This Little Piggy
"But I don't want to be a pig!" I oinked.
And with that I woke with a start from possibly the strangest dream I have ever had.
In the dream, I was a participant on a reality television show, clearly based on the popular TV series, Survivor. The difference was that all the contestants in the show were pigs — large ones, small ones, a couple of black-spotted ones, and mostly pink ones. Even the host, who hogged most of the camera time and looked amazingly similar to a robust Jeff Probst, was a pig, somewhat small in stature but with one enormous tusk. I was one of the black-spotted pigs, with a kind of hairy skirt around my ample midsection, which tended to drag in the mud, and a peculiarly exaggerated, long but curly tail, actually, more like a single dreadlock, or dare I say, a twist-tie pigtail.
I was stranded with my fellow porkers on a deserted island somewhere near Vanuatu, where the pig is revered as a symbol of wealth and prosperity. I considered this a lucky break, since I have always thought of pigs as just a slaughter house away from becoming pork chops and that honey glazed ham I like so much. Then a extremely large sow, pink as diaper rash, waddled up to me and told me the bad news.
The show was cancelled.
"It's because of the panicdemic," she snorted into my furry pointed ears. "Hundreds have died in Fiji alone, and the virus has spread into New Caledonia. It won't be long before it gets here."
I looked at her through my beady black eyes, checked out her curvaceous hammocks, and then shook my snout in disbelief.
"What are you saying?" I burped out in a series of grunts.
"The human flu," she grumbled in almost obscene guttural yips. "The human flu, which they are now calling the P1Poo2. It's killing all the pigs."
For a moment, I was struck with the thought that bacon might disappear from existence, and my heart sank. Breakfast would never be the same. BLT's would become LT's. All-beef hot dogs would become commonplace and no longer command higher prices. Chinese food would likely disappear completely, and what would people substitute for turkey at Easter?
"That's ridiculous," I guffawed back to her, "pigs are pigs. They're as horny as a teenage boy with a joystick, they copulate at the drop of a corn husk, without even a moment's worth of foreplay, and they breed litters of piglets almost faster than rabbits turn out droves of those cute little bunnies. There will never be a shortage of pigs."
"Don't believe me?" the pink parcel of braised ribs cawed. "Just wait and see. In a week or two, you'll be dreaming about mad cows, with nary a pig in your wacky subconscious."
At that point, things are a little hazy. I do remember the herd of pigs lining up for something. Perhaps it was a queue for inoculations, but I can't be sure. It was when some day worker prodded me on the rump tenderloin with an electric prod that I woke up.
Normally, I never remember my dreams. I suspect that, for the most part, my dreams are probably similar to episodes of Desperate Housewives, in which I am the new mailman delivering the latest edition of Cosmopolitan and loitering at the door for far too long. So, I suspect that the very fact that I remembered any of this dream is somehow prophetic, and tomorrow, I'm going to check out the local clinic to see about getting a swine flu, uh, I mean an H1N1 flu vaccination.
This is one little piggy who doesn't want to rush to that great market in the sky.
"But I don't want to be a pig!" I oinked.
And with that I woke with a start from possibly the strangest dream I have ever had.
In the dream, I was a participant on a reality television show, clearly based on the popular TV series, Survivor. The difference was that all the contestants in the show were pigs — large ones, small ones, a couple of black-spotted ones, and mostly pink ones. Even the host, who hogged most of the camera time and looked amazingly similar to a robust Jeff Probst, was a pig, somewhat small in stature but with one enormous tusk. I was one of the black-spotted pigs, with a kind of hairy skirt around my ample midsection, which tended to drag in the mud, and a peculiarly exaggerated, long but curly tail, actually, more like a single dreadlock, or dare I say, a twist-tie pigtail.
I was stranded with my fellow porkers on a deserted island somewhere near Vanuatu, where the pig is revered as a symbol of wealth and prosperity. I considered this a lucky break, since I have always thought of pigs as just a slaughter house away from becoming pork chops and that honey glazed ham I like so much. Then a extremely large sow, pink as diaper rash, waddled up to me and told me the bad news.
The show was cancelled.
"It's because of the panicdemic," she snorted into my furry pointed ears. "Hundreds have died in Fiji alone, and the virus has spread into New Caledonia. It won't be long before it gets here."
I looked at her through my beady black eyes, checked out her curvaceous hammocks, and then shook my snout in disbelief.
"What are you saying?" I burped out in a series of grunts.
"The human flu," she grumbled in almost obscene guttural yips. "The human flu, which they are now calling the P1Poo2. It's killing all the pigs."
For a moment, I was struck with the thought that bacon might disappear from existence, and my heart sank. Breakfast would never be the same. BLT's would become LT's. All-beef hot dogs would become commonplace and no longer command higher prices. Chinese food would likely disappear completely, and what would people substitute for turkey at Easter?
"That's ridiculous," I guffawed back to her, "pigs are pigs. They're as horny as a teenage boy with a joystick, they copulate at the drop of a corn husk, without even a moment's worth of foreplay, and they breed litters of piglets almost faster than rabbits turn out droves of those cute little bunnies. There will never be a shortage of pigs."
"Don't believe me?" the pink parcel of braised ribs cawed. "Just wait and see. In a week or two, you'll be dreaming about mad cows, with nary a pig in your wacky subconscious."
At that point, things are a little hazy. I do remember the herd of pigs lining up for something. Perhaps it was a queue for inoculations, but I can't be sure. It was when some day worker prodded me on the rump tenderloin with an electric prod that I woke up.
Normally, I never remember my dreams. I suspect that, for the most part, my dreams are probably similar to episodes of Desperate Housewives, in which I am the new mailman delivering the latest edition of Cosmopolitan and loitering at the door for far too long. So, I suspect that the very fact that I remembered any of this dream is somehow prophetic, and tomorrow, I'm going to check out the local clinic to see about getting a swine flu, uh, I mean an H1N1 flu vaccination.
This is one little piggy who doesn't want to rush to that great market in the sky.
