“It’s not an actual pigskin, you know.”
“The football. Well, the American football.”
Armen sighed, flicking his finger and casting another spell to start the potatoes mashing themselves. “And what does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, at least they’re not killing pigs.” Chester waved the knife in his hand absent-mindedly, entirely ignoring the steaming turkey in front of him.
“Yes,” Armen noted dryly. “To hell with the cows they’re killing for the leather, at least the pigs are unscathed.”
Chester nodded sagely. “Pigs are smarter, y’know. And more than slightly magical.”
“Yes, but cows can sing.”