Pigs at the trough

Pigs get a bad rap; slovenly, large, swinish, piggish, dirty, crude, unkept, boorish, bullish - the English lexicon does pigs more than adequate justice.

But it's not the prized even-toed ungulates glorified in farm life that so much concern me. Rather, it's their less than fleet-footed and not so distant fugly female relations that chagrin me.

Perhaps I've gotten ahead of myself. Allow me to explain;

Finals week for any student is stressful. Distractions abound, as do deadlines. Natural proclivities find many searching for quiet, comfortable study space. Assuming you're lucky enough to find one that doesn't smell too unbearably like microwaved, ass crack chinese cuisine and the odious, unmistakable staleness of miasmal body odor, it's only natural to dig in and settle down.

So when someone noisely engulfs a salad bowl of hummus in under ten minutes you can't help but reach for the mallet that unfortunately still hangs in the garage.

"Oh myyyy god, I'm so posting this one on facebook - just, just because, it's so you, so your new profile pic! ahhhh hahahahahahahaha"

Raskolnikov sought license to kill; I've sought and found, now hand me the taser, a book, a sharp pencil. Anything.

There was Babe, and then Pigs began to appear in Memorial Union, dressed to kill in sweats, uggs and faux-studious glasses, toting the freeze dried bulk section of Costco in blaring, bleeding "Save Darfur" bags, dispensing advice on life, college, politics, Krista's new boob job, and of course, your study habits.

Really, it is Pigs that make a trough, not the other way around. Music blasting (indie import/ boyband no less), tongues wagging, Pigs through and through.

Oh and they'll read this (most likely not, but given that they were a) white, b) "socially-environmentally-ethically-morally-historically-fashionably-sexually aware" and c)excited to "sip jasmine tea beneath cozy covers [I kid you not], they could be trolling the blogosphere right now) and deride my chauvinistic, callous castigation of their feeding hour.

Please, sip your jasmine tea and smolder in your Boston College or Oxford sweats, but don't bother typing or responding, at all.

I mean, you're so obscenely obnoxious there's no need.

Thanks, betch.