The World According to
Naught E. Piggy
June 29, 2003 - Sunday Matinee
“I just had a baby and it looked like you.” Naught E. Piggy emerged singing from the theatre’s restroom having just worked out the melody of his latest self-conjured tune. He stopped on a half-step, poised upon one hoof, and lit a cigarette. With taught inhaling cheeks he looked at me with one squinted eye over the glowing ember at the end of his cancer stick. He pointed at me and flicked-shut his Zippo lighter with a flourish. He then cackled mischievously, resulting in a rattling, wheezing coughing fit.
“It’s a filthy habit, NP” I scolded.
“It’s my choice, you a-hole.” He said with a gasp. “I mean, someone has to have some nasty habits around here. You, fine sir, are a complete bore. I take tea at three—thank you very much.” He scoffed, waved an airy hoof amidst the swirling cloud of his exhale, and added “Nasty habits are my raison d’etre.”
I pointed my chin at the movie poster for The Hulk and said, “Don’t make me angry, NP. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”
“Pu-lease! Who do you think you are Bruce Banner? More like that old bag of wind, Nick Nolte. Oh, look at me. How scared I am! I’m shaking in my boots!” He mocked, and then sang with a little dance, “These boots are made for walkin’, and walkin’s what they’ll do…”
“Christopher Walken?” I asked.
“Oh Lord Buddha, what a laugh-riot you are!” He shrieked sarcastically and let out an incredible bellow of fake laughter. “Here, hold this.” He said, handing me his cigarette. He then proceeded to feign a sudden episode of narcolepsy and slumped to the floor. He snored twice—loudly—and after his own self-directed, dramatic pause, he shouted, “Cut!” NP then got up, brushed off his imaginary clothes, snatched his smoldering fag from my hand—saying “Give me that!”—and continued; “That movie—I mean, really! Enough with the symbolism already—like we need such overt Jungian aspects: once with the water was enough, but no, they had to go on and on and on; and that giant dong in the dessert was hardly subtle; and what’s all this about lichen? Lichen, for Christ’s sake! What kind of subtle crap is that?” He threw his hoofs into the air and collapsed his upper torso with the despair of a marionette whose puppet-master had gone for siesta.
Then, as if his strings were suddenly pulled taught, he snapped back to life, “One question, though, and I bet Lou Ferrigno knows the answer to this…” he took another drag on his cigarette.
“…The shorts?” I asked.
“Precisely, my dear Watson!” He said. With a mouth full of smoke he again delivered another omniscient, squinting hoof-point. “They’d never stay on with such enormous glutes.”
“NP, you’re thinking way too much. It’ll interfere with your movie experience.” I offered.
“So, my uncanny, farrowen acuity is undermining my capacity for mindless entertainment?” He asked, baiting me.
“Not quite.” I said. “I was going to say your loathsome pig-headedness was but a persona guarding the fragile, insecure, little piglet within.”
“Oh you’re so clever, I’m going to fart.” He said with an exaggerated eye-roll. “Anyhow, these people! Can you believe them? They make me stand up in the theater for their King. I mean he’s not my king. I feel like a Nazi.” NP began goose-stepping through the lobby aiming for the snack bar. “Zeich Hiel! Zeich Hiel!”
“Wow, that would never have occurred to me.” I said and followed in his wake as he pushed through the crowd, knowing full well that he had no money.
“Just what do you think about, Mr. Fancy Pants, world hunger?” He asked over his shoulder, his short legs flipping out at right angles before him. One arm extended like a compass needle, parting the crowd before him as he marched.
“Dolby Digital Surround EX, the latest in sound technology.” I said. “That and smoked pork. You know, I actually get a little weepy.”
“You’re sick! That’s what you are and a complete nerd to boot. Will you hurry up, I’m starving!” He moaned and slid up to the snack bar, waiting with an impatient tap of the hoof.
“Actually, this place has superb sound, but it’s that King segment that always gets me.” I said. “The Thais truly love their king. That’s more than can be said for G. Dub and his genetically modified, Tex-Mex meal deal.”
“Please shut up before I lose my appetite.” He held up a hoof in my face.
“Sawasdee krap. Ao alai krap?” asked the skinny Thai kid behind the counter. NP’s ears were barely visible over the glass counter filled with Goobers, Reese’s peanut butter cups, and Tom Yum Goong flavored potato chips.
With mouth agape, NP fixed a black stare upon this hapless smiling youth and stood there dumbfounded. There was a tense silence, like the eerie calm at the rim of a seething caldera, before he erupted. “See what I mean! These people don’t even speak English. What’s this world coming to? How do they expect to get my business! King schming! Gimme some food!...”
I stepped in, saying, “That’ll do pig.” And, with a hand on his snout I silenced his tirade before I was either forced to shrivel into an embarrassed puddle or butcher him right then and there. I apologized for my naughty little friend and bought a king-size box of Milk Duds, which I thought would serve to stick his snout shut during at least the first act of the flick.
We left the snack bar and headed towards the theatres. As we walked through the lobby, music played above the din of excited movie goers. It was the Beatles.
“…There’s nothing you can make that can’t be made
There’s no one you can save that can’t be saved
There’s nothing you can do, but you can learn to be you in time
It’s easy. All you need is love…”
NP saw me mouthing the words.
“I need love.” He sung, chiding me. He pulled his cheeks down with his hoofs, and with sad, drooping eyes performed a tortured impression of Robert Downey Jr. “That Elton John’s a homo’s homo. Let’s get a move on, Sappy, or we’ll miss the previews!” He said, at which he lit another cigarette. All of a sudden, a queer shadow fell like a heavy curtain across his face. He paused for a moment, and then without a word, he streaked for the bathroom.
“You’ve got issues, NP.” I said, and then added to no one in particular. “A little Charlie’s Angels 2, Full Throttle might serve as a nice retreat. There’s nothing like a couple hours of gratuitous violence and blatant sexual innuendo to distract one from the coming Monday.” I mused, and walked through the hall scanning posters for coming attractions.
After a few minutes, NP burst through restroom door and broke into a run, the door banging shut behind him. He looked behind with fear awash upon his round, pink face. “Hurry up, Bosley! We’re gonna miss it,” He tugged my sleeve and in pulling me into the darkness of the theatre I saw his tension ease.
“In the night, hides the monster within,” I said with a moment of inspiration. We found our seats by the light of the rolling previews.
“What-ever, just remember, this ain’t the Pussycat Theatre, Pee-wee.” NP slumped down in his movie seat and propped his hoofs upon the armrest of the people in front of him.
The preview for the upcoming Terminator movie ended, and the words: Please Stand in Respect for His Majesty; The King appeared on the screen. I stood and looked back at the pig motioning for him to stand.
“Not my King.” He offered, chewing greedily and tossed a Milk-Dud into the air, catching it with his snout.
He was about to light another cigarette when a light bulb seemed to go on above his head. “Watch this.” He whispered quietly with a naughty bob of the eyebrows. I watched in dismay as he slowly placed his Zippo between his legs and tensed the muscles below the fat of his pudgy, pork-belly. As the crowd solemnly paid homage to the King, NP’s face contorted into a grimace of intestinal fury. Suddenly, with a muted thwump—like the sound of a pilot light catching a flame—NP burst into a ball of fire.
“Vindaloo!” He screamed, and his surprise was genuine as he looked to me, his eyes a mix of fear and embarrassment. At once, he sprung from his seat and ran screaming from the theater in a blaze of flatulent glory. As the doors shut behind him all that was left was a trail of smoke and the aroma of fresh cracklin’s.
“Yummo!” I chuckled. “Now, that’s smoked pork.”
“What'd you say?” asked Jum, suddenly keen to my duplicitous attentions.
“Oh nothing,” I said as the movie began, and the crowd sat down to enjoy the film.