Since I've been involved with other critter-topics lately (i.e., Eagles, dog food, cattin' and horsin' around every chance I get, ponying up when I have to and herding a few of my own sheeple), I totally missed an opportunity to blog about the pig-controversy coming out of the UK last week.  While I respect most things Muslim, I'm not willing to concede certain elements of my cultural and literary history.  For example, pigs.

I have a definite fondness for most things piggish.  One of my favorite BBQ eateries is named for the Little Pigs.  I carry my money in a pigskin wallet.  I even munch on  pork skins occasionally.  Piglet and the Piggly Wiggly will forever have a special place in my heart.  There are at least three seasoned pork rolls in my freezer.  A pork roast is sitting in my fridge right now.  I have to watch myself to avoid pigging out on pork 'n beans.  And ham -- country, sliced, sugar-cured, smoked, boiled, baked or fried -- is an all-time favorite! 

I even speak pig-latin.  U-day u-yah? 

I admit I have pig heroes, too.  What woman doesn't identify with Miss Piggy, eh?  And Babe --- one of my favorite movies!  What ahh-be-deet-ahh-be-deet child of Saturday cartoons doesn't remember Porky Pig? 

And if you ever collected Beanie Babies, you surely had a Squealer or a Knuckles in your collection, right?

You get the picture, I hope. 

Whether playing "This little pig went to market" on baby toes or reading "Three Little Pigs" in pre-school --- pigs are simply part of our culture.

Not always in a positive light, either.

Like .... I frequently think of Michael Moore and Rosie O'Donnell as pig prototypes.  Congressman John Murtha fits the same image.  And so does Henry Waxman.  Especially Henry Waxman. Man, I'm talking epitome when referring to Waxman.  

I even grew up with pigs.  Literally.  We raised them.  Every fall, neighbors came in for a pig-killing.  Men butchered them; women cooked or wrapped the meat.  Sausage, livermush, pigs feet, intestines, brains, bacon, fatback, ham, ham hocks -- the works.   

I still have a scar on my knee from crawling over a broken bottle under the pig pen.  But that's another story.

When I left PHILCAG in TayNinh (S. Vietnam), I was feted at a large banquet.  The main dish was a roasted pig.  As guest of honor, I was supposed to have dibs on plucking the eyes from the critter that lay on the platter in front of me.  Uh uh.  I  relinquished that honor to my host.  Some things even a pork-lover won't eat.

For those offended by things piggish -- how do they ignore the Chinese calendar?  Where do they get leather?  What do they eat with eggs?  How do they season their pinto beans?  What do they do with their slop?   And if they own souped-up motorcycles do they also call them "hogs?"

This is probably boaring boring to most readers.  I'll just close by saying --