I get into Indianapolis on Friday night. There are some boxes of books waiting for me at the MARIOtt, which is my cheeky, okay-I-never-actually-called-it-that name for where I'm staying. "I think there's...there might be a pig for me also."
The clerk looks up. She gives me the correct look such a statement should receive. "Huh?"
"It's a ceramic pig. Someone dropped it off last week for me."
She pretends to look around. "There's no pig here." I ask again, and she opens up a wardrobe, to reveal empty shelves and no pig. I should add at this point that, as a huge Parks and Rec fan, it's heartening to be in Indiana and receive the exact same treatment as April Ludgate would give me. Seriously, every thing the clerk says is in the "Ugh, God, I hate my life" tone of voice.
I check again the next day: no pig. Same clerk. Still hasn't found it. She tells me there has never been a pig here. I have to believe her. But I want my pig.
The last morning, before I check out, I ask the manager if he knows of a pig. He says nothing, but walks over to a distant cabinet, opens it up, and takes out six-pack box. JEFF RYAN: PIG is written on it. I begin to suspect that the pig is inside the box.
Turns out it is! I bring it back to my room, unwrap it...and it's hideous. Horrifying. My kids are scared of it. Not because it's at all badly done but because the glazes and color choices and craftsmanship truly make this cookie jar-sized piggy bank looks like a cold slaughtered dead fetal pig. Like, if you touched it you'd feel whisker nubs.
I'm not sure what I'll do with it -- which by the way, I won for donating to the Mario Marathon. So far it's still in the six-pack box. I could--
Oh. Oh wow. I think I just had the perfect idea. And it's related to video games, to boot!
All I need is a cardinal and a slingshot.
