O Death, where is thy sting? O Hades, where is thy victory?
The magisterial might of suicidefoodism flicks aside the Reaper's feeble jabs.
Death? You thought death was enough to quench the animals' thirst to be consumed? They live for this stuff. Die for it. Whatever.
And so, although death has at last claimed the tattered mantle of the pig's mortality, he carries on. In nothing but bones, he shows up for work at 8:50 (thank you very much), ready to dish up the flesh of the recently deceased. (Perhaps even the meat formerly encasing his own soul!)
He'll be cooking pigs until hell freezes over. And when that happens, he'll just switch to pork sundaes.
(Thanks to Dr. Rick for the referral.)