I’m Not Just Here For The Food

Hi, I’m Barry Fig. It’s been a wonderful New Years and I’ve had a great time.  Even though they forced me to wear this outfit.

I just wanted to say a few words, dudes. I used to be a human being too. But somewhere along the way while I was trying to make the world’s biggest cheese doodle, something happened and here I am.  A dog. And now a dog dressed up like a flying pig.

I tried to hang around with everyone at the New Year’s party but they pretty much kept throwing me bits of chicken from their plates and making coo-coo noises at me. I wanted to talk, dudes. I needed some serious communication to happen.

Nobody realized a thing that was sort of important. I’m not just here for the food. Food is great, but it’s only a part of it all. Chicken alone, no matter how great it is, just doesn’t cut it.

I used to like to cook, when I was a real dude. One day this chick showed me a poem that really pissed me off because it was sort of anti-cooking. I couldn’t stand her after that. Even though her legs . . . well, nevermind, dudes.

Here’s the start of the poem.  It must be wearing pink that made me remember it today.

All over America women are burning dinners.

It’s lambchops in Peoria; it’s haddock

in Providence; it’s steak in Chicago;

tofu delight in Big Sur; red

rice and beans in Dallas.

All over America women are burning

food they’re supposed to bring with calico

smile on platters glittering like wax.

It really pissed me off when this chick told me this poem because, well . . . it was like a slap in the face. I like to eat. I like to be cooked for. I can’t imagine anyone not loving to cook for me. Or, I guess – I couldn’t at the time, dudes. It didn’t make sense.

But wearing this pink costume and begging for scraps, and getting the scraps which were pretty damn delicious but nevermind it simply wasn’t what I wanted I wanted to be taken seriously – this poem came to my mind, guys.

What I’m saying is, take me seriously, even though I’m cute and wearing fluffy pink stuff. Talk to me like I was real, like I was one of you.

I’m not just here for the food.
Yours,
Barry Fig
…………………………………………………………………………..

The poem What’s that smell in the kitchen by Marge Piercy can be found in its entirety here on Google books as excerpt from Arlene Voski Akavian’s book Through the Kitchen Window.

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9 thoughts on “I’m Not Just Here For The Food

  1. Barry,

    Take it from me. The Flying Pink Pig is not the disguise to don if you wish to be taken seriously.

    For that matter, either is the last name “fig”.

    Then again, who really wants to be taken, seriously or otherwise.

  2. Dude,
    I appreciate it that you understand this. Some of these things are out of my paws, though, if you know what I mean. If you think a dog’s life is hard try being a fictional character!

    I wish I knew whether or not I’m left-forepawed. I lost the right-left thing when this canine thing happened, man. All I know is high-low, like on tree trunks and close-far away, like with a buried bone or another dog in the area.

    But I do like to get taken – at least for a walk.

    Thanks for checking in, dude. I like your style.
    Barry

  3. Seriously, dude.

    If you became a dog overnight would you bother to shake hands anymore?

    When I want to say hello to someone I like I just jump up and lick their face.

  4. Whoa.

    That’s a little personal, man.

    But like I told you, I don’t know, because I can’t tell left from right anymore. All I can say is that I stand on whatever leg seems best at the moment.

    Once there was like a week or so where I had to use only one leg and not the other because I drank a lot of beer from people’s cups at this party and when I tried to pee afterwards I fell sideways and sort of hurt my leg.

    But whether it was left or right, who knows. It’s all the same to me.

    So I guess you could say I’m a multi-pawed individual.

    I seem to remember being left-handed when I was a real dude, though. You’ve got to be left-handed to be creative enough to come up with ideas like the World’s Biggest Potato Chip . . . and man. I wish I’d just been able to finish making Barry’s Big Doodle.

    How about you, dude? Left-pawed?

  5. Sorry Barry. I didn’t mean to be impertinent.

    Reminds me of the guy who was having his first custom tailored suit made. He was confused when the tailor asked whether he “dressed to the left of the right.” (I’m sure you can figure that out?)

    Anyway, I am sinistral, but more impotantly, I am the owner of a left-handed-flying-pink-pig logo!

  6. Hey.

    I don’t need any bespoke suits I’m glad to say.

    Gotta run – time for my walk.

    I’m glad you’re not the owner of the making-doggies-into-flying-pigs costumes, anyway.

    Later, dude. . . .

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