Wild Mountain Smokehouse & Brewery

Let us consider some of the techniques pigs have employed to ingratiate themselves with us.

Self-cooking? Obvious.

Self-saucing? Childish.

Self-grinding? Barbaric.

But self-boning! Say now—that's gracious and sophisticated!

The pigs of Wild Mountain have hit upon a true improvement in the way suicidal "food" animals service their clientele.

Yes, their decreased structural integrity leads to a lack of coordination—hence, the toppled mug of beer—but life is all about trade-offs.

This skeletally refined pig, this walking, culinary radiograph, almost manages to erase the very physicality that might compromise your enjoyment. It is as if his bones—signature of his organicity, his livingness—never even existed. They are but filmy impediments, easily, magically dispelled. One shake of his dear squiggle of a tail, and the bones fall away, like crumbs, like the excess salt from an oversized pretzel.

And do you see it there, hidden among the useless bones, the detritus of living things? A tiny rump-heart, a token of his gratitude. Buried within his quasi-physical form, an organ of adoration. Adoration for you, his patron. His consumer.








(Thanks to Dr. Nichole for the referral.)