This Chicago sign is weathered. And obscure. "Sausage by Rosario made fresh daily." We could be anywhere within the kingdom guarded by the Big Shoulders. From this vantage point, only that tantalizing legend gives any hint to the world within.
Now, we see. The hogs have transformed Chicago—Hog Butcher to the World—into a ghastly paradise. One where our every need is met and we are freed from the tiresome toil of butchery. At Rosario's, not only do the pigs assist in their own killing—they tumble gaily into the grinder to be stuffed into casings by the sheer force of their thoughtfulness. We need not lift even a finger. Our clothes bear not a drop of gore. "Sausage made fresh daily," indeed. "Self-made sausage" is more like it. The pigs exist only to smooth our path, to serve us to the last. Like unbottled genies, they unleash a blessed magic of generosity.
And isn't this the meat-eater's Promised Land! A place where meat rains from the sky and flesh ripens on the vine! (And all with no need to reflect, no need to pause, no need to wonder at that nagging thought in the back of the mind.) A place where the disconnect between carnivores' appetites and what's required to satisfy them is tolerated. No, not just tolerated. Exalted.
But this is not the time or place for such solemnity. This is a wake! Let us use this moment to remember the dearly departed. Let us at least remember our hogs in a more festive light. Namely, the brash neon of Utopia.
(Thanks to Drs. William and orangexw for the referral.)