Meatmac

Imagine a young actor or model (or, if your imagination permits it, actor-model) trying to get a toe-hold in a demanding, maddening profession. This hypothetical actor and/or model—let's call him Meatmac—wants only to get noticed. He just needs some credits under his belt. He's no hothouse flower. He knows he's got to pay his dues. That's how the business works.

Meatmac and the rest of the First Rung Club are starting at the bottom. They're hungry. They tiptoe a tightrope, balanced above the failure of anonymity. The best of them will use their inner strength, a moral compass, to navigate a treacherous terrain fraught with temptation. How to negotiate these warring impulses: Do Whatever It Takes vs. Stay True To Yourself.

Accept a bit part requiring nudity, or hold out for a role that doesn't involve that sort of compromise?

Shill for a product or company that causes misery, or wait for less lucrative, but more ethical work?

Sign on to model at the car show, or demand more meaningful assignments?

These are the quandaries faced every day by Meatmac and his cohort.

And on every standard, Meatmac has made rotten choices.

How's that? For whom does Meatmac prance and pose? Why, for Meatmac, "your specialist for used food processing equipment." Naked, the pig bounds on stage, forced smile and all, to lend his support, such as it is, to the Meatmac product line. This is bottom-of-the-barrel work, the animal mascot equivalent of pointing lovingly at the goods on offer at a snowmobile show. Snowmobiles that don't run. And blow up in front of orphanages. This won't get him noticed. It won't help him sleep at night. He's working for the wrong people, people who make it easier to eat pigs. He's not cut out for this.

And he does it all for $4.50 an hour, a five-minute bathroom break, and a free slop sandwich.