Musings
Sometimes I will see something on TV that triggers a thought or brings back a memory. Out of the blue, for some dumb reason these things will hit me and they will just stay there until I talk about them or in this case...BLOG.
I hate pigs. I really really don't like pigs.
My grandpa had pigs. They were the meanest, nastiest psycho pigs on the face of the earth. I couldn't walk past their pen without one of them, usually a big nasty boar that had a personal thing about me, charging the fence snorting and grunting and just trying to get to me. I would walk from the house and I could feel his beady little eyes watching me. The closer I would get to his pen the more agitated he would get. Pawing the ground, snorting and grunting. Banging into the fence so hard I was afraid he would break through and eat me. I really hated that pig. Almost as much as he hated me.
Grandpa said we needed the pigs to make the farm work. We needed the ham and bacon.
You can imagine the glee I felt the day grandpa got out his rifle and walked down to the pig pens.
I have to admit. I really enjoyed the ham and bacon.
I wonder sometimes, while standing in the grocery store, what is so special about Virginia ham. Are Virginia pigs better mannered because they come from Virginia? Do they get a daily massage? Is their slop prepared by hand by some imported chef? I really can't tell the difference between a piece of Virginia ham and a good old hunk of southern Utah pig.
After growing up and moving away I thought that I would be done with pigs. Thought the closest I would come would be a good ham on rye or a plate of bacon and eggs. But that was not to be.
Fast forward to 1984. I took a job as a bartender in a red neck Missouri dive. A beer and shot kind of place. There was a shuffleboard table and a pool table. Of course there was the obligatory juke box blaring Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Linda Ronstat, ET Al.
Most of our customers came from a factory across the street. Workers would come in during their lunch and dinner breaks, buy a pint of whatever and sit in our parking lot to drink their lunch.
There were only two rules in this dump. Don't spit on the floor and Don't kick the PIG. Yup, the owner had a pet pig named Arnold.
Arnold didn't usually seem like the mean, nasty psycho pigs that I grew up with. He wasn't Radiant or Amazing like Wilbur from Charlotte's Web either. He was more like a big, dirty hairless pink dog that crapped on the floor and wolfed down any little piece of food that hit the floor. He pretty much had the run of the place. He really didn't bother the customers since most of them were in the parking lot. I wonder if there is a connection there? Anyway, things were normally pretty quiet around there until one day a hillbilly with long, dirty hair and blue farmer brown overalls walked into the bar. Around his shoulders was his pet boa constrictor.
Did I mention that snakes and pigs are natural enemies?
Arnold came in the back door, took one whiff of the air. Smelled snake and all hell broke loose. It was just like the days back on the southern Utah farm. That pig went totally psycho. He let out a loud, high pitched squeal and charged.
Hillbilly saw Arnold and knew what was about to happen. He jumped up and started to dodge around tables and over chairs trying to get away from psycho pig. The pet boa got all upset and started to hiss and wrap himself tighter and tighter around hillbilly as he was trying to make his escape ahead of the deranged pig.
He made it out the door in time but Arnold kept trashing the bar looking for the snake.
Now my mother didn't raise no fools. If anyone left in there thought the bartender was going to try to corral that pig they were as nuts as the pig.
Arnold finally figured out that the snake had left the building so he went charging out the back door looking for it. Once he was outside the heroic bartender climbed down from the bar top and locked the back door. Arnold was safely locked away. Hillbilly was in the next county. Peace was restored. I found a good, better paying job with no pigs.
Did I mention that I hate pigs
I hate pigs. I really really don't like pigs.
My grandpa had pigs. They were the meanest, nastiest psycho pigs on the face of the earth. I couldn't walk past their pen without one of them, usually a big nasty boar that had a personal thing about me, charging the fence snorting and grunting and just trying to get to me. I would walk from the house and I could feel his beady little eyes watching me. The closer I would get to his pen the more agitated he would get. Pawing the ground, snorting and grunting. Banging into the fence so hard I was afraid he would break through and eat me. I really hated that pig. Almost as much as he hated me.
Grandpa said we needed the pigs to make the farm work. We needed the ham and bacon.
You can imagine the glee I felt the day grandpa got out his rifle and walked down to the pig pens.
I have to admit. I really enjoyed the ham and bacon.
I wonder sometimes, while standing in the grocery store, what is so special about Virginia ham. Are Virginia pigs better mannered because they come from Virginia? Do they get a daily massage? Is their slop prepared by hand by some imported chef? I really can't tell the difference between a piece of Virginia ham and a good old hunk of southern Utah pig.
After growing up and moving away I thought that I would be done with pigs. Thought the closest I would come would be a good ham on rye or a plate of bacon and eggs. But that was not to be.
Fast forward to 1984. I took a job as a bartender in a red neck Missouri dive. A beer and shot kind of place. There was a shuffleboard table and a pool table. Of course there was the obligatory juke box blaring Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Linda Ronstat, ET Al.
Most of our customers came from a factory across the street. Workers would come in during their lunch and dinner breaks, buy a pint of whatever and sit in our parking lot to drink their lunch.
There were only two rules in this dump. Don't spit on the floor and Don't kick the PIG. Yup, the owner had a pet pig named Arnold.
Arnold didn't usually seem like the mean, nasty psycho pigs that I grew up with. He wasn't Radiant or Amazing like Wilbur from Charlotte's Web either. He was more like a big, dirty hairless pink dog that crapped on the floor and wolfed down any little piece of food that hit the floor. He pretty much had the run of the place. He really didn't bother the customers since most of them were in the parking lot. I wonder if there is a connection there? Anyway, things were normally pretty quiet around there until one day a hillbilly with long, dirty hair and blue farmer brown overalls walked into the bar. Around his shoulders was his pet boa constrictor.
Did I mention that snakes and pigs are natural enemies?
Arnold came in the back door, took one whiff of the air. Smelled snake and all hell broke loose. It was just like the days back on the southern Utah farm. That pig went totally psycho. He let out a loud, high pitched squeal and charged.
Hillbilly saw Arnold and knew what was about to happen. He jumped up and started to dodge around tables and over chairs trying to get away from psycho pig. The pet boa got all upset and started to hiss and wrap himself tighter and tighter around hillbilly as he was trying to make his escape ahead of the deranged pig.
He made it out the door in time but Arnold kept trashing the bar looking for the snake.
Now my mother didn't raise no fools. If anyone left in there thought the bartender was going to try to corral that pig they were as nuts as the pig.
Arnold finally figured out that the snake had left the building so he went charging out the back door looking for it. Once he was outside the heroic bartender climbed down from the bar top and locked the back door. Arnold was safely locked away. Hillbilly was in the next county. Peace was restored. I found a good, better paying job with no pigs.
Did I mention that I hate pigs
posted by Rob | 9:08 AM
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7 comments
