We have stared at this thing for three hours straight, forgoing all food (except liquids) and human companionship. We have pondered it. We have challenged it. We have sought and failed to find.
We have asked the ceiling, the sky, the heavens above and received no answer. We are alone.
"How could this make someone want to eat dead pigs?" And then, more quietly, "How could this image be any less appealing (short of nudity and open sores)?"
A bedraggled Mardi Gras vagrant—the single-strap overalls, the frayed cuffs—rides a baleful pig, his jingle bell reins announcing the coming of calamity and giving all within earshot the chance to hide behind their deadbolts.
This does not exactly stimulate the appetite. Or so we pray.