Skinny bitch goes hog wild

When I told Dorothy that Graci was coming to town to visit us girls, she said, “Oh, oh…this will be good because I just bought a huge pork loin!” Apparently, she bought the big cut of meat hoping she’d have someone to share it with. So, last night, Graci drove into town after work and the three of us had Porkapalooza. Dorothy cooked, and Graci and I followed instructions. Dorothy’s rheumatoid arthritis limits her hand strength and dexterity a bit, so we transferred pots and cut meat—her younger hands at work.

I haven’t purchased meat since that fateful day in Borders when I picked up the book Skinny Bitch. I unknowingly flipped to a passage in the middle where the authors described in brilliant detail how terribly tragic it is for cows and chickens and pigs to be charged with TASTES GOOD MARINATED and then sentenced to die at the hands of sadistic slaughterhouse employees. Turns out, these delicious animals are mother and fathers with hopes and dreams for themselves and the calves and chicks and piglets they work so hard to feed, clothe, and keep out of prison and off the pole—not at all unlike the rest of us.

In less than a chapter, those damn skinny bitches sort of ruined bacon-wrapped filets for me. Now, I don’t buy meat. I do, however, eat meat that others purchase and serve. I’m not going to piss on hospitality to make a point. First, I don’t have the courage to be that hippie. Next thing I know, they’ll want me to turn off my air conditioner and give up my toxic chemical hair products—no one wants to see that sweaty, unstylish mess. And second, I have $120 to my name—I’m in no position to turn down free protein. So, if you invite me for dinner (or, should I say, when you invite me for dinner) and ask what I eat, I’ll tell you, “Oh, just about everything. I’m not picky.” I’m just not going to support the meat industry on my own.

Besides, my tongue has no morals. (Hi perverts who came by way of the google search that flagged that last sentence. Nice to have you.) My ethical objection to draining the blood out of innocent pigs has done nothing to change the fact that pork tastes great. Nothing. Last night, I ate more murdered pig than Dorothy and Graci combined. And then, I had some more. They kept exchanging sideways glances that said, “Where the hell is this skinny bitch putting all that food?”

The truth is, it was the most delicious meat I’ve had in years. In fact, now I’m being very careful not to read anything about how Revlon tests my lipstick on poor, innocent monkeys. I’m afraid it will suddenly become irresistibly tasty, and Dorothy and Graci will find me holed up in the bathroom eating my makeup bag.