The reason Ron came in alone is because the girl he’d picked up couldn’t use the front door.

We were hammered the day we decided to go Pig Hunting in that tiny college town just outside of Auburn, Alabama.

It was Chad’s idea.

“Pig hunting,” he said proudly at the little townie bar that night on the fourth stop of our last college road trip. “We’re going pig hunting.”

We were on a coast-to-coast road trip the five of us and visiting friends in ten different states. It would be the last big road trip until I graduated. Being from New York, I didn’t like the feel of this small aggie college town in Alabama. I’d seen deliverance.

We all groaned. We’d heard of Pig Hunting before. One of our friends said his father used to do it with his buddies when they were in college.

The idea was to all go out separately and bring back one girl each to the shitty motel we’d rented off the interstate.

Now that sounds great and all, but here’s the catch. To win the contest, Pig Hunting, entailed that you bring home just the goddam nastiest girl you could find. And I mean nasty.

So nasty in fact, that if your girl wasn’t the absolute Pg of them all, then you lost…and if you lost, well, that means you had to boink her.

If your girl WAS just the bottom of the barrel of the night…then you got away Scott free and the loser had to do the deed for you. After he cleaned up from his own pig pumping, of course.

So we all shake on it over a pitcher of Old Mill.

Pig Hunting. We’re going Pig Hunting.

Five hours later I’m the first to make it back to the hotel. I was hammered and trying to get more hammered. The girl I’d met said she was a college student, but if she told me dentistry was her major I wouldn’t have believed it.

She was the typical redneck townie barfly, hair a mess and pink painted nails. She had a tight tube top on and her gut spilled over her wranglers like two flesh colored bags of garbage hanging out of a dumpster. When she laughed, smoke came out her mouth but I hadn’t seen her with a cigarette. I was winning this.

The boys all came back around the same time, we’d synchronized our watches earlier.

When I saw Tom’s midget I thought the whole thing was over. We’d agreed to meet at the Motel Bar across the street and he had to haggle with the bartender to even let her get a drink. She was a sloppy mess that little thing and the thought of her spinning around on me made me want to puke.

Until I saw the Pig Josh brought on.

Proud as can be, Josh walks in the door with one of the biggest women I’ve seen to this day. It was one of those scenes where if it were a movie you’d expect to hear the record skip and every chair in the joint scoot back across the floor. She was a monster. A beer swilling, belly laughing, belching thing that if I figured I’d lost then I’d better find a tow truck if I was going to get this one off of me.

Jack came back empty handed, the chump.

And then came Ron.

At first we thought he’d pulled a Jack and struck out even with a pig in Alabama, something Jack would never let down throughout the whole trip. Well, besides what happened next.

The reason Ron came in alone is because the girl he’d picked up couldn’t use the front door. She had to use the wheelchair ramp.

By this time Jack knew he was the loser. No matter WHAT Ron brought in, he was going to have to either take my toothless NASCAR nasty, Tom’s puffy faced midget, Josh’s mammoth madam, or…this.

When she pushed herself through the side entrance door the place did go silent.

I don’t think it was because what they saw, but more of what they smelled.

This thing was obviously homeless and hadn’t been hosed down in at least a month.

“Where ma’ little stinker at!” It hissed as it scooted itself across the peanut shelled floor in it’s tattered wheelchair with one wheel squeaking loudly.

“Who gonna give momma her caaaandy,” it said and laughed, yellow crumbling teeth, wrinkly black skin the color of a malignant tumor.

Ron put his arm around her drunkenly.

“Ladies,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Precious.” Precious banged her wrists together and cackled.

“Buy me a drink, boy!” she said and that’s when Jack hit the floor. He was on his feet and running across the interstate faster than I’d ever seen.

Later on it would take us nearly an hour and a spare key from the front desk to get him to open the motel door.

In the end we decided to call it a wash.

Pig Hunting wasn’t as fun as we’d thought it would be, especially when there’s really no winning at all.

Jack did drive the rest of the trip though, he wasn't getting out of it with nothing.