Sandwich of Ruin!

The Annual Cutting Of The Pigs

During my sojourn to the state fair over the weekend, I perused some of the local livestock buildings. I particularly liked petting the goats, because they're just so cute! I wouldn't want to have one as a pet or anything, because my particle board furniture would be toast after two days of goat gnawing but, still, the goats were cute, and the more proud and friendly specimens would prop themselves up on the fence so people would be more apt to notice them and pet them. I don't normally use this word, but they were ADORABLE.

I did not, however, visit the swine building, because pigs and I have a spotty history. That, and pig poop is the most sour smelling defecation on the planet.

My battle with the pigs of the planet actually started with my brother who, as a child, along with a friend of his, chased a piglet around and around and around a pen until the piglet's little life expired. Imagine the shock on my brother's face when he learned, rather abuptly, that a piglet can actually be chased to death. Who knew? Well, now YOU know, so if you have any piglet chasing plans, I suggest you change them.

The swine community got their revenge on the Rhodes spawn many years later when, during an overnight stay with a friend of mine, I was carried by my groin by a very agitated, and very large sow. I've posted on this incident before, and you can read about all about it here.

Ah, but I got my revenge on the pigs of the world about a year later. Once again, I was invited to spend the night at my friend, Joe's, house. And, once again, Joe's dad decided that, since there was an extra hand around the house, that automatically meant that it would be a good day to do farm chores. Oh, joy.

So, what manly task would I be required to do? Would I hit the field and fix fences? Would I bale hay for eight hours with nothing but a whisky bottle filled with water to keep me going? Would I once again be carried by my groin by a sow that I had no business being even in the same county with?

None of the above. Rather, I was introduced to the fascinating world of cutting pigs.

So, what does it mean to cut pigs. Well, I'll tell you. First, you take some unsuspecting pigs, not quite piglets but not full grown adults either. Adolescents, if you will. You make sure these adolescent piggies are male, and that they have visible testicles. Then, you go about removing those testicles.

That's right. I had been hand selected to carry out a search and destroy mission on the dainty danglers of a penload of pigs.

It was a three man job. Joe was the gatherer. He was responsible for rounding up the pigs. Joe's dad was the surgeon, although I use that term very loosely. He was the man with the scalpel. He did the actual slicey dicey dirty work. I was the holder. I grasped the pigs by their hind legs, lifted them in the air, and spread their kicking legs wide so as to give Joe's dad an unobstructed view of the piggies' privates.

What happened next would make even ER doctors squirm in discomfort. As I held each pig aloft, Joe's dad would conduct an efficient, yet disturbing process. First, he would swab the genetalia with some sort of anti-biotic. Then, with two deft swipes of the scalpel, he opened up the little nut sacs, exposed the piggie jewels, and promptly removed them. Then, he injected each pig with a cocktail of immunizations and, using a wire clippers, he snipped off each pig's coiled tail.

The pigs, understandably, were not fond of the process. Although they weren't huge, I'm here to tell you that those pigs could kick like Bruce Lee. If you can imagine Bruce Lee kicking while having his testicles removed, you can kind of get an idea how difficult it was to hold those pigs in place during "the process." They would kick, and kick, and kick, and squirm, and squeal and overall do everything in their power to display their hatred of the process. Combine this with my own weak knees each time Joe's dad slit a sac, it's a wonder I was ever able to make it through all 30+ pigs.

Although the pigs were no doubt enduring their worst day ever, not all the animals on the farm were unhappy with the chore. Most notably, Joe's dogs were, in fact, eager participants, happily gobbling up each testicle as Joe's dad tossed them to their awaiting mouths. Alas, even two large dogs have a limit when it comes to dining on swine nuts, and they ambled off after about 15 or so pigs (hey, that's 30 testicles, after all, a big meal by any standard). The remaining pigs had their proud penis berries unceremoniously deposited in an old ice cream pail. I haven't looked at Kemps ice cream the same way since.

As the last pig bid farewell to his boys, I was a mess. My once squeaky clean blue jeans and Bart Simpson tee shirt were spattered with enough blood to make me look like a murder victim. I couldn't WAIT to take a shower.

And the worst part? I didn't even get paid. Not one single cent.

But, the memories. Those are priceless.

UPDATE: It would appear that my comments are back up and running. However, all the archived comments have thus far been lost. So, if ya'll could go back through the archives for two years and rewrite your comments, verbatim, this blogger would greatly appreciate it. Thanks!

UPDATE: Annnnd, the comments are down again. Yaccs, it's not just a name, it's a state of mind. Stormy. Roberts. Tawney. Nicole Richie. Nicole Richie. Salma Hayek. Salma Hayek. Salma Hayek.

Posted by Ryan at September 3, 2003 12:01 PM