So my roommate (who is henceforth to be known as “Bear”) thought it would be really hilarious to buy something called a “Diet Piggy” (re: oxymoron) and stick it in the minifridge. Oh, how I laughed when, upon opening the door to get a pickle, I found myself berated by squeals and obsense oinking noises. The culprit was a fat, plastic piggy wearing a white wife beater.
Unbelievable. This form of abuse was NOT in the roommate contract, but then again, neither was “Eating all of Ariel’s starcrunches and chocolate Animal Crackers in one sitting.”
I’m sure the pig would make me feel a lot guiltier, but our fridge only contains a jar of pickles (mine) and empty, old water bottles (her’s. You can tell by their collapsed shape, as she likes to scoop them out with her paw and chug them like no other. Must be a Texas thing.) Maybe if we had, say, a double-decker chocolate cake instead of stale water, I’d feel a lot worse about my eating habits, but we don’t, and anyway, if we DID have said cake, it would be eaten in 4.5 seconds.
In addition, after our little frolick to the pig farm two weeks ago, I’m pretty sure the pigs–plastic or not–have it worse than I do. After all, they’re all genetically engineered to have beady eyes, white skin, and lean meat. At least I’m an individual or whatever. And, even though I’m a Jew, it’s not the Holocaust so I won’t be sent to slaughter anytime soon. Therefore, I pity Mr. “Diet Piggy” and hope he finds happiness lurking in the minifridge, just waiting for three AM, when Bear comes lurching in, looking for some dill spears. It’s not a diet control mechanism, but a food burglar alarm. Praise Jesus.
However, I may just have to chuck it out the window anyway.
