Growing up, I heard a lot of advertising pitches for foods.
Pork was the other white meat.
Beef was what was for dinner.
And it wasn’t any ordinary egg, but the incredible edible egg.
Sadly, the rutabaga growers collective didn’t have much of an advertising budget, so my grandfather made us run up and down the aisles of the grocery store shouting EAT SOME GOD DAMN RUTABAGAS!
What? Was he a rutabaga farmer?
No. And he didn’t work for the collective, either.
He was just a sick old man who hated kids.
And rutabagas, now that I think of it.