Damn Your Eyes, Piggy, DAMN YOUR EYES! 6/4/2004
I am a vegeterrible. This means I eat no meat. Generally this is no big deal for me. I never liked hamburgers or steak, even as a little person. I remember chewing the same piece of steak for five full minutes once, until it had the flavor and consistency of cardboard pulp. I tried and tried, but it obstinantly refused to be swallowed, instead clinging grimly to my mouth, making itself less and less welcome.
Hamburgers were no better. When we would have them for dinner, they would seem to me as vast and unconquerable as the mysterious lands west of the Mississippi doubtless must have felt to Lewis and Clark. The first bite would feel like an unmanagable beef boulder clogging up my maw, and as I resolutely set to the sisyphean task of whittling it down to something I could actually swallow, I would gaze at the remaining 62lbs of meat puck on a tough kaiser feeling defeated and hopeless.
Let’s not talk about pot roast. I’m still in therapy.
Even chicken was alarming. Once, at a school pot luck dinner, while picking at a drumstick from the “Gigantoass Bucket” of the Colonel’s deep fried goodness that we always brought to such functions (yes, we were *that* family), a heinous blue vein the size of a hosepipe popped out of the chicken and flibbled maniacally at me like one of those birthday party favors you’re supposed to blow into other people’s faces. I nearly fainted.
But the piggy. Oh, the piggy. Tell me, piggy, if I am not supposed to eat you, why must you taste so extra-fabulously delectible? When I smell bacon or sausages frying, I get angry all over again at you. You have no right! You’d taste like turnips or brussels sprouts if you knew what was good for you, you stupid piggy, but no. You stubbornly insist on smeling like the sweet breath of baby angels and tasting like those sunsets they put on postcards of California. I thought you were supposed to be smarter than that.
In conclusion, piggy, although I am a very strong woman and can resist your succulent charms, not everyone is. And for what will inevitably ensue, piggy, I’d just like you to know I feel you have only yourself to blame. Running around, flaunting your bacon like that, you silly tart, what do you honestly expect?