The sporting life in the north of Spain is strange business. Banish from your mind the carefree enjoyment of Nature’s splendors, the thrill of testing one’s limits, the homely pleasures of fresh air soothing too-long pent-up lungs. None of these holds sway among the adventuresome pigs of that realm.
Their personalities work differently from yours. Hunched from the evil influence of a slaver’s philosophy, their spirits seek only further horrors. And everything they see, every possibility they contemplate, is a challenge to their sickest selves.
Thus, the mountains become a theater of torment, as the pig uses his own intestines (or possibly a chain of embutidos-style sausages made from his flesh?) to scale the peaks. At the top, perhaps he will fashion them into a noose to cap off the outing with a flourish.
The whole scene is steeped in such ghastliness it’s hard for us to imagine it inducing anyone to buy sausages. Or anything at all to eat. In fact, if the world were sane, it would impel everyone to seek out a private corner in which to sweat and quiver.
(Thanks to Dr. Jose for the referral and photo.)