Mostly rambles, few brambles
It hadn’t been your intention, you say, when the words had left your lips, unspooling out in front of you, never to be unsaid and never to be left unassociated from your target.
You maintain that you are a good person and in that moment you had acted appropriately while, possibly, not comprehending your own power.
The room of one-hundred-and-fifty wedding attendees, your closest friends and family, had craned their necks and collectively imbibed the oafish, romping guest. Their collectives sides had split; their mouthfuls of liquids had been spewed; their knees and thighs had become so pinkened by slaps. Everyone had let their brains relish a comparison so apt it could never be unstuck from your college roommate’s husband, who was generally insufferable.
Lines had been clear—good and bad, hero and villain, beautiful and unworthy of love. From your vantage point, it had been impossible to ignore the hulking giant, seemingly sculpted from vats of mashed potatoes and cellulite, bounding atop a trembling table. You had stepped over and the words had flowed so effortlessly as one song had faded out, “Get the fuck down, Porky Pig.” His gyrating ceased, his face fell flat, and all of his remaining energy dissipated right then. The room’s gaze weighed heavy on him, and even his meaty hams could barely support it. He stepped down, solemn, as the wave of laugher crashed over the party, choking out the first few bars of “The Humpty Dance.” Dessert had already been served, but the guests had left plenty of room for just deserts.
It was impossible to reconstruct precisely what had gone through your mind at that moment. You knew now and you knew then that “Porky Pig” wasn’t chosen because of any obesity bias, but rather because you needed his attention promptly and, also, because he was stammering a lot and not wearing any pants.
Look, you tell her, you know you aren’t harboring any “beefy prejudice.” No one needs to look further than the wedding guests’ average BMI, the event’s pro-buffet agenda, and the reinforced dance floor you had to procure. If you didn’t care, you bark back as you feel your own blood pressure rising, why would you be taking time away from your own honeymoon and missing the Mid-Afternoon Crepe Party Reprise to shell out nearly eight dollars for this phone call in Carnival Coin?
It’s not your fault if her husband had chosen to interpret your words in the most personally hurtful way possible. And it isn’t your fault as to what had been lampooned later on Facebook, Instagram, and Jimmy Kimmel Live! Her husband, ultimately, had been the one who was dancing obnoxiously and he had been the one who had settled on wearing a rumpled blue suit coat and red bowtie. Though, you suppose he could have blamed his parents for those pointy, pig-like ears; those have done him no favors—probably ever—unless possibly hearing sharper noises more clearly.
You give your friend your condolences about her spouse’s sadness spiral and his plans to overdose on pizza, but you maintain that you will not apologize or feel guilty for saving your own party. And, also, you state, you really need to get off the phone, as you do need to change before the Lido Deck’s Salute to Cheers.
You tell her that you aren’t a lawyer, though if her ambulance-chasing father-in-law wants to bring this to court on defamation charges you will abide. It might be fun to have a second, new audience to amuse with your anecdote.
Annoyed at all the Carnival Coin you’ve now wasted only to be threatened with legal action, “Hey, you know what,” you say, feeling your voice touch a malicious pitch not even used for the original insult, “I do hope this goes to court so it can get laughed out. I want that judge to dismiss this hard. Bang her gavel with a smirk across her honorable face and deliver a spot-on, stammer-y, ‘That’s all, folks.’”
You tell her that you don’t know who has her husband’s pants. You don’t care if they were from Express.