Ok, why I have no pity for piggies
When I was a teen, way back during the 'recession' of the late '70s/early '80s, when Jake Butcher ravished the State of Tennessee with the S&L collapse, our family existed on a little farm way back in the hills, complete with two-seater outhouse and outdoor hose shower. Being city folk really (ok, my mom was raised on a farm, but my step-dad certainly wasn't), we were rather inept in our attempt at living off the land.
Anyway, we experimented with raising poultry (chickens are dumb... they all run into one corner of the barn during thunderstorms, and only the top layer survive - and besides, when you miss lopping their heads off, the results aren't pretty), turkeys (they attacked arriving visitors' tires), goats (curiosity killed the goat when he tried to follow someone into the truck and got the door slammed on his neck for his trouble), and bunnies (my little sisters put the kybosh on that dinner menu option). We also raised a couple o'pigs.
I don't recall what this one pig's name was, or even if he had a name, but if he had a name, it surely must have been "That Durned Pig" because that's what we called him all the time.
One lovely summer evening DP (for short) decided that the barn was no place for him, and that he would go for a little stroll out across the garden and down the road. Pretty soon, a truck rolled up the driveway: "Yer pig's out! I saw him over that-a-way." the fellow shouted. So we all piled out of the house, hollering "Soo-eeey! He're pig pig pig!" As if that would make DP come to us; yeah, right.
Well, seeing the whole passel of us walking up and down the road in the gathering dark, more folk stopped their cars along the road to help, aiming their headlights at the fields and barrowpits so we could see. Our home was in a little valley, and the road went uphill in both directions from there, so all up and down the road there was a whole bunch of headlights.
But no pig.
Suddenly, "There he is!" someone shouted. Now everyone gets out of their cars and starts running after DP. First up one way, then back down and up the other... grease couldn'ta made this pig any harder to catch. "Corner 'im!" "oof!" "Here he comes!" "Look out!" "Don't let him through!"
The Keystone Kops spectacle went on for several minutes when suddenly "Wham!" my 275 lb step-dad does a body slam and "whee!" squeals one mashed pig.
He picked him up and carried him off. We said thank you to everybody, and they all drove away.
And DP became a delicious entree at a church picnic.
Anyway, we experimented with raising poultry (chickens are dumb... they all run into one corner of the barn during thunderstorms, and only the top layer survive - and besides, when you miss lopping their heads off, the results aren't pretty), turkeys (they attacked arriving visitors' tires), goats (curiosity killed the goat when he tried to follow someone into the truck and got the door slammed on his neck for his trouble), and bunnies (my little sisters put the kybosh on that dinner menu option). We also raised a couple o'pigs.
I don't recall what this one pig's name was, or even if he had a name, but if he had a name, it surely must have been "That Durned Pig" because that's what we called him all the time.
One lovely summer evening DP (for short) decided that the barn was no place for him, and that he would go for a little stroll out across the garden and down the road. Pretty soon, a truck rolled up the driveway: "Yer pig's out! I saw him over that-a-way." the fellow shouted. So we all piled out of the house, hollering "Soo-eeey! He're pig pig pig!" As if that would make DP come to us; yeah, right.
Well, seeing the whole passel of us walking up and down the road in the gathering dark, more folk stopped their cars along the road to help, aiming their headlights at the fields and barrowpits so we could see. Our home was in a little valley, and the road went uphill in both directions from there, so all up and down the road there was a whole bunch of headlights.
But no pig.
Suddenly, "There he is!" someone shouted. Now everyone gets out of their cars and starts running after DP. First up one way, then back down and up the other... grease couldn'ta made this pig any harder to catch. "Corner 'im!" "oof!" "Here he comes!" "Look out!" "Don't let him through!"
The Keystone Kops spectacle went on for several minutes when suddenly "Wham!" my 275 lb step-dad does a body slam and "whee!" squeals one mashed pig.
He picked him up and carried him off. We said thank you to everybody, and they all drove away.
And DP became a delicious entree at a church picnic.
Comments
Say, don't you have something better to do, like study or somethin'?
I know these drapes are going up durned-awful slow, on account of me coming back here and participating in this conversation! I'd better get busy...
What I told DU in my decline letter was that I frankly didn't want to mess with T-rex on a daily basis. I think any configuration of living conditions that had downtown-Denver between me and DU would probably have me inclined to pick CU.
Another factor, was that CU only required one LOR. This was a very daunting part of the process for me (having been 'unemployed' and so long out of school). I had two recommenders lined up, but the second flaked on me. I bailed on my DU app after getting admitted to CU, partly because I didn't want to mess with having to find a second LOR. I was quite surprised to have been admitted despite the lack of a letter.
But I actually made my decision on a gorgeous bright day in October, when I'd decided to visit both schools while out on an errand. I just popped in, no warning. Got a guided tour at DU, did the self-tour at CU. DU's physical facility is astounding.
But there was just something that spoke to my heart about CU, from the minute I walked into the place. I felt at home, even with the two kegs languidly floating in a trough of ice in the student lounge (my thought, honest to gosh: "Toto, I guess we're not in Kansas any more," the irony of which I was not to appreciate until the Library Tour on admitted students' day).