Lies: The pig was not buying groceries

I hate car washes. I can't tell you how much I hate them. The cloth tentacles covering your car and the soapy goo are primordial. To get an idea of how much I hate car washes, slam the tips of your fingers in the hinge side of a door while picking up cat vomit. This is how much I hate car washes.

My car was covered in a mixture of road salt and other unidentifiable grime and so it was time, today, sigh, to keep the paint from melting before my eyes in the garage. After pulling into the tunnel of certain death, I immediately started skimming Facebook for something to keep my mind off the sea monster that was eating my Honda.

That's when I saw this: "I'm 28 and I just realized that the first pig was not buying groceries." I'm perplexed. I'm 45 and I don't think her post was age related. I sat there trying not to get motion sick from the incessant rocking of Ursula the evil car eating mermaid and rolling this thought over and over in my head "The pig wasn't buying groceries?"

Then, it hit me.

The pig was not buying groceries.

That pig was a combination of roasts and ribs and lard at the market.

Lies.

All my life I've had a happy image in my head of a Porky Pig like porcine skipping down the road with a gingham lined basket to fill it with candy corn and figs and maybe a bottle of pig preferred Bordeaux.

Lies. The pig is in the basket. Someone else's gingham lined basket.

I figured out a long time ago that the "Ring around the Rosie, Pocket full of Posey" garbage was about children dying in the London gutters of the plague. For some reason, pox riddled urchins dying in the street is less shocking than my snappily dressed pig friend sliced into easy to fry sections.

Tim says the other pigs were doing happy things and not to fret.

Poor piggy.