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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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