Mooner Plans Last Day; Can You Say Pig?


So. Today is, one more once, the end of the world. That’s right, folks, The Right Reverend Harold “6+9=17, Carry the 1” Camping has recalibrated his Biblical renderings, and the new formula was spun on the crazy wheel where it landed on today. Since this is the third date the boy has chosen to be the end of times, I decided to spend it as if he’s correct. Not that I’m superstitious about “third time’s the charm” or any of that shit, but I figured that spending the head time to decide what I would do with the rest of my life if the rest of it was today.

I thought to myself, I thought, “What the hell. Why don’t I do a practice round.”

My life’s favorites are categorically described as “loves”[,] and I loves me some family, friends, food and fucking, and, generally, in that order. I, dear friends, am the immoral equivalent of the Four F Club. OK, maybe I’m the personification of the Four F Club, but only one of my F-word loves fits the original club charter. And OK, again, sometimes food and fucking are number one priorities. My family and friends can drive me bonkers, and Bonkers ain’t one of the five Borroughs of The City.

In my final-day pursuits of my loves, deciding what to do with family and friends was easy. I know who those persons and dogs and cat and hog and ostrich would be on my last day, and they all arrived last night and stayed here to the ranch. I won’t bore you by naming each and every one because you know them all. We played games and told favorite stories about each other all night while Streaker Jones, the animals and I spent time back-and-forth to the fire pit out back.

We spent time out to the pit because when I decided what meals I would want this last day alive, I knew but one thing for certain. Each meal will have some pig on the menu. Maybe that’s why when I was emailing Squatlo, BJ, TQ and the Reckmonster about my quickly-approaching road trip to their places, all I talked about was cooking pig whatever way it is that they cook pig.

I love pig meat. L…O…V…E it! I love to cook it every which-a-way and I love to learn new ways. So we went to our neighbor’s over the South of us and bought his best prospect—a sow that was past her prime as a breeding mare, but hit the prime marks as dinner.

“Treat old Sally right, Mooner. Don’t cut her up for sausage and pork chops, now. You hear?”

“Don’t worry, John,” I told him. “Sally’s gonna be the center of attention as a whole roasted pig.” That brought tears to John’s eyes as he gave Sally a last tug her ears. John treats his animals as do we (we do?), and he’ll miss Sally.

I didn’t tell John that my favorite part of crispy pig is the ears. I have to fight Gram for them and I always try to barter a split, and then we fight over left, or right.

We dry rubbed her with my secret blend of herbs and spices, wrapped her in an olive-oiled cheesecloth dinner jacket, and had hung her in the smokehouse before ten am Thursday morning. We didn’t have time to let the dry rub get deep to work it’s magic, so I decided to let the woodsmoke help things along. We took her out of the smokehouse at five this morning, unwrapped the cloth and put her over the medium cool fire in the pit. By dinnertime, we’ll have a crispy-skinned, juicy-meated whole-hog BBQ that will make a fitting last meal for anyone.

OK, anyone except for most Jews or other silly religious pig-dissenters, and most vegans. I personally know vegans who eat pork.

Breakfast pork will be Virginia smoked ham, Streaker Jones’ hot link sausages and my apple wood smoked bacon. Lunch pork will come in the form of Gram’s “Drabwood sammiches”[,] my loony old grandmother’s interpretation of the Dagwood. Ham and bacon BLT’s if you ask me, but Gram really doesn’t give a shit about my opinions.

Everyone is cooking their favorite dishes for breakfast and supper, but lunch will be light with just the sammiches, some chips and condiments. We don’t want to be still lunch-full when the crispy pig skin hits the table.

I’ve been making Margaritas since yesterday afternoon and all I’ll say about the Carta Blanca beer dealie is that I’m glad I buy it by the truckload. Which reminds me that I’ll need to sober up before 9:30 tonight. SAC Ellen is arriving at 10 O’Clock from out to California. She’s the final F of my final day.

I’m taking the GTO to the airport to get her and then we’re racing over to East Austin to the East Austin Trailer Park and Eatery and Starving Arts. They added a miniature drive-in movie theater, and I’m planning to sex up the SACster in the back seat while a Zombie movie plays on the almost big screen. That way if the world does actually end at midnight, I’ll be in the saddle when I go.

A fitting end to an unfit life.

When I first told the family of my plans for today, Mother told me, she said, “Mooner, God might just strike you down for this act of sacrilege.”

That’s when my Gram piped up. “Then I guess tha Big Guy’s takin’ me, cause I’mma having me some poontanger too.”

I met Gram’s poontang just after supper when one of his frat brothers dropped him off at the ranch. “Tell that other boy he can drive tha Fer Rarie too if’n he wants,” Gram said. “There’s nuff a me ta go around.”

It’ still amazes me what a young man will endure to ride in a fancy car. Enjoy this last day. Guys. But just in case… Manana, y’all.

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4 Responses to “Mooner Plans Last Day; Can You Say Pig?”

  1. Squatlo says:

    There are a million ways to cook pork, and I probably use the least acceptable form of them all to make my barbecue. Don’t care what the purists think about it, though, ’cause once they taste the end result all of their down-their-noses pooh-poohing evaporates in a slobbery droolin’ “Can I have another?” that would have brought a tear to Dickens’ eyes.
    Here’s whatcha do… you take a good pork shoulder (or loin, if you like your barbecue lean) and put it in a large crock pot. You cover said meat with water, toss in a diced up onion or two, cover with the lid, and slow cook that puppy for about ten hours ’til it’s falling off the bone. Then you use a pair of forks to separate the meat from the fat and gristle, and shred it into manageable chunks.
    Smoking pork gives it a great flavor, but no matter how dedicated you are with a basting brush it still dries out. A lot. A whole lot. More than you think. Slow cooking it in a crock pot allows the meat to get melt-in-your-mouth tender without losing moisture.
    When I get through ladeling the barbecue sauce over the cooked pork, allow it another few hours to absorb and retain all of that magical wonderfulness, your concerns about “boiling” meat will go out the damn window.
    Best pork barbecue you’ll ever taste, without question. All you need is an ice cold beer (I make it a little spicy) and a dill pickle on the side.
    Look the fuck out… I’m starting to slobber already.
    we’re making a batch for your visit, so don’t wear anything that won’t look good in barbecue sauce… like one of those Boehner Orange Tehass jerseys you muscaleros wear down there…

    Bring some Carta Blanca in your trunk, it’s a tough find up here, too.

  2. Squat. OK, I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt for one reason, and that reason alone. I was driving through the mountains up near Dalonaga, Georgia many years ago and saw a sign that said, “Bolt P-nuts Ahade”[.] Swear to God. Ever curious, we stopped the car to discover a three-toothed backwoodsman with an old oil drum sitting on rocks over a wood fire.

    Nasty-assed water the color of sewer sludge steamed and boiled inside. The man waved a cardboard fan to move the steam and I could see whole peanuts roiling around.

    “Fithy-thense,” he said, and held up a partial sheet of newsprint rolled into a cone.

    “What the fuck,” my response. I paid him two quarters and he dredged some nuts from the water with a piece of rusty chicken wire that had been folder over itself and had a handle fashioned to make it a ladle. He shook the excess water from the nuts by banging the wire ladle on the side of the barrel. Nuts into paper cone and we’re off.

    The wife at the time smell the little package and said, “Smells like salty water and something sweet. Here, you taste one.”

    Dixie was just a puppy and travelling in the back seat. I said, “Let the Dix try one first. If it doesn’t kill her in ten minutes, I’ll try one.”

    Dixie told me to go fuck myself, but she ate one anyway. “Mmmm, maybe I should try another.”

    Anyway, turns out I love boiled peanuts, but I forgot to ask what Ahade was.

    But boiled pork just don’t sound right

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