Mike Rowe

Ten years ago, right around this time, I wandered onto a pig farm in North Las Vegas to meet a guy named Bob Combs. As always, I didn’t know the precise nature of what awaited me, which is partly why the ensuing 12 hours were among the most delightfully disgusting and unforgettable I’ve ever experienced. So when I learned that Bob and Janet were pulling up stakes, I must confess I was overcome with a sudden sentimentality for swine. I’ll never forget that massive cooker in Bob’s backyard – a towering, Rube Goldbergian contrivance cobbled together with random parts from Read More