This is the life, just porkrastinatin' until the charcoal's ready. Right, fellas?
(Do you have the feeling you've seen this bunch before? If you've been with us a long time, you have. They're here, only they've replaced the old, brown chicken with the new, improved white one. Racism casts its sickly pall even over suicidefood nation.)
While the barbecues reach the proper temperature, the trio relaxes. They have waited the whole week for this. Now, in the backyard, there are no ringing phones. No schedules to obey. No watches to consult. Just a whole lot of nothin' doin'.
Still, we can't shake the feeling that they could—we don't know—do something? Get off the lawn furniture and run away? Or walk away? Pour out the red cup onto the grills?
Pig (the surgical drape keeping his belly area sterile), Cow (the picture of urbane leisure), and Chicken (just happy to have found work) have no place special to be. So what if they're about to be cooked and eaten? What's the big deal? Maybe they'll think of something. Make a plan. See what they can do about it. Later.
Addendum: Another bunch of shiftless sacrifices.