Monday, January 29, 2007
Speculate no more! Our suspicions have been borne out. From within the grimy walls of Suicide Food U. comes this succinct description:
"[A]t the heart of all this activity is the pig, of course—but not just any sedentary, humorless, passionless pig. Everywhere you turn you’ll see singing, dancing, knife-and-fork-and-napkin-bearing porkers, eager to join the celebration of our barbecue nation."
Exactly as we have been saying. Trust bbqcalendar.com to crystallize our entire mission and distill it to 43 words.
And why shouldn't the porkers eagerly join in? They are at the very heart (and hocks and ribs) of "all this activity!" Only an effete could object to being roasted, grilled, char-broiled, slow-cooked, and flash-fried.
Which brings us to Big Fat Mable's (brought to our attention by the very BBQ calendar mentioned above). For if there was ever a pig who looked slow-cooked and flash-fried it is this pig. Sow is played out. You are gazing at the bbq equivalent of the truck stop whore: Feet crammed into high heels, stretch velvet peek-a-boo dress that advertises her assets up-front and around-back, fraying fishnets, and a wig gone limp from diesel fumes.
Her fantasies of rescue in the form of a courtly long-haul driver are long since dead. Is it any wonder she longs for the grill? What else does she have to live for?