Descriptive Essay: Miss Piggy

As I sip my iced raspberry Lipton tea, I am intrigued by my wife’s intricate pink snout, gobbling down her sweet-barbecued pork chops. After 30 years, you’d think your wife would be over going to the same restaurant, The Slaughterhouse, every single year, but not Miss Piggy. Although the name is rather ironic, she demands that we attend this elaborate eatery nonetheless. Walls of glass that overlook blooming bushes of lilac, chandeliers illuminating the room, forks of silver and spoons of gold, this was a restaurant fit for a queen— which is exactly what Miss Piggy was. Our anniversaries seemingly became very routine; a lot of eating that leads up to more eating, and finally, we eat. My wife is, quite literally, a pig. Her beauty was striking, even with barbecue sauce slowly dripping from her lips like the lazy water drops of a closed faucet. Her eyes were hypnotic, sending everyone she made eye contact with into a daze, surrendering themselves to whatever she said. On the other hand, her perfection was intimidating to not only those who knew her from her hundreds of colossal billboards, but to me as well. Why would she settle for me, a simple frog with a funny collar? Overcoming this insecurity was worse than World War II; a never ending battle that was already on its

pork? Agreed,” I babbled, unable to concentrate on Miss Piggy nor organize my thoughts and put them into words. Almost confused as I was, my wife began to question me, asking what I was talking about. I needed to escape, so I sprung out of the cushioned seat, imprinted with my leg marks from sitting so long. I scurried to the men’s restroom so I could hide in the stall, hide from my problems. Pulling the clammy bronze door handle, I entered the spotless room of fragrant flowers and Bath & Body Works Japanese Cherry Blossom soap— truly unexpected for a men’s restroom, but I was grateful nonetheless. To my disgrace, the room was jampacked with men waiting in line for a stall to