Luther DooLittle and his lifelong pal Lamar Beefeater had whiled away the better part of the lazy afternoon earnestly toiling on the weedy banks of Grandpa DooLittle's farm pond in a fruitless endeavor to entice any one of the enormous catfish that dwelt therein to latch onto barbed, trebled hooks laden with delectably alluring chicken livers ... to their utter dismay, the cliquish creatures merely hovered near the squelchy bottom of the pool while staring contemptuously, without as much as a flinch, at the tempting morsels lying within half-a-foot of their whiskered noses with no present intentions of grabbing hold ... frustrated, tired and hungry ... and nearly consumed alive by merciless and rapacious "skeeters" ... Luther and Lamar determined their demonstrable failure due to it being just "too danged hot and humidified" ... not a day conducive to the successful angling of big cats, thus they eventually retrieved their fishing lines and removed the rancid bait from their hooks, then flung the offensive globs, along with that which remained in a plastic container, directly into the pond right where those ol' catfish were patiently abiding ... suddenly ... unexpectedly ... that placid water at once became sorely troubled as it commenced to roiling violently about as if being pelted by thousands of angry hailstones from the heavens above as those catfish fell upon those discarded chicken livers forthwith devouring every last one of them in a matter of seconds while leaving nary a fragment ... the water then fell back into its previous state of tranquility ... the boys shrugged their shoulders as they looked at each other in amazement and disbelief at the outright audacity of those collusive brutes, then dejectedly hung their heads as they sauntered off towards Grandpa & Grandma DooLittle's place in hopes of an offer to remain for supper--which always boasted mouth-watering vittles renowned for their general specialness all throughout those parts.
As Luther & Lamar approached the DooLittles' gate, Grandpa was sitting on the front porch in his hickory rocker patiently awaiting Grandma's beckon to supper ... the boys made sure Grandpa would notice their passage by each slowly kicking empty, clanking tin cans along the gravel lane ... although Grandpa had been listening to the nettlesome racket long before the young band came into sight round the bend, of which the aged and intended target was well aware of the conniving juveniles' ulterior motives and reasoning ... thus Grandpa DooLittle cheerfully summoned the clattery boys' attention with a wave and a "haw men" ... then he graciously interpellated as to their status as potential dinner guests for the evening ... with a postiche boggle the calculating duo at once halted , as if genuinely taken aback by the sudden presence of the old man ... without hesitation both boys replied in unison that they "had grand places to go and important things to do"--but indicated that the aforesaid impending affairs might be postponed lest the risk of appearing ill-mannered and less than neighborly should befall them--they therefore humbly accepted Grandpa's kind invitation ... Lamar Beefeater then presumptuously enquired of the generous host as to the substance of the menu ... ol' Grandpa hungrily replied "well fellers, I reckon Grandma's a fixin' collard greens, black eye peas, macaroni & cheese, corn bread and warm nanner puddin' along with sweet tea to down'r all with" and after peering around in all directions, Grandpa carefully added amid a whisper "and pan-roasted BP!" ... the boys gazed at each other and then at Grandpa with a tinge of befuddlement, then Luther wondered aloud "what the heck is BP Gramps?" ... the response was downright astounding "you see that Shakespearian Mule a standin' right over there? ... well he's awful peculiar and tenderhearted ... and can't bare to witness neither the harm nor demise of any of his feller critters, neither domestic nor wild ... why when Grandma wrings the head off'n a Sunday chicken I have to walk that mule way up into the apple orchard out of sight and sound of the requisite deed ... and considerin' the fact that he understands words better'n most school educated folks, I am obligated to use initials of persons, places and things at times so as not to injure his brittle psychological constitution ... so we're a havin' pan-roasted BP is all I can say! ... now for those of you unfamiliar with the "Shakepearian Mule"--you may introduce yourself to the august beast here ... now back to the story at hand, which took place long before the unfortunate occurrences set forth in the aforementioned story ...
Grandma DooLittle proudly rang the dinner bell, and as the boys followed Grandpa inside, they hurriedly and curiously perused the barnyard in search of some edible creature what might carry the initials of "BP" ... tweren't anything beef ... tweren't anything poultry ... but there in the hog pen trotted about a dozen or so energetic and squealing Baby Piglets ... pan-roasted Baby Piglet! ... a delicacy indeed amongst many worldly cultures ... the boys couldn't wait to dig in, and after all were seated at the dinner table and Grandpa DooLittle concluded the saying of Grace the famished pair did just that, ravenously engorging themselves with the delicious fare, especially the fragrant and scrumptuous "BP" ... stuffed nearly beyond capacity, and after determining that the "Shakespearian Mule" was nowhere within earshot, Lester DooLittle unabashedly announced with a satisfied yawn that he had just dined on undoubtedly the finest pan-roasted baby piglet that ever had the pleasure of sliding down his slippery gullet and filling his craw! ... at which Grandma DooLittle nearly inhaled a swaller of her sweet tea before interjecting "oh you poor, simple child ... that there weren't no pan-roasted baby pig ... that there were pan-roasted Boar Possum!!"
--sja
