Oh, Shelfpig. You are one of the great constants in my life, like shell art, like high school oil paintings, like the angry glares from Annette, who always seems to be straightening the brick-a-broke section when I’m innocently taking photos of a mutant Virgin Mary. I do not understand you. I do not WANT to understand you, that might take away the magic. But I admire your good cheer, and your fine variety of colors.
My current theory–and as I said, I do NOT want to be disillusioned of this–is that somehow, they ward off evil, through their extreme cuteness. That at some point, there was an army of demons, or Europeans, or the Black Death, and a small population in Mexico, maybe CoyoacÃ¡n or Tlalpujahua or something, was spared because of their pigs’ knowing, sidelong glances, or they were able to survive the Starving Times because they’d hidden their porklings under large daisies. Now, every spring, each family paints their own Shelfpig, and in a spirit of great pomp and ceremony, donates it to Goodwill.
I love my theory. And I love Shelfpig.
What dimples these pigs have. “I may be full of bacon, but if you eat me, you’ll never see these cute cheeks again! You can only enjoy ham once, but let me live and you can see these rosy little dimples every morning. Every morning! Think of it!”
Erk. On her–or him, I don’t know if Shelfpigs are gender-coded by color–the dimples aren’t working for me. They look more like blemishes, and the nose has a sort of “I lost my rag so let me polish your shoes with my nose, sir” thing happening. Maybe these are better appreciated from a distance. But look! She’s looking up at you! Shelfpig LOVES you, and respects you, too. Buy Shelfpig. It may be all the respect you get this week…and maybe it’s still enough.
Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin