Day of the Pig
It was a typical Wednesday. I was laying in a dumpster behind a Wendy's, smoking heroin and snorting bath salts and drinking LSD. All of a sudden, I got the urge for some bacon. But I didn't have money for a bacon burger, so I jacked some wheels and drove down to farmer Joe's place and started gnawing on a pig's ass. Now, I hadn't seen farmer Joe since I was a kid and me and my friends used to razz him about his pig-fucking and he'd shoot at us with rock salt. But all of a sudden the door flies open and there's farmer Joe, shotgun in hand, raging about how I was about to get a belly full of buckshot. Then I hear a voice squeal out, "Yeah! Get him, pa!" and out steps the weirdest looking kid I've ever seen. It was a young boy with hooves for hands and the head of a pig -- the unholy result of farmer Joe's pastoral proclivities. I ran screaming as buckshot whizzed past my ears and the grunting pigboy dropped to all fours and gave chase.
Right now I'm hiding in my step dad's old meth trailer in the woods, listening. I know he's out there, sniffing and snuffling and grunting, trying to pick up my scent, with crazy farmer Joe right behind. Or maybe I'm still laying in the dumpster, hallucinating all this. I don't know what's real anymore!
Original author unknown
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