Papi and I have a shared employer in common named Mr. O.
Mr. O enjoys referring to Papi as "Boss" on a daily basis.
"Boss" as in Boss Hogg from The Dukes Of Hazzard.
"Boss" as in "Hey Boss! Will you go and collect subscription money from this deadbeat customer in the dark of night even though he has NRA stickers pasted all over his rusted-out El Camino?"
Mr. O constantly calls me "Babe."
"Babe" as in the wee little sheep-herding piggie in the movie of the same name. Apparently I'm just like a pig in the city.
"Babe" as in "What's going on Babe? How much longer will you allow me to work you and your man to death for an itty-bitty paycheck that wouldn't even buy a barrel of pickled pigs feet on the black market?"
From my own perspective, this just further solidifies that Papi and I were meant to be together. We're a matched set, we are. Pig and Pig oinking happily into the sunset with our hooves intertwined. This goes a long way towards explaining why our house is such a Pig Pen all the time. And really I can't yell at the mini-Infidels for acting like little piglets anymore, can I? After all, it's certainly not their fault that they're a pork by-product.
I guess Pork:The Other White Meat only applies to me since my Papi is a striking shade of yummy mocha. :(
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