Hemingwayesque Eating

I feel like a portly and bearded Hemingway in a bulky fisherman's sweater after a bullfight when I ingest barbecued pork. A bona fide man clutches the ribs with his creased and hard-working hands, sinks his incisors deep into the roasted flesh, and with a quick forty-five degree snap of his head, shreds the dead animal’s brawn from its bone. And like the full-bellied lion who rests in the verdant shade with gazelle blood dripping from his lips, the man leans back in his chair, rub his enlarged stomach, while not realizing that he’s wearing a moustache of barbecue sauce.