Randy calls me "Bacon."
Country used to call me "Buster."
I suppose this is what you'd call my last will and testament.
I'll be dead by Monday.
Larry "Country" MacDonald raised my parents in his pen.
I've had several brothers and sisters, and half-brothers, and half-sisters.
My dad was a stud.
He had a 63% pedigree rate.
This meant sixty-three out of every hundred of my dad's offspring were classified Grade A quality swine.
The vast majority of them went on to the Bacon of the Month Club.
This should be no surpise considering my father was Danish Landrace.
It's because of this type of hog did Denmark become the top bacon exporting country in the early nineteen hundreds.
My mom was a Mulefoot, which is why most never thought I'd amount to much.
I've got solid hooves just like she did.
Because of these hooves I don't type so well.
Randy does all of the typing.
This is both our first, and probably last, blog post.
Randy usually just types letters for me.
I've been writing to the Bacon of the Month Club for almost a year now.
Petitioning.
I haven't received any word back, but that may just be Randy.
Randy's going to take me to slaughter this weekend.
He needs the money.
Country's wife, Eliza Beth, used to home school the other farmer kids.
She would read to them under the shade oak out past our pen.
I loved to listen.
I still remember her watching me listen.
It must've felt weird when she came up and said, "Do you understand me?"
She shrieked when I nodded.
That's when she went in and got Country.
Country told me about my father. He told me about pretty much everything. Country's had his truck for thirty years, and it's the only thing he loves more than Eliza Beth he'd say with a chuckle. "More dependable, that's fer damn sure," he'd snort.
It was about as much fun as I'd ever had just talking to Country every day.
Other than eat, masturbate, and train, I didn't do much.
I trained.
Trained to one day become Bacon of the Month.
I suppose it's like those Muslims that just want to die for their God.
It's what they're taught to be.
The Mulefoot breed has never been known for good bacon.
Country told me that if I slept on my back one night, and then my right side the next, I'd be able to make some good bacon one day.
Something about skeletal compression, and delicious fat ridges.
I used to sleep just like he told me, and I'd train by lying right up against the back fencepost.
Country said that would make good bacon too, "Cause it forces your back muscles to bend out, and develop them good fat ridges."
You probably didn't know that a pig's penis is just an extension of his tail.
Or, vice versa.
My penis, as most others', is shaped like a curly-que.
It makes masturbation awful tough.
Not that I probably could do it that way anyway, what with being half-Mulefoot.
Roll around in the sloppy mud up against a smooth rock is about all I could do.
I did it a lot though.
When I wasn't eating or training.
Eliza Beth used to just come out and read to me. Sometimes I feel that she liked me as much as old Country did.
I didn't care much for Orwell. His depiction of pigs was about as far off as you could get. We're much too apathetic to revolt. Even if you took our feed, and all the smooth rocks. E.B. White never stood foot on no farm either, I guaran-damn-tee you that.
Country and Eliza Beth never told anyone about me.
Randy's the only other one that knows.
Country lost me in a poker game.
He said, "Randy, I ain't got no more money, but you can take any pig you want."
Randy said, "I gotta call. Whatchu got, Country?"
"Thirty mile railroad." (three tens)
The way Country tells it, Randy jumped up and slammed his hand down like it was his last day on earth.
"Three Mopsqueezers!!" (three queens)
As Randy put me in the back of his Chevy, Country whispered to me that he, "never thought there woulda been the chance Randy woulda picked me, or he woulda never made the bet."
He weeped, "I'm sorry, Buster."
I'm not sure what he told Eliza Beth.
I still train.
I figure it's all I got.
My last petition is to Al Can't Hang.
Send me to the blogger most appreciative.
Sincerely,
Bacon
