Not since famed self-hating cow Elsie fretted about humans and their love lives have we seen livestock with such weird priorities.
This pig—this paragon of gusto!—lobbies on behalf of a butchery concern that boasts of its ability to produce six million pounds of pig meat per week.
And why does he do it? What is the altar he throws himself upon? What star guides him into his afterlife?
It's all in the name of your potential for racking up sexual conquests. No, we don't understand why a pig—even a suicidal one—would give two grunts about what humans get up to in the bedroom. (Of course, we're not even addressing the dubious conclusion the pig draws in the first place.) It's enough to know that the thought of giving you your jollies gives him his. Your capacity for scoring means the pig's life—and, more importantly, his death—has meaning. Sort of.