Tropical Tuesday Ends In Porcine Vengeance

Let us take a moment of silence to mourn the sudden disappearance of our morning oatmeal toppings. Management stripped our breakfast bare to fund a ridiculous Polynesian immersion experience dreamed up by a twenty-two-year-old activities director. We were forced into a manufactured dietary fiber famine just so corporate could pretend we resided in a lavish island resort.

The dining room became a plastic island nightmare where two exhausted hula dancers shivered under the aggressive air conditioning. We actual paying residents were corralled as a captive audience and promised a majestic roast pig to justify the sudden and tragic loss of our walnuts. Mildred locked her wheelchair brakes in a defensive posture, utterly refusing to acknowledge the inflatable palm trees blocking her tactical approach to the decaf urn.

We formed a shaky queue at four o'clock sharp. Walkers bumped together in a slow, metallic waltz as we waited for the promised feast. We shifted our weight on artificial hips, quietly cursing the delay as the promised centerpiece remained inexplicably trapped in afternoon traffic.

The executive chef finally emerged with the massive hog on a silver platter. He raised his carving knife like a conquering gladiator and plunged it into the thick skin. The dead pig immediately sought revenge as a violent burst of hot, trapped air exploded from its hindquarters. The expulsion sounded exactly like a tuba player falling down a flight of concrete stairs.

The horrific noise echoed through the absolute silence of the dining room. Management tried frantically to pretend the sound was just a festive tropical breeze, plastering terrified smiles on their faces. Arthur at table four simply raised his water glass to the deflated carcass and yelled out a loud request for an encore. That glorious swine provided the only honest entertainment of the entire luau, and we did not even have to leave a tip.