Little Piggy

I remember last summer when you sat in your lazy-boy chair and you would snort in jest at politicians squabbling on the television. Made me cringe. God. Last summer you sat like lard, spilling over the sides of your dinner chair with your odious ooziness. It was embarrassing. We all sat with our heads lowered toward our bacon-wrapped venison--and why on earth were we stuffing you with bacon, I don’t know—waiting for the grueling meal to be over.  Whenever you laughed I could see all of your crumbly yellow teeth. I wanted to hit you, but at the same time I did not want to touch your stinking skin with my own. Maybe I could use a very long pole? Swap you off your chair from the dinner table so we wouldn’t have to look at you. What did you even do with the hours of the day? Just sat there, reading blogs, reading your Bible? God, I wanted to just put a bag over your head. God. I can’t see you so must not exist, sort of thing, you know, God. I know, I know.
I’m trying my hardest to piece together an image of you that doesn’t offend me. You’ll be innocent, content. A pig? Snug and without aspirations that crawl beyond your farrowing crate. Here you are again, snug in a velvety red blanket. Same crate, really, you’re just waiting now to decompose. I think the slaughter’s over, but the grease will remain. That’s how you’ll be remembered. Then this really funny image: you are up there and in the middle of his speech, you go oink, oink, and we all laugh. Well, only I laugh. It’s so funny, or maybe I just no longer know what to do with you, so I suppress my uncertainty with laughter. This is how you'll be remembered.