*Quote by Ben Franklin
It’s an odd ad for the 40s indeed. On one hand, yes, get the mother-in-law out of the kitchen. Let Jim and Pam handle the dishes themselves. But on the other hand, don’t be so rough with Ruby that she loses footing in her swank heels.
Taken out of context, it would appear that the husband was spontaneously vogue-ing, a la 1990. 
But let’s not go there.
We ate quite literally high on the hog today because Labor Day and because BBQ and because America and because after watching over an hour of Senator McCain being eulogized, I felt deeply that it was what he would have wanted (RIP to a national hero).
The wall of our BBQ joint booth was covered with old fruit crate labels (gorgeous, bold color art that I find preferable to almost all modern art). Among the Frisco, Statue, Floyd’s, and Bellboy, was a Piggy Pears. I had to say it aloud.
What’s the pork-pear link? I don’t know. With that basket, it appears that Piggy just came from market. But we all know that in the nursery rhyme, “This little piggy went to market,” that doesn’t mean the piggy is going shopping. That means the piggy is going to BE the market, to BE sliced up at the deli, and eventually fried up and slid aside two sunny side ups. C’est la vie, no?
It bears repeating:
Piggy Pears
Piggy Pears
Piggy Pears
But don’t go overboard.
I Don't Get It 