This weekend, Bwog received a photo of St. A’s roasting a full lamb on a spit. Immediately there were questions: Where did this lamb come from? how did it get to a riverside drive mansion? who rotisseries lamb? Wanting more details on the mystery, staff writer and belligerent vegetarian (who sometimes eats duck) gets the inside scoop from the most infamous animal on campus.
I just keep going back to that photo. Do you know how embarrassing it is to be portrayed like that for the whole campus to see? If you were to tell me last week that I would be rotating on a grill at a Riverside Drive townhouse cookout, I’d call you insane. But here we are. Let me give you some context because I assure you–I am NOT that kind of lamb.
So I’m just sleeping on a farm one day, dreaming of some nice daffodil-filled fields when I feel these large hands behind me. Next thing you know I’m on a bus headed to the big city. At this point, I think I’m getting my big break. I mean, have you seen Babe in the Big City?
My naivete aside, I’m now just a tad bit confused. What the hell am I doing chilling–literally–in a Midtown freezer? So imagine my surprise when I get picked up by some nice-looking college boys. I didn’t see their face, but their shoes looked pretty shiny so I figured things could only get better going home with some handsome boys like that. But then I start hearing them try and bargain. Excuse me? You’re wearing Gucci slippers and you’re trying to get a deal on a prized lamb like me?
Even if I got over that, there were some other red flags. An Uber SUV pulls up and I think, they sprung for an Escalade, maybe I should give them a second chance. But then, I get thrown into the trunk of the car like some sort of animal. I was shocked the driver didn’t say anything–he just let it happen. We get out of the car and after some commotion and drunken banter, I find myself on a porch with beer cans and faster than you can say “Phillips Exeter Academy,” I’m rotating on a spit. Did they take into consideration that I have severe motion sickness? No. They stood there gawking like I was something to eat.
But then things got worse. I thought at the very least, I could trust these kids. I wake up with a massive hangover and realize there are photos of me all over the internet! People called me a pig. A PIG. Can you imagine my horror? My MOTHER reads Bwog, and there I am, butt naked and rotating on a grill. If I was going to go viral, I would prefer not to be plastered all over the internet in my most vulnerable state. But anyway, after this whole ordeal, I have one piece of advice: never trust a pair of bougie loafers in a butcher.