“My life’s ambition is merely this,” said Portly Producer, midway through a Port Authority Pub Crawl, which was somehow worse than the Literary Man had expected. “To shoot a feral pig with a sniper rifle from a moving helicopter at night. I’m not kidding. They’ve already legalized it in Texas”
“Yes, but why?” the Literary Man foolishly wondered.
“This is a serious agricultural issue down there. And the most obvious solution is Pork Chopping,” the Portly Producer continued, ordering another round of light beers at the third Blarney Stone they had visited that night. “The shooter is called the Pork Chopper. The activity — as I’ve already explained to you — is called Pork Chopping. The result of Pork Chopping, for me, is the severed head of a feral swine on the wall of my home. The result of Pork Chopping for Texan farmers is having more crops. The result of Pork Chopping, for the feral swine, is getting Pork Chopped!”
Amazingly enough, there were actually some tenable (though totally insane) arguments for the agricultural necessity of Pork Chopping. Over the last few weeks — well, years really — the Portly Producer had been having some problems with his weight. But shooting a feral swine with a sniper rifle from a moving helicopter at night? Was nothing sacred anymore?