I want to set things straight before I get out of here. Before the trial, I want to tell my side of the story. The pain in my ankles and right up my calves is so bad it’s got me baying at the moon. Every time they change the dressings they say I was lucky it wasn’t third degree burns. And I’m hungry. Hospital food is lousy.
I didn’t do it. The damage I mean. Look, what do you expect when you build a house out of manifestly inferior materials? Straw for Pete’s sakes! Minimal erection problems, sure, but it’s not going to last! After all, this is cyclone season. Don’t they know anything?
All I wanted to do was warn him of the danger.
“Little pig,” I said, after tap, tap, tapping at his shonky little door.
“Little pig! Are you there? I’ve just heard there’s a huge cyclone on the way, and by the time it gets done with you, there won’t be enough left of this shack to build a bird’s nest!”
So the ungrateful little swine snorts at me
“Get lost!”
I was only trying to save him and his haystack from blowing clear across town.
And sure enough … before you could say “this little piggy went all the way to market” … kafooey! Who says pigs can’t fly?
Now I may not be famous for my good deeds, but that’s largely due to bad publicity involving mankind’s common misconception of Canis lupus as evil creatures—and the way we have been subsequently portrayed in certain works of literature. You should never believe everything you read.
So. Anxious to reach my good deed quota for the day, I bounded across the field to the newly constructed pig palace belonging to none other than the little squealer’s brother. Another slap-dash job, except he obviously got a good deal on a bundle of sticks.
“Little pig!” I shouted, hammering on his wonky little door.
“Little pig, they’ve just declared a state of emergency. There’s a huge cyclone about to blow your house down. Your brother just got wiped out big time!”
Now, you must bear in mind that the porcine brain is about the size of a baby pea. The ungrateful little oinker grunts, “Get lost or I’ll call the cops.”
“Fine then,” I tell him. “Don’t listen to me … you deserve to end up as a schnitzel sandwich!”
Sure enough, the cyclone lifted that flimsy little bungalow right off the ground and blew him towards the center of town. And suddenly this little piggy was not staying at home!
Ever determined to dispel the myth about being big and bad, I decided to warn the third bacon brother about the impending gale-force winds.
I hurried across the next field towards the home of pig brother number three. This little guy must have been at the front of the pigpen when the brains were handed out.
His little abode was stylish, practical, and built out of bricks! Old bricks, sure—probably recycled—but it better than his siblings’ attempts at making the cover of Better Pig Stys and Gardens.
I knocked on the door and found, to my amazement, the other two hog brothers had joined him in the brick house. Spreading vicious rumors about me, no doubt.
“Hey you guys!” I said.
“Go away, wolf,” they said rudely, “or we’ll be forced to use this!” And next thing you know, the nose of a twelve-gauge shotgun comes poking through the letterbox.
“No! It’s not what you think!” I yelled in a panic. “Don’t be so pigheaded! There really is a cyclone on the way!”
“Why should we believe you? You don’t exactly have a great reputation around here. Remember Little Red Riding Hood? Pervert!”
A little below the scruff I thought …
“Hey! Just a minute fellas—that was never proven!”
I argued my case for a while—then, hallelulajah! I got through! Or so I thought. Not that it really mattered much to me. My good deed quota was full for the day and I was just about ready to move on. I had picnic baskets to take to sick old ladies, I had directions to give to people lost in the woods—you know, all that day to day, bread-and-butter stuff.
