6/10/05a

10:17 a.m. I am sitting outside of the "church". It's in a strip mall in a run down part of town and has a hand-painted sign up front. I am about to get out and take a look inside when I get a call from Stinky Jimmy, my boss. He tells me that Corporate has approved my travel request and I'm going to Puerto Rico in a couple of weeks. Hot dog! Palm trees and white sandy beaches. Tropical sunsets. I hope to bring home a souvenir or two. Maybe a shell necklace or a Cabana Boy.

I pick up a bag of pork rinds from the gas station. People in Texas eat pork rinds, so I figure I will explore the local cuisine. I take a bite. Hmm. Tastes like deep fried bacon flavored styrofoam. I like it! But then I look at the ingredients, which consist of pig skins and salt. Pig skins. I look at my pork rind. I envision pig skin, which I am pretty sure doesn't resemble this spongy little thing I'm holding in my hand.

Having a good imagination is sometimes a bad thing. I think of a vat full of boiling water and pig skins. I think of the "rendered" gunk that floats to the top of the vat. I think of some guy skimming it off the top with a swimming pool skimmer. I think if him slapping it on a conveyor belt that takes it to a vat of boiling oil. Rendered pig skin gunk is then deep fried and skimmed off the oil. It is slapped back on a conveyor belt where it is salted and dumped into bags.

I decide that pork rinds are the stuff of horror flicks. Horror flicks for pigs, that is. I spit out the one I'm eating and decide that I will stick to Ding Dongs and Cheetos.