Some Pig

What do Elon Musk and hog byproducts have in common?

Are you sure that’s squid?

This is Monday. Yesterday was Sunday.

I gave a lot of thought yesterday morning to the suddenly ubiquitous allegation by right-wingers against all manner of political adversaries. In olden times, lefties were accused simply of being Communists and that was that. But “Commie” evidently is no longer incendiary or scary enough, so now the bleeding-heart snowflakes are otherwise smeared.

As pedophiles.

Pedophiles, for God’s sake. What began six years ago with the insane ramblings of reactionary Pizzagaters against Hillary Clinton and the Democratic National Committee has now become the default slur for owning the libs. For instance, over the weekend, and not for the first time, Elon Musk hurled the accusation at a former Twitter executive. Thus, yesterday morning, I wondered how this calumny could have become so commonplace.

Then, Sunday afternoon, my writing plans for the week took a sharp and sudden turn.

This happened at a Greek restaurant, where eight lovely people (or, to be precise, seven lovely people plus me) gathered to celebrate the memory of a dear family member/friend on the third anniversary of her untimely death. Her name was Lilijana, and she had endless capacity for delight, so I have no doubt whatsoever that she would have been thrilled at one particular spasm of conversation that found its way into the memorial for her splendid life.

It regarded hog assholes.

This wasn’t random, exactly. One of the group was asked if he was a vegan, because another of us had witnessed him not ordering a hamburger in a burger joint. He explained that he just didn’t trust the wholesomeness of fast-food meat. Whereupon another in our party chimed in with, “You know, when you order calamari, what you’re probably eating is pig rectum.”

Pig rectum! Well, you don’t say.

Nobody actually said, “Well, you don’t say.” But 14 eyes were instantaneously riveted on the speaker, who added, by way of documentation, “I heard it on NPR.”

What followed was the explanation for substituting breaded pig rectum for breaded squid tentacles. Same dense texture, same natural rings. And it’s much cheaper to shop at the back door of an Iowa slaughterhouse than some Mediterranean seaport for the day’s fresh catch.

News such as this tends to redirect one’s thoughts, at least briefly, from the treasure that was Lilijana to, “How much pig rectum have I, in my life, unwittingly consumed?” (I shall provide an answer to that question forthwith.)

So many thoughts, some conflicting, rush through a fellow’s head:

1) That’s deceptive. I’ve heard of marketing monkfish as lobster and random trash fish as Chilean Sea Bass, but what kind of asshole serves you assholes?

2) All of the calamari I’ve ever had was pretty tasty, so what’s the difference? In East Asia, they eat animal protein that you can’t order at Applebee's but is quite popular in, say, South Korea — braised spinal cord, to cite one mouthwatering example. Hell, in Indiana, USA (pork) brain sandwiches are a diner staple. Once, in Rosslyn, Virginia, I dined at a restaurant specializing in authentic Chinese cuisine. I ordered duck feet. (Poor choice, by the way.) And, by the way by the way, what you already eat in sausage, liverwurst, scrapple, hot dogs and so on is a fully-disclosed recipe of pork “byproducts” — often rectum or rectum-adjacent — so what’s the fuss about?

3) Furthermore, how snobby can you be about pig rectums when you have intentionally ordered squid tentacles? Squid tentacles! Spinal cord of the sea. Do you feel me?

4) Rectum-a-mari. I’m gonna heave. I’m gonna heave right now.

There was actually a fifth thought. To wit: Wait. Pig rectum. This sounds familiar.

Because it was. As you know, I am the oldest living American, so my memory is often fuzzy. But by the time I’d arrived home, it had all come back to me.

Back in 2013, producer Ben Calhoun of This American Life did a 20-minute piece about tracking down a rumor on this very topic: the supposed misrepresentation of what pork producers call “bung” in a conspiracy yielding undisclosed artificial calamari. It was an absolutely exhaustive and majestic piece of reporting, based on a fifth-hand rumor that had been emailed to the show. If you do nothing else today, click that link and hear for yourself how Calhoun vetted the innuendo and, you might say, got to the bottom of it.

He used every protocol of investigative reporting, but in the end his piece was not an expose; it was a paean. Not Upton Sinclair but Horatio Alger; not wretched asshole but Ragged Dick. A tale not of fraud, but of redemption — the My Man Godfrey of rectum journalism. Lowly body part elevated to cherished cuisine.

I don’t wish to spoil his enterprising storytelling, nor his delicious denouement, except to say he was unable to confirm even a single instance of calamari switcheroo in a restaurant anywhere in the world. Yet the legend persists. Why? Why is some not insignificant percentage of the public prepared to believe something so outlandish?

And with that question, as suddenly as my thoughts had been diverted by luncheon conversation about pig rectum, I lurched back to where my day’s musings had started: Elon Musk, Marjorie Taylor Greene, QAnon, MAGA and pedophilia. Because they are the same phenomenon: taking our most primal fears and imputing them to the people we simply do not trust, whether it’s the food industry or the woke left.

You will believe what you are predisposed to believe, no matter how nauseating or outlandish, not only because it validates your political worldview but because it gives shape to your worst fears. The name for this syndrome is Bogeyphobia: irrational terror about some unseen malign force. It’s by definition a fearful condition. But if you can isolate and identify the threat, via cognitive behavioral therapy or, you know, reckless accusation, you can feel more protected. It is some version of mental disorder and just plain human nature now fully weaponized by the political right.

Where I’m heading is here: Between calamari myth and Pizzagate, the common denominator is assholes.

And now I’m smiling. Because these are just the sort of observations that would emerge in conversation with dearest Lilijana, whose humor and warmth were exceeded only by her gimlet-eyed skepticism. I miss her so, and can’t help but think her spirit has influenced these musings. Meanwhile, next time I order calamari, I’ll ask first to see the squid.