- Joined
- Oct 24, 2002
- Messages
- 59
I just read another thread about pigs and knives and it reminded me of something that happened earlier this summer. You see Marty and I are real barbecue aficionados, and together with another friend of ours, Stevo, we own a genuine Georgia barbecue pit, you know, one of those big smokers on a trailer you can haul around to barbecue events and such. We even named the contraption. One night Marty, his wife Prudence, Stevo and I were at the river cabin drinking beer and swapping lies when it occurred to us that our rig was in need of a name. Since its was manufactured in Lahunta, Georgia, we felt it only right that we should give it a proper southern name. As we quaffed more than a few Alaska Ambers, we began throwing names out. I offered up a few like Jimmy Crow and Uncle Remus, but as usual Prudence had a problem with my contributions and nixed them outright.
Kliff, you moron, those names carry racist connotations, she said wagging that finger she always waves at me, you know the middle one.
Well, the dang thing is black, I pointed out. She just rolled her eyes.
Of course when Marty thought up Elvis, and Stevo chimed in with Bubba, and Prudence added Faulkner, they figured they had it nailed. Maybe it was the sad look I had on my face, or the fact that I sprayed them with the contents of my beer bottle and waved my RTAK around that finally made them listen to me, but they gave in and said, Okay, Kliffy, what do you think it should be called.
Zug.
They just stared at me for a second, a look on their faces like theyd just eaten a bug, or partially regurgitated some of their beer. Then they laughed and Prudence said, You know, thats not so bad. And that is how our barbecue pit became known as Elvis Bubba Faulkner aka Zug.
Now Zug is a true wood burner, no propane tanks in this operation, and like all true wood smokers, especially a large one like this, it hungered for pork, large slabs of spare ribs and tenderloin and country style ribs. But what it really wanted was a whole pig. In fact Zug said so, or at least Stevo speaking for Zug pointed this out to the rest us.
Enough with these damn spare ribs, I want to cook a whole pig in there.
At first the rest of us resisted. What are we going to do with a whole pig after we cook it? Marty asked. Despite some of our past misadventures, Marty can display a pragmatic side sometimes.
Well have us a pig eating party, Stevo responded, and invite all our friends.
What friends? Prudence asked, ever the wet blanket. Since Jim Bowie there, she pointed in my direction again with that same finger, and my knuckleheaded husband started doing knife tests we dont have many friends left anymore.
Now wait a second there, Honeybunch, Marty said, you have no reason to start calling me names.
While Prudence and Marty discussed their relationship in greater and greater detail and at louder and louder volumes using ever more colorful phrases to describe their affection for one another, I suddenly had a great idea.
Hey, I said. HEY! I had to speak a little louder to get their attention. I know what we can do.
Marty and Prudence ended their conversation, but not before Marty said something about finishing it later, and Prudence accidentally kneed him in the groin while mumbling, I think its over now, ha.
Stevo wandered back over from tree he had been hiding behind and said, Okay, whats up Kliffy?
Well, you know how I like to do knife tests, and since we have a number of knives we use in our barbecuing, Id like to use one to do the pig myself.
You mean, dress the pig? Stevo asked innocently.
No, Marty answered. He means DO the pig.
Oh, my God! Prudence erupted. You dont mean what I think you mean?
Yes, I nodded. Marty knows me too well.
What? Stevo asked, looking at each of us for an answer.
The idiot wants to kill a pig with a knife, Prudence said. Well, this is a disaster waiting to happen and I will have nothing to do with it. She turned heel and walked off.
Stevo wasnt sure about it. I dont know Kliffy. Pigs are tough animals and besides someone might get upset and call the SPCA or something.
This did not phase Marty though. This sounds like a great idea, Kliff. What do you have in mind?
We set a date for the party and Stevo, Marty and I went out to find ourselves a pig. We calculated that we could fit about a 100 lb hog in Zug. We soon located a farmer in the Sterling area who raised pigs for slaughter either he slaughtered them for you, or supervised while you slaughtered your own. He had never sold a live pig to someone who wanted to take it somewhere else to kill and slaughter. Now let me get this straight, the old geezer asked, you are going to take this pig, set it free, run it down and kill it with a knife?
Yes, I answered matter-of-factly.
After we picked the old guy up from where he had fallen in a spasm of uncontrolled laughter, he just shook his head and said, Man, pigs are fast and they are mean. Unless you recently won the 100 meter dash in the Olympics or something, you aint gonna catch no pig, specially if youre a chasing it with a knife. He fell down again. I tell you, I failed to see the humor.
The day of the party, Marty and I picked up the pig and carried it in the back of Martys pickup, which did not turn out in Martys favor. Who knew pig crap smelled like that. Anyway, when we got to Martys place by the Kenai river, I compromised a bit, despite my belief that I could run it down, by tying the pig to a length of rope attached to a stake driven deeply into the ground in the middle of a clearing near the cabin. The pig did not appear comfortable at all. He kept pulling at the rope and making false charges in my general direction while snorting like a, well, like a pig.
In retrospect I can be thankful for a couple of things. First, the pig needed to be dispatched well before the actual party started because it would take several hours to slow cook in the smoker. This meant the events that unfolded did so in the absence of innocent bystanders who might have been traumatized or otherwise hurt. And it offered enough time to enact Plan B when Plan A did not go well.
It started off okay. I had selected a 10 ½ inch Bill Siegle camp knife done up in 5160 as my pig sticker. This knife is a good all around chore knife and its long blade promised good penetration and a quick death for our intended meal. I should have recalled the old farmers words (and laughter) and I should have been suspicious when I approached the pig with the knife and it grunted and bounded as far away from me as the rope around its neck would allow.
Marty was standing near me with a digital movie camera, trying to capture my knife test for prosperity. Stevo stood a little further back, but still close enough to watch the proceedings and not miss any of the action. It was early in the day, but I had decided to drink a few beers to bolster my nerve and steady my stabbing hand. I should have remembered Martys and my prior test posted here entitled, Do not drink and knife. Oh, well, we all make mistakes occasionally.
Since it was obvious the pig was not going to come to me, I knew I needed to go after it. With alcohol induced courage, I screamed Die pig and rushed across the clearing, knife raised and ready. Somehow in my haste I forgot about the stake in the middle of the clearing. It caught my right foot and upended me like a Chinese acrobat, albeit one lacking any acrobatic ability. The next thing I knew, I lay sprawled at the feet of a very excited and angry hog. My knife had become dislodged from my hand and lay several feet away. I looked at the knife, and I swear, the pig looked at the knife and then we looked at each other. I moved first, going for the knife. The pig did the same, and man was that farmer right, he was fast. He would have beat me to the blade too, if not for the fact that Marty had stepped in closer with his camera to capture my predicament. When he did so, he stopped on top of the rope connecting the pig to the stake. This resulted in two things. It pulled the pig up short allowing me to retrieve the knife, and the sudden jolt on the rope upset Marty and sent him rolling to the ground, entangled in the rope only a few short feet from the pig. While Marty tried to regain his feet, I went after the pig again. The pig decided to change tactics, running away from me and Marty, but because the rope prevented him from retreating in a straight line, the pig was forced to run in a circle around the stake, and Marty, of course.
I did not realize the seriousness of the situation until I had chased the pig around the clearing several times, each time the rope drawing the pig closer to the center of the clearing and further wrapping Marty in the rope's inescapable clutches. I lunged for the crazed hog, hoping to drive my knife between its ribs and into its heart, but it dodged to the left and circled back the other way. When I turned to follow I stumbled into my fallen friend and joined him in a heap on the ground. My knife blade nearly imbedded itself into Martys groin, but fortunately the rope had entangled him in such a manner that his foot covered that area (yeah, dont ask me how someones leg can bend that way), so the point of the knife only jabbed his ankle a little.
Ouch! You just stabbed me you @$&#*ing idiot. Marty yelled, but then his eyes fell upon the pig and he realized the pig was out of rope and had only one tactic left. Hes going to charge us, Kliff. Kill it, kill it!
When I looked up I knew I had but one option. The pigs eyes were blood red and like any trapped animal, it was ready to go down fighting. I withdrew the knife from Martys foot and in one quick motion severed the rope leading to the pig. The animal immediately sensed that the situation had changed and with a grunt and shower of pig **** it sought freedom in the nearby woods, never to be seen by any of us again.
After Stevo untangled us from the rope and tended to Martys minor foot wound, he turned to me and between completely inappropriate guffaws, said, Well, it looks like we move to Plan B.
Whats that? I asked. Stevo stepped over to a cooler he had brought to the cabin. Somehow, knowing you guys, I figured we might need these. He leaned over and pulled a rack of ribs from the cooler. Anybody for spareribs?
You know. I kinda like spare ribs. Besides, I knew I might need a few replacements for my own once Prudence found out I had stabbed Marty again during one of my knife tests. That woman has no scientific curiosity what-so-ever, or a sense of humor.
Kliff, you moron, those names carry racist connotations, she said wagging that finger she always waves at me, you know the middle one.
Well, the dang thing is black, I pointed out. She just rolled her eyes.
Of course when Marty thought up Elvis, and Stevo chimed in with Bubba, and Prudence added Faulkner, they figured they had it nailed. Maybe it was the sad look I had on my face, or the fact that I sprayed them with the contents of my beer bottle and waved my RTAK around that finally made them listen to me, but they gave in and said, Okay, Kliffy, what do you think it should be called.
Zug.
They just stared at me for a second, a look on their faces like theyd just eaten a bug, or partially regurgitated some of their beer. Then they laughed and Prudence said, You know, thats not so bad. And that is how our barbecue pit became known as Elvis Bubba Faulkner aka Zug.
Now Zug is a true wood burner, no propane tanks in this operation, and like all true wood smokers, especially a large one like this, it hungered for pork, large slabs of spare ribs and tenderloin and country style ribs. But what it really wanted was a whole pig. In fact Zug said so, or at least Stevo speaking for Zug pointed this out to the rest us.
Enough with these damn spare ribs, I want to cook a whole pig in there.
At first the rest of us resisted. What are we going to do with a whole pig after we cook it? Marty asked. Despite some of our past misadventures, Marty can display a pragmatic side sometimes.
Well have us a pig eating party, Stevo responded, and invite all our friends.
What friends? Prudence asked, ever the wet blanket. Since Jim Bowie there, she pointed in my direction again with that same finger, and my knuckleheaded husband started doing knife tests we dont have many friends left anymore.
Now wait a second there, Honeybunch, Marty said, you have no reason to start calling me names.
While Prudence and Marty discussed their relationship in greater and greater detail and at louder and louder volumes using ever more colorful phrases to describe their affection for one another, I suddenly had a great idea.
Hey, I said. HEY! I had to speak a little louder to get their attention. I know what we can do.
Marty and Prudence ended their conversation, but not before Marty said something about finishing it later, and Prudence accidentally kneed him in the groin while mumbling, I think its over now, ha.
Stevo wandered back over from tree he had been hiding behind and said, Okay, whats up Kliffy?
Well, you know how I like to do knife tests, and since we have a number of knives we use in our barbecuing, Id like to use one to do the pig myself.
You mean, dress the pig? Stevo asked innocently.
No, Marty answered. He means DO the pig.
Oh, my God! Prudence erupted. You dont mean what I think you mean?
Yes, I nodded. Marty knows me too well.
What? Stevo asked, looking at each of us for an answer.
The idiot wants to kill a pig with a knife, Prudence said. Well, this is a disaster waiting to happen and I will have nothing to do with it. She turned heel and walked off.
Stevo wasnt sure about it. I dont know Kliffy. Pigs are tough animals and besides someone might get upset and call the SPCA or something.
This did not phase Marty though. This sounds like a great idea, Kliff. What do you have in mind?
We set a date for the party and Stevo, Marty and I went out to find ourselves a pig. We calculated that we could fit about a 100 lb hog in Zug. We soon located a farmer in the Sterling area who raised pigs for slaughter either he slaughtered them for you, or supervised while you slaughtered your own. He had never sold a live pig to someone who wanted to take it somewhere else to kill and slaughter. Now let me get this straight, the old geezer asked, you are going to take this pig, set it free, run it down and kill it with a knife?
Yes, I answered matter-of-factly.
After we picked the old guy up from where he had fallen in a spasm of uncontrolled laughter, he just shook his head and said, Man, pigs are fast and they are mean. Unless you recently won the 100 meter dash in the Olympics or something, you aint gonna catch no pig, specially if youre a chasing it with a knife. He fell down again. I tell you, I failed to see the humor.
The day of the party, Marty and I picked up the pig and carried it in the back of Martys pickup, which did not turn out in Martys favor. Who knew pig crap smelled like that. Anyway, when we got to Martys place by the Kenai river, I compromised a bit, despite my belief that I could run it down, by tying the pig to a length of rope attached to a stake driven deeply into the ground in the middle of a clearing near the cabin. The pig did not appear comfortable at all. He kept pulling at the rope and making false charges in my general direction while snorting like a, well, like a pig.
In retrospect I can be thankful for a couple of things. First, the pig needed to be dispatched well before the actual party started because it would take several hours to slow cook in the smoker. This meant the events that unfolded did so in the absence of innocent bystanders who might have been traumatized or otherwise hurt. And it offered enough time to enact Plan B when Plan A did not go well.
It started off okay. I had selected a 10 ½ inch Bill Siegle camp knife done up in 5160 as my pig sticker. This knife is a good all around chore knife and its long blade promised good penetration and a quick death for our intended meal. I should have recalled the old farmers words (and laughter) and I should have been suspicious when I approached the pig with the knife and it grunted and bounded as far away from me as the rope around its neck would allow.
Marty was standing near me with a digital movie camera, trying to capture my knife test for prosperity. Stevo stood a little further back, but still close enough to watch the proceedings and not miss any of the action. It was early in the day, but I had decided to drink a few beers to bolster my nerve and steady my stabbing hand. I should have remembered Martys and my prior test posted here entitled, Do not drink and knife. Oh, well, we all make mistakes occasionally.
Since it was obvious the pig was not going to come to me, I knew I needed to go after it. With alcohol induced courage, I screamed Die pig and rushed across the clearing, knife raised and ready. Somehow in my haste I forgot about the stake in the middle of the clearing. It caught my right foot and upended me like a Chinese acrobat, albeit one lacking any acrobatic ability. The next thing I knew, I lay sprawled at the feet of a very excited and angry hog. My knife had become dislodged from my hand and lay several feet away. I looked at the knife, and I swear, the pig looked at the knife and then we looked at each other. I moved first, going for the knife. The pig did the same, and man was that farmer right, he was fast. He would have beat me to the blade too, if not for the fact that Marty had stepped in closer with his camera to capture my predicament. When he did so, he stopped on top of the rope connecting the pig to the stake. This resulted in two things. It pulled the pig up short allowing me to retrieve the knife, and the sudden jolt on the rope upset Marty and sent him rolling to the ground, entangled in the rope only a few short feet from the pig. While Marty tried to regain his feet, I went after the pig again. The pig decided to change tactics, running away from me and Marty, but because the rope prevented him from retreating in a straight line, the pig was forced to run in a circle around the stake, and Marty, of course.
I did not realize the seriousness of the situation until I had chased the pig around the clearing several times, each time the rope drawing the pig closer to the center of the clearing and further wrapping Marty in the rope's inescapable clutches. I lunged for the crazed hog, hoping to drive my knife between its ribs and into its heart, but it dodged to the left and circled back the other way. When I turned to follow I stumbled into my fallen friend and joined him in a heap on the ground. My knife blade nearly imbedded itself into Martys groin, but fortunately the rope had entangled him in such a manner that his foot covered that area (yeah, dont ask me how someones leg can bend that way), so the point of the knife only jabbed his ankle a little.
Ouch! You just stabbed me you @$&#*ing idiot. Marty yelled, but then his eyes fell upon the pig and he realized the pig was out of rope and had only one tactic left. Hes going to charge us, Kliff. Kill it, kill it!
When I looked up I knew I had but one option. The pigs eyes were blood red and like any trapped animal, it was ready to go down fighting. I withdrew the knife from Martys foot and in one quick motion severed the rope leading to the pig. The animal immediately sensed that the situation had changed and with a grunt and shower of pig **** it sought freedom in the nearby woods, never to be seen by any of us again.
After Stevo untangled us from the rope and tended to Martys minor foot wound, he turned to me and between completely inappropriate guffaws, said, Well, it looks like we move to Plan B.
Whats that? I asked. Stevo stepped over to a cooler he had brought to the cabin. Somehow, knowing you guys, I figured we might need these. He leaned over and pulled a rack of ribs from the cooler. Anybody for spareribs?
You know. I kinda like spare ribs. Besides, I knew I might need a few replacements for my own once Prudence found out I had stabbed Marty again during one of my knife tests. That woman has no scientific curiosity what-so-ever, or a sense of humor.
I'm sure that after reading what you planned, nobody expected for the pig, the knife, and your own skins to emerge (relatively) unscathed.
Unfortunately, one day he went to that farm and instead of dragging the pig out in the courtyard, he went inside the paddock to administrate the regular dose of mace. What he didn't figure out was that the room was pretty small and he also enhaled a bit of the stuff. 
