I’m posting every day almost.
But I digress.
We don’t so much have ‘closets’ in our farmhouse. In 1912, the clothes stayed on the clothesline until they were needed. Heads of households were too busy fighting dysentery and preparing for the Oregon Trail to store things.
This deficiency has left us no choice but to leave tubs of important stuff in the garage with the pig.
Today, he ate our wedding photos.
Not the real ones, as they are preserved on the Internets, but the ones our friends took with the disposable cameras. Ryan frightening the pretty girls at the reception. Grandpa using the napkins as a fake bra.
Torn photos of me looking unusually tan and smiling at Pyrex and dish towels (at the bridal shower, I assume.) were poking out of piles of hay this morning. Buried deeper, we found a handful of leftover invitations, wedding CDs, cake toppers, etc. What is salvaged is mostly covered in pig manure.
You can imagine the horror of this scene.
If you thought my “It’s our first Christmas and our tree is in the DRIVEWAY,” bit was over the top, the you would have been blown away by “The pictures of our first dance as husband and wife are covered in pig shit,” routine. One for the books, my friends.
For the record, punching a pig in the face hurts you more than it does him.
Some would theorize this is Karma anticipating Thursday. Others would suggest moving wedding paraphernalia indoors and away from farm animals. Both schools of thought are misguided.
We’ll have the last laugh, little piggie, when we see you in hell.
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