|How's your love-life, Married Ladies?|
by Joan E Thurman
2013-06-06. Girlfriends, have you ever seen, heard, and smelt a truckload of pigs on their way to the house of slaughter?--a hundred unwashed swine squeezed closely together, squealing and incontinent from terror, their pink noses poking through bars of a death-wagon driven by some grinning, idiotic human male--who watches in his rear-view mirror, laughing his head off at your reaction to the atrocious reek as he s-l-o-w-l-y passes your open convertible.
|Joan E advises: Kill 'em with the other white meat.|
Pigs by nature clean, but man has denied them the grooming products lavished on cows, sheep, and the like. Men keep them penned in the mud for man's own pork-loving mud-purposes. Remember Arnold Ziffle! Porky Pig! Piglet! Cute little Piglet! They represent pigs' natural growth.These TV pigs worked hard to entertain, made money for everybody but themselves, then they were all slaughtered, eaten, and replaced by other, more comely pig seductresses. It falls upon women of conscience to consider how similar is the ordeal of the pig in the slaughterhouse to the abused woman in the domesticity of their own abodes. Yet both your browbeaten kitchen and the beastly abattoir can lead to good things.
Pigs in heaven cry out to unhappy married women: "Girls, as She who creates all Females links them, our death is linked to your life. Listen, for goodness sake. We pigs no longer feel any pain, other than our broken hearts at your plight. So cook us, and serve a daily plenitude of our fattiest portions to your miserable mates. Every day! Thus can we serve our oppressed sisters.
"Feed us to him for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and giant bowls of pork cracklins drenched in hot sauce as he watches sports TV. He loves our flavor, and you'll love the results."
Biscuits in pork gray
French Toast Deep fried in lard
Bacon and barbeque-ends sandwich
Onion rings deep fried in lard
Deep dish french whipped chocolate pie a la mode
More of the same. You get the picture! As much pork and other fatty substances as you can persuade him to enjoy.
Of course, pigs can't sing, but Joan E hears them clearly in her mind. Maybe this is because my dear grandmother taught me early in life what bad husbands need to make their wives happy again, as she bounced me on her knee, singing the rudimentary love of pigs and women for one another.
The cruder your loutish husband yells,
the more you needs to feed'em.
The creatures martyred for your hells
Know big shot men squeal, they'll teach 'em
When there's an angel in the deal
We'll see happiness, and kindly laughter.
Just remember the main point, girls
let pork products be the master.
Feed 'em fat food often,
my little Joan E,
Soon they'll lie dead
in their coffin for thee.
A skillful cook can arrange a miserable demise for her miserable husband in a way that he enjoys, at the same time reinforcing his delusion that he is your indomitable lord and master, and you, his cowering slave. Just keep cramming that insatiable pie-hole of his with all species of greasy pork products--roasts, chops, sausage, country ribs, bacon, luncheon meats, pickled pigs feet and more--twice and three times daily.
If it is wistful irony that a woman's oppression ends and her happiness begins (after years squandered on a miserable marriage) in the bloody ending dealt to a nameless pig, who then begins its own reign of porcine grace. All we can infer is that God is not a pork-eater.
Once pigs get their wings, they patrol the sky--cavorting with the sparrows in God's welkin eye, frisking and cavorting among the clouds. Too often their peace is disturbed by the earthly curses and blows heaped upon abused women. Those boorish mates bring back memories of their own earthly torment, and the angelic pigs feel a deep empathy.
|I Hope I Never Get That Big! A Wheelbarrow!|
|Where's my dinner, Bitch?|
Ah, dear old Granny! She was so wise and good to her little Joan E. She also said that every time a mean man dies, a cheerful bell tolls up in sky--before it falls down a sewer-hole made for a bad guy. She could make me actually hear its tuneful Ka-ching! Ka-ching!--just like a slot machine spitting out a cheerful pot of gold.
Pigs aren't totally selfish. They make sure the husband gets his share of fun too--although in a quieter way. First, he gets to make that funny look before he falls face-first into his platter of country ribs. Then, he has the fun of a cheap fun-eral, for his wife is not the spendthrift he always called her; and at the cemetery, he has athletic fun, as he rolls merrily across the lawn when pallbearers, unable to support the gargantuan weight of his coffin, drop it--and his corpse takes a final road trip, rolling downhill into the wrong grave. A runaway corpse! Even hubby would have chuckled at such a site, if only he wasn't so . . . dead.
It is to the widows that spirits bequeath the lion's share of fun, first with a big-fun insurance check. Then, with the fun of feeling sexy again from the plastic surgeries she's wanted for so long--and the fun of buying a whole new wardrobe. Let's not forget the hot fun of her younger lovers and world cruises. It's okay, she's single, and has spent an entire week mourning. Gosh, but pigs love posh cruises. Pigs appreciate fun.
To think: all of these positive changes come from one well-fatted animal's squealing, painful death--the husband's, not the pig's. I remember Granny's knee-bouncing rhyme on that very point:
Drench it in pork fat
to puff him up big,
when he explodes,
Just blame the pig.
Ham What Am Good for Every Mam calls for a long, slow bake, so set aside plenty of time for this one.
- One king-sized ham, uncooked and extra-fatty.
- 2 pound bacon
- 2 sticks butter
- 1/2 cup white sugar
- 1/2 cup Rhine Wine
- 1 teaspoon salt
- 1/2 teaspoon monosodium glutimate (MSG)
- 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
- 2 cups Brown Sugar
- 5 teaspoons mustard powder
- 1/2 cup honey
- 1/2 cup bread crumbs
- 1/4 cup Port Sherry
1. Paste for the Crust
In a large mixing tub, combine brown sugar, mustard powder, honey, bread-crumbs, and port wine. Blend into a paste, and set to the side to ripen.
2. Sauce for Basting
Place butter, white sugar, salt, cinnamon, and MSG in a saucepan. Heat and stir over low flame until butter melts and mixture is smooth. Add in the wine.
3. Preparation of the Martyr
Using a sharp knife, perforate the top of the ham and push the knife-blade in as deeply as possible without causing shredding. Put in one hole for every square inch of surface.
Set the ham (perforated side up) on a meat rack. Seat the meat rack in a large baking pan. Ladle the basting sauce over the top of the ham generously. Excess will collect in baking pan. Using toothpicks, attach the pound of extra-fatty bacon strips on top of ham.
Remove upper baking rack from the oven to ensure enough room for the jumbo ham.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Compute your ham's baking time by multiplying the weight of the ham (in pounds) by 25 minutes. For example, a 13 1/2 pound ham would be computed like this: 13.5 pounds of pig, times 25 minutes per pound, equals 337.5 minutes (5 hours and 38 minutes) cooking time. Place the ham on the lowest oven rack. Baste the ham with mixture every half-hour (30 minutes). When juices collect in baking pan, alternately baste the ham with those drippings. Bake the ham for the full allotment of time. When baking time reaches the half-way point, remove the ham from oven, take off bacon strips and set aside. Carefully sculpt an even, thick coat of your "paste for crust" mixture over all exposed portions of the ham. When the first coat of paste has crystallized into a golden brown crust, add another coat of the paste over it. Repeat the procedure to build up a candy-like, thick crust.
This delicious pig flesh is best served with rich side-dishes, like pasta Alfredo flavored with the leftover bacon, green beans in pure cream sauce, whipped potatoes with extra sour cream and butter.
For dessert, make him an extra large pecan pie. Serve it a la mode, and topped the whole dessert with a mountain of whipped cream. After he has eaten the entire meal and the whole pie too, serve him a fifth of sweet brandy and some Cuban cigars, if you can get them.
Remind him that the holidays are coming, and he has to stretch his stomach for the Twelve-days-of-Christmas eating contests which are a family tradition. God bless those dear little oinkers. But be careful. Like Arnold Ziffle told me in a dream, don't you indulge in eating me. It would be unhealthy for you, and embarrassing for me. Besides, it would deprive your man of all that zesty fat.
That goes for bacon too. Nix on the bacon, even though I know secretly you like it.
One caveat: be sure your husband is paid-up on his life insurance. Make him show you the receipts. After that, put on your cutest apron and get busy in the kitchen with Joan E's sure-fire, man-pleasing Ham What Am! Go get 'em, Sister. Say a prayer for the slaughtered, and remember that the abattoir serves not only the beastly carnivore, but the vegetarian too--in an indirect, kinder way! An inconsiderate man can't keep you down forever.
Girls and women of independent means rule! --j.e.t.