Death to pigs


After the plane crash near my office yesterday, the 401 was closed, so the streets handling the overflow were jammed. I caught a ride with my co-worker who is also named Peter and lives a block away from me. We crawled along in bumper-to-bumper traffic for an hour. Frustration built up, as did the level of carbon monoxide entering our lungs.

Finally, we hit the eastbound lanes of the Gardiner Expressway, and we were off and sailing with the windows all the way down and the exhilarating wind in our hair.* We sped by a trailer full of hogs hurtling down the road toward slaughter.

“You’re going down, buddy!” Peter shouted at the snouts sticking out through the ventilation holes.

“You’re on the highway to hell, man!” I hooted.

In retrospect, this was a little mean and probably unnecessary.

*Figuratively speaking. We’re pretty closely shorn.

One Response to “Death to pigs”

  1. 1 The Other Peter

    Cruel? True. But ironically I recently went out on a few dates with a gal who had a pig valve put in her heart whwen she was young. I was just starting to fall hard for her when she told me she wasn’t feeling “that way” about me. Stupid pig heart. I guess the pigs won.

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