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Pigs fly just fine

Porked on February 18, 2024.

Someone told me, “I’m putting wings on pigs today.” But pigs can already fly. When do pigs fly? Whenever they feel like doing so.

Indeed, with sufficient thrust, pigs fly just fine. However, this is not necessarily a good idea. It’s hard to be sure where they will land and it could be dangerous sitting under them as they fly overhead. With truly sufficient thrust, what lands will be more akin to bacon, so it’s all good in the end. If you don’t mind your bacon scattered over a five-mile radius.

Why do pigs fly? To get to the other side of the road. Why do they need to be on the other side of the road? To escape the butcher turning them into bacon. Why does the butcher want to turn them into bacon? Because pigs make better bacon than lettuce ground up and painted to look like meat.

Oink, oink. Oink, oink. Splat!

My porcine woolgathering complete, I turned to bigger and better adynata. (Like fatter pigs flying higher.)

With time quickly catching up with me, I finally decided to sit down and work on my memoir, 368,000 Liters of Mountain Dew: A Life. Yet again the dords and fnords sent their drudes to haunt me; I had to put it down and perform exorcisms on all 157 rooms of my palatial abode. Then I picked it up again and tried to write some more chapters, but the screaming stars and the singing spiders started to harry me so, so hard. So, I put it down again and performed an autodefenestration from my ninth floor. (I didn’t oink when I impacted the ground, but I did go splat!)

Off in the distance, a flying pig oinked as it came in for landing. Becasue just watched the unfolding scene.

“Blathering blatherdiddies!” I enquavered with as much gogliodoccio as I could muster. Again I could feel my trepidation all the way down to my Golgi bodies. “Gargle My Arglebargles” by Three Fat Fish played on an endless loop in the arglecourt. An emu stretched and walked across the courtyard—while gargling. The fish may be fat but those high-flying pigs were fatter.

In here is indeed a thread of coherence—a tiny thread—if only I can weave it deftly and without throttling myself with it in the process.

Bob Moore, winner of the Golden Spurtle in 2016, is dead. Even the inventor of the Pop-Tart has popped his last tart. Was a cereal killer on the loose? Would everyone be dead soon?

I spent this morning screaming desperately into the abyss about gnomogenic global warming. Yet—no one was listening. I even had graphs to prove it. Lots of charts and graphs. And a PhD in applied gnomology. Yet no one was listening. So, I decided to once again dust off the bicycle in my garage and go for a hike while carrying it on my back.

And that’s how Andrea Dworkin and I won that fish-bicycling contest together.