The essence of man

I close my office door with the Tupperware clenched tightly in my fist. My mouth is salivating and my mandibles are quivering with anticipation. I sit down at my desk and clear it of all important work-related documents. I lay out the necessary accoutrements. . . a plate. Today, I have no use for napkins or cutlery. Behind closed doors I am a savage. When dining solo, I refuse to adhere to what I consider a rigid dining etiquette. Fuck the knife, fuck the fork, and fuck you spoon. I am going to devour this dish with my bare hands. And the dish I'm about to engage lends itself to this Neanderthal-style of consumption. That's right, I'm talking about ribs.

I cooked the ribs last night over a charcoal grill. Thick, juicy meat of swine; lambasted with sweet and tangy barbecue sauce, smoked to perfection. I grab one end of the rack and tear off my first section. It did not tear easy. It required a man's effort. I sprayed barbecue sauce all over the place when the sinewy flesh finally ripped apart. Tendon getting stuck between my teeth. I made sure I got every last succulent bite, leaving nothing behind but bone. I stared at this piece of bone; the ribs are what protect the heart, whose beat fuels the fire of life. This rib protected a pig's heart and now that rib was on my desk, the meat in my belly. This realization fueled my already ravenous appetite. I grab the next section with my hands, eating continuously until there was nothing but a pile of clean, white, bones at my desk. Bone. In a morbidly curious fascination, I lay the bones out, making a faux hog skeleton. I try to imagine the pig who gave his life to satisfy my mid-day feeding. I name the rib bones Wilbur, after the valiant little piglet in Charlotte's Web. Feeling it would be wrong to haphazardly abandon Wilbur's life force in the trashcan, I place the bones carefully in my drawer. In a moment of waning testosterone I shall suck on them for a boost, rejuvenating my manhood.