The weighty thoughts of a pig

By Emory Jones

At the insistence of my wife, Judy, my pet pig Cunningham and I have been spending a lot of time on the porch lately. I think Judy, bless her heart, recognizes the pig and I needed some bonding time. Plus, it gives me and Cunningham time to ponder some of life’s deeper aspects. You know, like the high price of eggs and beef products.

Naturally, we have an unspoken rule to never discuss the high cost of pork. (Say what you want, but I owe him that much.)

The only problem is that Cunningham constantly asks me questions I find hard to answer. For example: if the tomato is really a fruit, is ketchup really a jam?

Yesterday, Cunningham asked me about balloons. What’s their reason for being and things like that. I mean, what purpose do they serve? He made me realize that the balloon is the weirdest thing mankind ever devised. Even taking one to a birthday party is strange when you think about it. I mean, “Happy birthday! Here’s a plastic sack of my breath. Sorry about the onions.”

Party balloons are even worse for a pig. The breath thing, I mean. And eyebrows. I mean, they’re nice and all, but what purpose do they serve? Pigs don’t have eyebrows, and everybody’s okay with that. But when you see a person without eyebrows, we all think that’s strange. That seems weird to Cunningham. Especially after spending time in Hollywood.

Next, he brought up people’s names. I guess it’s different with pigs, but with us, here are two people you just met a few minutes earlier, and they get to pick out a word or two that will identify you for the rest of your days. Something’s not right about that. I mean, I would never pick Emory for a name. I’d have gone with Bob or Joe— nothing over three letters.

Just think of all the time it would save signing stuff. That adds up over a lifetime.

Clapping is another human activity Cunningham questions. And it is a strange business. “Hey, you up there on stage. I like what you just did. Let me bang my hands together to express my delight.” Pigs don’t clap, and that’s one of the things I like best about them.

Cunningham doesn’t get the idea behind Christmas trees. When he asked me why people, for one month every year, chop down a perfectly healthy tree, drag it into the house, and put things on it to make it look like it’s still alive. And, oh, while we’re at it, let’s wrap some boxes in brightly colored paper and stick them under it, too. You can see how that would seem strange to a pig.

Cunningham also ponders why we cook bacon and bake cookies. That makes no sense, yet people do it routinely.

The pig even questions living rooms. What are we supposed to do in the other rooms? And if a person dies in a living room, well, isn’t that a bit ironic?

And if time is money, is an ATM a time machine?

And what about, “The early bird gets the worm?” Every pig knows the best time to catch worms is after dark, so why wouldn’t a late bird get more worms than an early one?

I didn’t even try to answer that one.

Emory Jones grew up in Northeast Georgia’s White County. After a stint in the Air Force, he joined Gold Kist as publications manager. He was the Southeastern editor for Farm Journal Magazine and executive vice president at Freebarin & Company, an Atlanta-based advertising agency. He has written seven books. Emory is known for his humor, love of history and all things Southern. He and his wife, Judy, live on Yonah Mountain near Cleveland, Georgia.