WHEN PIG FLIES

Later today several people, allegedly adults, will scream and soil their diapers. While eating piles of unhealthy stuff that probably involves bacon. And drinking suds. I shall not be part of that giddy crowd. While I approve of bacon, and derivatives of pig in general, I have no need to wash down high salt and fat artery cloggers with crappy American beer while admiring shiny spandex clad rumps getting pounded into the astroturf.
I have no horse in this race. I never do.
Football is a stupid game.

I'll check out the Doritos commercial when it's all over.
During the game I shall be somewhere else.
There will be no pigs there.


Without a doubt red blooded Americans will ask me what I thought of the game tomorrow, and spout insane and boring drivel about the plays, the long shot, the comeback, the surprise twist, and how one side romped all over the other side like totally and pummeled them into oblivion how marvelous.

Rather than admitting that I am not a red blooded American -- what with being a transduced Netherlander with green reptilian slime running through my veins and barely hidded fangs and sharp sharp talons -- I shall change the damned subject. To food.

The picture above represents slabs of stewed fatty pork nestled in salted vegetables with soy and molasses. Which is far more appealing than a flying pig skin.

Stop waffling about abused porcine dermis.
You're all obsessive and neurotic.
Clearly clinically insane.

Psycho goobers.




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