The Three Big Pigs

(a timeless tale of mud, intolerance and avante-garde cubism)


The Three Big Pigs

Three big pigs walked into a hotel dining room. It was 7:00pm on a fall evening. The pigs had just taken a shower and were very hungry. It was the Saturday Night Feast, which doesn't happen every day. Indeed, on this evening these three big pigs were more than anxious to eat.

Unfortunately the hotel dining room was covered wall-to-wall in a horrible, stinky Muck!

Now the biggest—and sweatiest—of the three pigs was called Henry; he was a real porker. The other two pigs were called Percy and Paulson, and they followed Henry everywhere. Paulson and Percy called Henry ‘The Primo Pig’ because Henry was a boffo, primo leader.

The Primo Pig was of ill temper, however, since as has been mentioned the dining room was covered in a gooey muck. The muck was slimy and grey. Henry was livid; such muck would not do. “This muck is intractable, impossible” he whinnied (he had horselike pretensions); “my brothers, fetch hither the concierge.”

Percy and Paulson went to summon the concierge; that is, they went out to kidnap him, for interrogation. Alone in the dining room, Henry ruminated. He drew a muck design on one of the walls. Now the design was cubist. It was shocking, and it was daring. It portrayed a great black pig in the midst of its birth and death throes. But suddenly Henry ruminated some more. “Hmm,” he murmured, “I shan’t allow Percy and Paulson to see this muck drawing. For it will radically disrupt their worldview.” So he grabbed a soup ladle from the tabletop and with it he covered up his original drawing—daring, shocking as it was—with even more muck.

“This is for the best,” he said to himself, “art must take a back seat to life.” And he squealed desultorily.

Percy and Paulson returned with a concierge, carried by Percy on his back. Now Paulson, the weakest of the three pigs but possessor of a keen visuo-spatial sense, gave Percy the directions to the dining room: “To the left a bit, now to the right. That’s right, there’s The Primo Pig now—I can see him.” And Paulson was anticipatory; “Wait till he realizes what quality of concierge we have kidnapped!”
Percy followed Paulson’s directions to the wall where Henry was muck-drawing. Because for all his piggy stoutness, Percy was quite blind, and unable to direct himself.

Percy and Paulson escorted the concierge into the dining room. The concierge, an employee named Jenkins, was 6 feet tall and could run the 40-yard dash in just over 5 seconds, which is quite good. Jenkins was also a formidable concierge. His prowess was unquestionable, his manner impeachable, his knickers clean and perfectly unsoiled. His quality was beyond question; what was questionable, however, was the muck the pigs found in the dining room, and Henry the Pig therefore questioned him to that end:

“Dear Mr. Jenkins,” the pig addressed the man, “please justify this muck. Else we three fine-dining swine shall ‘pig up’ and take our ‘pigness’ elsewhere.” And he squealed expectantly.

But Jenkins sidestepped the puns. “What muck?” he asked, “what Matter do you mean?” Looking around the dining room—with his eyes closed—he exclaimed “I can see neither Muck nor Man!”

“Open your eyes, O Jenkins, Ignorer of Muck—it’s everywhere; all across the ceiling, even." Now, Henry's was a swinish wrath. "Play not the jester, I counsel you.”

Jenkins opened his lids; still he could not see. “Have you fellows neglected to notice that I, too, am blind?” And Jenkins showed his eyes to them. Paulson and Henry could only see two feckless black dots. “Besides,” Jenkins added, “I thought a swell bunch of porkers like you would be happy to dine in muck.” And the three brother-hogs harrumphed; “but," the man continued, "it seems you prissy pigs are impossible to please,” and by the end of that sentence Jenkins was spitting all over the room.

“Say it, Mr. Jenkins,” Henry commanded; “don’t spray it.”

Percy, who was also blind, burst into tears: “I can’t believe I participated in the kidnapping of a fellow blindfolk,” he wailed guiltily, “this is more ironic than the time I kid-napped that baby goat.” But the others ignored his wordplay, and Percy sobbed. Paulson, who was good at not much else beside directing his load-bearing, vision-bereft brother-hog, sat in the muck and sighed. Henry dissolved the awkwardness, saying, “Oh, all right, Mr. Jenkins, you win this round: I suppose it bad form to haggle with a blind concierge.” And he harrumphed, “It just won’t do. Leave your muck as is. Our ‘pigness’ will remain." And then he sputtered. "But don’t think for a minute you are dealing with three mere blind mice, or three weakling little piggies,” and he bared a menacing enamel tusk: “We are big nasty pigs, we three—and we will stomp your throat into the sidewalk if you piss us off again!”.

Jenkins nodded, “Yes, yes, of course, next time things’ll be ‘pig-ture perfect’,” and he left the room quickly and obsequiously, but not before banging his shins into a chair: “Man, it sucks being blind,” he cried, adding, “Ouch!” And when he heard Jenkins say this, Percy burst into tears. “I feel your pain, Jenkins, though I cannot apprehend it with my useless porcine eyes.” The blind pig extended his forehoof in commiseration, but the concierge had already left the room, and was banging his shins about the hallway. Henry squealed in resignation, and resumed etching his cubist figures onto the walls. Dinner was served 20 minutes later and, despite the mucky dining surroundings, it wasn’t half bad.


End


(Now, Barabbas was a bandit.)