Well, well, well said the doctor to the
three little pigs. What have we here? Pork, ham, and bacon!
They felt a little sick.
Sick Sick Sick! Cried the mother of the
pigs. Her address was 666 Beasty Boulevard. You shall not have my
children for lunch! How 'bout breakfast and dinner, the doc
retorted, that would be B.A.D.!!
You are what you eat! you know. You
are a Pig, and a Beast, and a Meathead! You are as vacuous as a
cow! As dirty and gluttonous as swine! You're dead meat!
-Piss off! You ain't shit!
I'll see you in Hell. When pigs fly!
A cold day in hell. Pig-angels, maybe reincarnated as pigeons!
Pig-gin is a spirit that'll take you up, and then drop you back down!
Hard liquor for a hard landing.
Up, up, and away. Up, up, and quit
your books (the reading list at Reed college). Music soothes the
savage beast. This peace is a little number I wrote for my baby.
Babies, actually. My number one son, and my better half. 3 of us, a
trinity. 3 on the tree, like a monkey. Hey hey we're the monkees.
We don't put anybody down. Like dogs, or those who are as dumb as
bricks, or passengers on the airplane.
Actually, in that last case, I would
like to be put down. It's hard to breathe in space. I don't mean to
insult Space, but Spacey is a rapist, and it's boring out there, not
a lot to do, which isn't a put-down, just a simple statement of fact.
So set the old bird down gently, por favor.
And so on and so forth.
So, Four, Esme Tupelo Clegg, etc. etc.
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