Monday, November 18, 2013
These Little Piggies
Warning: contains vileness.
If you can touch type, you’re fortunate indeed.
All you need to do is keep your eyes on the screen and unfold the contents of your brain directly into pixels while the fingers take care of themselves.
If you’re like me, however, you have to look at your fingers all the time and make sure every letter on the keyboard is labelled.
Sad to say, but for Whirly Neanderthals, “touch type” refers only to the kind of sneaky pervert who rubs his crotch against women’s backsides on crowded trains.
As my fingers play across the keys in two sets of five little piggies, I’m minded to think that there’s something distinctly fishy about that rhyme I learned back in the days when my heart pounded only for rusks.
Let’s take a look at the evidence.
“This little piggy went to market.”
Right from the outset I’m very concerned about the scenario being suggested here. Why would a piggy go anywhere near a market when those are precisely the kinds of places where bacon, ham and pork proliferate? Hasn’t this piggy seen Babe? If the rhyme began with a little backstory about a magical kingdom called Pigland, where pigs of all shapes and sizes leapt and gambolled 24/7 around a porcine Nirvana, occasionally popping off to the mall for a healthy dose of retail therapy and an accessorizing workout, then it would make a great deal of sense for Piggy #1 to trot off immediately in the direction of the shops. But there is no such backstory! The setting for this finger rhyme is Earth — cruel Earth — whose every second or third building is a death-drenched abattoir bursting at the seams with helpless, pre-mutilated, squealing squealing pigs. What this opening line really says is hey kids, there was this piggy who decided to commit suicide by hot footing it to the abattoir and hurling his hapless pink body into the path of a limb-hacking, head-slicing, gut-mangling chainsaw!!!
Makes the next line very sinister indeed, don’t you think?
“This little piggy stayed at home.”
Now, why would you do that? Stay at home watching TV and stuffing your face with lager and burgers while a fellow piggy makes a beeline for an appointment with self-inflicted doom? Especially if this “fellow piggy” was your mother? You know what I think? This second “little piggy” is a psychopathic hypnotist. He’s already murdered his father in the basement! Pulped his flesh for burgers and turned his urine into lager! And now he’s placed a devil’s hex on his own mother! Sent her away to die in agony! There’s a secret camera in the abattoir, and any minute now, vile images of his mother’s horrific demise will appear in full HD colour before his piggy little eyes!
And so we cut to Piggy #3, who clearly thinks he’s atoning for Piggy #2's sins on behalf of piggykind — but is actually even more of a bastard!
As he sits at his white IKEA dining table, piously eating a luncheon containing zero pig meat, it’s tempting to view him as some kind of saint.
“Oh, sure — I could mash my fellow piggies into burgers or sausages, just like that evil psycho-sadist did with his unfortunate parents. But I’m a nice piggy, a good piggy, and not a hint of bacon or ham or pork will ever pass my lips.”
(He rocks back in his seat — which creaks because, like the table, he didn’t assemble it properly.)
“No — for I consume CATTLE! Steak! Beef! Offal! Eyeballs! All scooped down into my piggy little throat with a big wooden FUKK U ladle! Who needs a penchant for sadism or the loon brain of a psychopath when all it takes to tempt the dumb-as-shit son-of-bitches into the path of a whirling blade is a broomstick and a gate locked securely behind them? When I’ve gorged, gorged, gorged on cow after cow after cow, grown bigger and stronger and tougher than THE HULK, I’m gonna grab that cruel ole Piggy #2 hard and tight round the throat and throttle him till the blood comes squishing from his brain like water from a frickin’ sponge!”
Say what? You think Piggy #3 is nice? Face the facts: you’re kidding yourself.
As for Piggy #4, who we’re told had no roast beef at all, please don’t presume he’s any better than the rest of them. Not only is he refusing to eat roast beef or the hacked remains of his fellow piggies — he’s such a selfish wretch that he’s refusing to eat anything. For six whole months prior to the penning of this cutesy finger rhyme, he’s lain in a bare wooden cot, starving himself by refusing all food and water. Pale and emaciated, he sings in his head some words from the rhyme that no child ever gets to hear.
“This little piggy had none. Because he hated his vile and vicious piggy cousins so much that he wanted to wither away and die. But not in a swift and cowardly way like a clifftop plunge or shot to the head with a bazooka. No, this has to be slow and drawn out, has to make a point. With every breath I fight for, wheezing here in my cot, I say gaze upon my suffering. The song I sing is sad and poignant and true. Worse still, I can’t get it to rhyme for shit.”
Count those four fingers now — and count yourself lucky so far. For Piggy #5 — the funny likkul “wee wee wee” pig — is the very worst villain of all.
Remember the lager that Piggy #1 was drinking as he sat watching HD TV footage of his hypnotised mother being hacked to death? The lager distilled from his father’s urine? Where do you think he got the idea for brewing his own beer? Psychopaths, remember, are meticulous in the extreme when it comes to planning and executing a murder. But spooning dried yeast into bottles and vats, and writing out sticky labels with dates on? Are you kidding? The moment he’s clubbed his father over the head with his mother’s ironing board, Piggy #1 got straight on the blower to Piggy #5 and said, “hey, listen — I’ve got this mutilated corpse here with roughly a quart of urine still beached in the bladder. Can you get come over with your siphon and maybe rustle me up some of that tasty wee beer you brew? I’m planning a special party in a few weeks so I need it real quick.”
Naturally, Piggy #5 is straight round the on his moped. He siphons off the urine into a customised rucksack and then heads off home to concoct Piggy #1's special order — along with umpteen orders for other speciality beers sent his way by every other evil piggy in the land.
If you think that’s sinister and weird, don’t forget that we forced those innocent piggies into this. If it hadn’t been for mankind’s desire for smoky bacon crisps, the pigs of this world could have roamed wild and free forever, safe in the knowledge that they would never ever be consumed for their flesh.
As it is, they’ve been driven crazy, made deranged and brutishly nutzoid by our lust for pork and ham — to the point where they’re prepared to mutilate and murder each other in ever more horrific ways and brew up one another’s decanted urine into lager!
So Piggy #5 speeds back home, his beady eyes peering from his steamed-up goggles, probing every abdominal bulge or swelling he sees for evidence of fullness, tell-tale signs of bladders swishy swoshing with unspent wee.
“Wee, wee, wee,” he squeals madly, as the suction pumps and tubing rattle in his moped paniers. All the way home...