joke folks, but, everyone has a little funny bone inside of them that is tickled by the silliest things. Mine is twanging away. Pat Hill, a director here at Sun, won a canned ham as part of a best "Mardi Gras" float contest. She was proudly displaying it until someone snatched the untethered booty and went on the lam with her ham. I like having fun at work (and writing sweet code and excellent engineering) and this made me laugh out loud.