Naught E. Piggy Traces Roots
Back to Refrigerator
Sunday, 13 April 2003: NP News War Room – Crumb Central, Thailand.
We find Naught E. Piggy snoozing on
plush, leatherette armchair. A mass of
pillows shade his eyes from the light of the late morning sun. His hoofs rest upon a coffee table strewn
with the aftermath of a snacking binge.
It’s readily apparent he’s recuperating from a recent foray into the
local Piggly Wiggly where he’d pillaged the aisles without remorse. The crumby remains of a Belly-Buster
sandwich have found their way to the floor where a copy of PlayPen (the
Ms. Piggy issue) is not so well hidden beneath stacks of newspapers and old
issues of Sports Illustrated. Three televisions are mounted on the wall
and are tuned to
separate channels: CNN, The Food
Channel, and Animal Planet. The latter
two are set to mute while the constant drone of the war news excretes from the
first.
Long chortling snores resonate from NP's snout, which protrudes through the score of pillows that are wrapped around his head in an effort to apparently not only block out the sun, but the world as well.
Oink.
Wee wee wee wee wee, Oink.
Wee wee wee wee wee: He snores as a
dog-eared copy of George Orwell’s Animal Farm, perched upon his rotund
and pink belly, rises and falls with the rhythm of his slumbers.
“Uncle Rumsy, no! Not the buggy whip!” he murmurs from some
far-off dreamland.
An explosion, or more a muted thud,
suddenly reports from the kitchen causing NP to leap to his hoofs and scurry
under the table. “Code Red! Code Red!”
he squeals.
I walk to the kitchen to see what
has just happened and return holding an exploded Diet Pepsi Slice. “Somebody, left a Pepsi in the
freezer,” I say, admonishing him.
“Whoops, my bad. Did we win yet? Hey, what the hell are you doing here, you A-hole?” Lying on the
ground, NP stares up at me through the glass of the littered coffee table. “And, where’s your SARS mask? You probably have the Hong Kong flu, being
the cretin that you are.” He adds
almost as an afterthought.
“I live here. Remember?
And, I don’t have the Hong Kong flu.”
I assure him.
“Oh,” His eyes cross, and he sticks
out his tongue. “Ugh, I can’t believe I
ate the whole thing,” he says, now sifting through the empty wrappers, emitting
a rumbling, guttural belch. “Watch
out. That one’s a little gamey,” he warns,
waving a hoof in front of his snout.
Then, “Son of a bitch! Who ate
the last almond cookie? I was saving
that for dessert!” He fumes, letting out an angry
snort and turns a few shades darker pink around his ears. He fixes an evil
eye upon me.
Mohammed Saeed al-Sahaf, the Iraqi
Information Minister, appears on CNN and NP grabs the remote flopping back into
his armchair.
“Oh, I love this guy!” he
says. He is so full of shit. It’s
unbelievable! Here let me translate for
you. I’m a bon-a-fide Arabist, you
know. I know his filthy Pig Latin like
the back of my hoof! Here, listen…
listen, ahem: ‘I am full of
shit! The beautiful, poetic words that
pour forth from my dirty, lying, Iraqi cake-hole are nothing but shit. They are powerful shit. It is very stinky and
terrifying! My shit will kill the
American crusaders at the gates of Baghdad where they will be covered with shit
and run home like coward dogs to their bitch mothers!’” Piggy translates with
an uncanny passion, then ads, leaping to his hoofs upon the chair, “Oh
yeah? Who’s the big, bad wolf now
mother-fucker? We're gonna blow your house down!”
“I have to admit, NP. That was… inspired.” I say. “’The Party’s over,’ said Aldouri. I saw him slam his door on the world the other day. I hear they’re hiring big-time in Iraq.”
“Oh, man! Look at those looters!
Future Lakers fans if I ever saw ‘em!” He laughs and squeals, kicking
his hoofs at the end of his short legs, which don’t quite reach the floor. There are still some scraps upon the table
that he blindly grabs at, shoveling them into his snout and washing them down
with chunks of the now thawing Pepsi.
“Naughty, we have to talk,” I tell
him.
“Mmmmph.?” He mumbles, bouncing in
his chair and pointing the remote at the TV.
He’s completely engrossed. He's obsessed.
“Naughty, you shouldn’t ignore me
like that. It’s rude.” I say.
“Why not? You’re a glutton for punishment!” He cackles at his own
witicism. His eyes never leave the TV
screen. “Ooo, Emril’s on! My second favorite Cajun, next to that big,
loveable, Chef Paul!”
At that moment, his cell phone
rings to the chirping tune of “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?” He holds up a hoof directly in my face and
answers the call.
“Buenos Cameron Diaz,” he says
cheerfully. “Uh huh? Right. Oooo… hee hee. Oh, you’re so naughty!” Then, “Sorry,
wrong number!” He clicks off the phone, tosses it onto the table, and reaches
beneath the seat cushion, withdrawing a half-eaten, silver-wrapped Ding
Dong. “I almost forgot about this one.”
He says, popping it into his mouth in one felt swoop.
“I am your father, NP.” I say, and the chewing stops.
“What? No, God No!” He screams then looks at me and faints, falling off
the chair and bouncing onto the floor like a stuffed doll.
NP lay on the floor with the
half-eaten Ding Dong in his mouth—the white cream center clearly visible—and his
eyes firmly rolled into the back of his head.
I find a Cheeto on the table and wave it under his snout in hopes that
it might serve to revive him.
He awakes, roused by the cheesy
aroma, screaming and begins to choke. I’m forced to give him the Heimlich maneuver
before slapping him into submission.
“Get a hold of yourself,” I
urge. “Here, take some of these.”
“Oooh, nice color! What are they,
candy?” he asks distracted by the prospect of a mid-afternoon snack.
“They’re Xanex.” I say, and he pops
a few into his maw.
“Ach! These aren’t chewable!” he gasps and snatches the Pepsi. Standing up, he holds a hoof to his forehead
and says, “I’m feeling logy. I think
I’m gonna’ toss my cookies.”
Naught E. Piggy falls backward into
the armchair and sighs, silently giving into the conflicting emotions that are
undermining the very foundation of his character.
“It’ll be alright, Pig.” I say in a
calming manner.
“You know, I always suspected
something but, I thought that Darko, the Croatian butcher, was my father. I should have known. Oh God, I should have known.” He shakes his piggy head, holding it between
his hoofs.
“Hey, these Xanex things are pretty
good.” He says after a moment with a lilting Southern accent beginning to form.
“Think of it this way. I’m not really your father. I’m your creator. You’re a figment of my imagination, a fictional character.” I
explain as best I can.
“So, you get your jollies talking
to imaginary pigs then? Great! You’re sick! That’s what you are, utterly and unequivocally demented!”
“Oh NP, you don’t know how good you
got it. You really are the perfect
character. You’re the quintessential
summation of all of man’s shortcomings.
You’re rude, crude, and socially unacceptable. Your potential is limitless.
And, best of all, people feel better about themselves when they see what
a pig you are. Through our loathing of
you, we aspire toward greater things.
You’re an inspiration of what not to become.”
“Yeah, and why do I like to dress
up in women’s clothing, Einstein?” He
asks, rolling his eyes at me.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. That’s normal.” I assure him.
“So, who’s my mother?” He asks.
“Well, truth be told, you were born
on a magnetic white-board attached to the refrigerator, but it can be anyone
you want, really. How about Uncle
Rumsy?” I say.
“Oh, now that would just be the coupe
de grace, wouldn't it? You know that Confucious said, ‘Only the
shallow ridicule the large man, for through his stomach will he reach the
palace of wisdom.’ Boy howdy, I’m
feelin’ pretty good, right now. Those
pills are making feel like… like… I feel like… Elvis.”
“Uh oh, you’re getting
philosophical. How many of those did
you take?” I ask.
“I think… like about… nine.” He
says, slowly beginning to fade into oblivion.
“You wanna hear a joke?” he asks.
“Shoot, NP.” I say.
“What’s the difference is between a
pig and a man?” He asks in a far off voice.
“I don’t know,” I reply, “What?”
“A pig doesn’t turn into a man
after a few beers.” He giggles softly then his eyes glaze over. He falls face first off the chair and onto
the floor. He rolls over, begins
snoring, farts, and then—poof—he disappears.
Thank God, I can have my chair back
now.
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views and opinions of Naughty Piggy--as expressed here--do not necessarily
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