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Pig Lips
Edwin Rawlsen
Hey, look over here. Pick me. NO NOT THE TORTILLAS.
Me. Right. The Pig Lips. You’ve passed me up so many
times you’ve quit looking at me. You avert your gaze. You
are repelled. I know it’s nothing personal. You can’t look
at the Pig’s Feet either. You think we are like medical specimens
in a jar. That is really unfair. We are just like any other
meat. You are prejudiced against us, yet you will grab that
chicken, or that turkey neck. It must be some sort of ethnic
prejudice. We’re not your type of ethnic food. Don’t give
me the NOT KOSHER line either. Just about NOTHING you select is
kosher if you get right down to it, not to mention that you’re not even
Jewish. You’ve just made up your mind that we are unclean, as if
you have the authority to write your own Leviticus.
You can shun the Pig’s Feet. The Feet probably are unclean.
I assure you , I haven't been where those feet have been. I can
see how you wouldn’t want to eat the feet. The feet are so
recognizable. But me – why, you can’t even tell what I am by
looking in this jar. I know you can’t even look at the jar yet,
but trust me. Just meat in here. No toenails or any of that
stuff. You eat tongue on the rare occasion. Tongue is a lot
more identifiable as anatomy. You can hardly tell what the heck
Pigs Lips are by looking at them. I know that’s what attracts you
to the ground meat. It is not really a distinguishable animal
part or anything.
You could just get me as a joke. I make an entertaining party
favor. I make a great piece of conversation-starting
decor. “Yes,” you will say, “the Pigs Lips spoke to me in the
grocery store.”
Hey! It’s working. I’m getting a look! Ha, Pig’s
Feet. You are doomed, and if I play my cards right, I’ll be up on
that top shelf of the kitchen above the cabinets, where the decor goes,
waiting to catch the eye of the observant guest. I’ll be looking
down at all the goings on, maybe even watching a little TV.
They’ll dust me every now and then, and maybe after a while they will
even open me up and give me a try. There will have to be a lot of
room in the fridge since I’m a large jar, and they will have a lot
left. But I’ll be in the fridge, integrated with the regular
food. God knows where you’ll be, Pig’s Feet. Maybe your
shelf life will expire while I’m in the fridge, hobnobbing with the
other leftovers. I’ll think fondly of you and forget entirely our
tiresome life here on the shelf with nothing to talk about.
Oh no. I’m not getting into the basket after all. Back to
endless hours of nothing to talk about with you. No, I am
not going to put a plug in for you next time. The odds of my
going alone are bad enough. Do you know what the chances are of
them taking us both? Zero. Forget about that. It’s
every piece of anatomy for itself.
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