Perry
Once there was a pig named Perry.His full name was Periodontist,
so obviously he had a nickname.
He was nice, polite, friendly and nondescript,
which shouldn't be true.
The nice, polite, friendly pigs should be the most descript and special,
but that's not how life is.
Everyday Perry would walk to school
where his favorite class was Corn Kernels: A Deeper Study.
The cool pigs called it CKADS (pronounced "See Kads"),
but Perry wasn't cool.
He always said "Corn Kernels Colon A Deeper Study"
He even said the word "colon."
The class studied how to recycle kernels
and repurpose them
because they were Democrats.
The point was to reuse niblets in new ways
to keep nearby farms sustainable, growing and blah blah blah boring words.
But one day
when Perry was in class
he thought, "Screw the farms!
What have the farms ever done for us except provide
food, shelter, life and mates?!"
He leaned over his lab table and
whispered to his friend Mal - short for Malwarebytes -
"Hey Mal! Know how I'm always complaining about my torso feeling chilly in
Corn Kernels Colon A Deeper Study?"
And Mal said, "You mean See Kads?" (Mal was cool).
Perry said, "Yeah! Well that shit stops today!" He raised his hoof into the air with jubilance
and announced, "I shall make the the fanciest,
pimpest, most bedazzled, badass
corn kernel vest you've ever seen!"
Mal said, "I've never seen even one,"
and scooted two seats away.
So with a gleam in his eye
and a pattern in his heart Perry did.
And that vest was everything he dreamt it would be:
pimp, bedazzling and badass.
If this were a different type of story
or Perry were a different type of pig,
he might've set a vest trend and become the coolest pig in school.
But it isn't,
and he wasn't,
so he did not become cooler.
He just became a vested pig.
However, from that day forward,
no one dared call him nondescript again.
Gavin
yes, he was bear with a keytar, but he hadn't always been.
at one time, he was only a bear with a flute.
you see, Gavin's mother was all about woodwinds. she used to tell him, "All you need Son, is the breath within you, and you can make the music of angels. in the bible, they only use wind instruments." and for a long time, Gavin tried. he took lesson after lesson, practiced in his room for hours, listened to the great flautists of his time like - well, we all know who they are - why waste time naming them? but try as he might, he just couldn't find the joy. the angels weren't on his side. the wind wasn't within him.
plus the flute made him look fat.
one evening, he stood before the full length mirror in his room, his claws scrabbling to cover those buttons on the flute that are called - well, we all know what they're called, why waste time naming them? that night, he gave up the flute for good. he thought to himself, "mother, I tried. the breath within me just isn't enough. sin or not, I need some fucking electricity."
and the rest is history.
or will be.
A Tale of Two Biddies
Crystaline was fancy and fluffy and fly.
If she hadn't been a chicken, she'd have been the kind of girl who could pull off a Kanga and Hammer pants.
If she'd had ears, she'd have been the kind of girl who would strut down the street in 2017 wearing her uncle's old Walkman and people she passed woulda assumed it was the iPhone11.
Had god given her arms, they'd be bangled and jangling as her hips swayed left and right to her inner keytar rhythm.
If she hadn't been a chicken, she'd have been the kind of girl who could pull off a Kanga and Hammer pants.
If she'd had ears, she'd have been the kind of girl who would strut down the street in 2017 wearing her uncle's old Walkman and people she passed woulda assumed it was the iPhone11.
Had god given her arms, they'd be bangled and jangling as her hips swayed left and right to her inner keytar rhythm.
Daphne was bookish and softish and shy.
She'd shoulda been born in the liberry stacks.
You could tell in her eyes, she'd have sneaked down to the poetry section on her breaks and crawled into the 811s to hide.
If she'd had shoulders, they'd be inked in Rilke and Dickinson quotes.
If she coulda held a pencil, the walls would've been covered with words upon words.
But alas...
They were just chickens.
Pecking at the ground, dodging the rooster Caesar, bokking and squawking, and being startled constantly by that lady's new Bichon Frise.
She'd shoulda been born in the liberry stacks.
You could tell in her eyes, she'd have sneaked down to the poetry section on her breaks and crawled into the 811s to hide.
If she'd had shoulders, they'd be inked in Rilke and Dickinson quotes.
If she coulda held a pencil, the walls would've been covered with words upon words.
But alas...
They were just chickens.
Pecking at the ground, dodging the rooster Caesar, bokking and squawking, and being startled constantly by that lady's new Bichon Frise.
Alyssa
"How do you know it's mine?"
"Don't say 'it,' say 'baby,' and what do you think - it's Simon's? I wouldn't sleep with Simon doesn't even read. He's a 'roid head."
A grunt.
A sigh.
A scratch in the dirt.
A tap of an ash to the ground.
He looks up. He looks down. He juts his chin, out in out in straining to see down the lane.
Trying to make out his newly wrecked future.
Another sigh. He knows she's right. He remembers the night, the party, the afterparty, the dust the dirt.
He smiles slightly remembering before his face falls again, and he says, "Okay, fine. Just tell me your demands."
She frowns and hawks her voice with indignation. "You should know. You. With me.
Only me. Not Jennifer. Not Gina. No one. Ever again."
More sighs, more chin jutting.
More ground scratching.
He turns to go, but looks back over his shoulder.
She says, "What're you waiting for? Might as well go break the news to your old biddies."
He shuffles away, all strut gone from his walk.
With smug satisfaction, and a dab of self-righteousness, Alyssa repositions herself over her egg. Then raising her bottom up, smacks down hard, harder than a mother would, once twice three times. Criiiiiiiiiiiick it breaks and splits into two perfect halves. The inner walls perfectly slick, eastery-plastic, hollow and empty.
Her red-ribbed feet tuck each half carefully under the edge of the nest.
Out of sight.
For now.
Never know when he might need another lesson in fidelity.
"Don't say 'it,' say 'baby,' and what do you think - it's Simon's? I wouldn't sleep with Simon doesn't even read. He's a 'roid head."
A grunt.
A sigh.
A scratch in the dirt.
A tap of an ash to the ground.
He looks up. He looks down. He juts his chin, out in out in straining to see down the lane.
Trying to make out his newly wrecked future.
Another sigh. He knows she's right. He remembers the night, the party, the afterparty, the dust the dirt.
He smiles slightly remembering before his face falls again, and he says, "Okay, fine. Just tell me your demands."
She frowns and hawks her voice with indignation. "You should know. You. With me.
Only me. Not Jennifer. Not Gina. No one. Ever again."
More sighs, more chin jutting.
More ground scratching.
He turns to go, but looks back over his shoulder.
She says, "What're you waiting for? Might as well go break the news to your old biddies."
He shuffles away, all strut gone from his walk.
With smug satisfaction, and a dab of self-righteousness, Alyssa repositions herself over her egg. Then raising her bottom up, smacks down hard, harder than a mother would, once twice three times. Criiiiiiiiiiiick it breaks and splits into two perfect halves. The inner walls perfectly slick, eastery-plastic, hollow and empty.
Her red-ribbed feet tuck each half carefully under the edge of the nest.
Out of sight.
For now.
Never know when he might need another lesson in fidelity.
Be Good Tanya
her name was Tanya.
she did not suffer fools gladly.
she had a little voice, but a big swagger,
and when she sashayed through the forest,
even the nearsighted moles stopped and tried to stare.
she was the first one awake each morning,
and the first one asleep each night.
basically she was awake from 5am to 10am
and conserved her energy the other 19 hours of the day.
it's why her walk was so strutty.
she lived on coffee, worms and the fears of her enemies,
and she never forgot what her mama told her the day she hatched:
"Be good, Tanya, but don't be too good...
the littlest birds sing the prettiest songs."
[The Littlest Birds Sing the Prettiest Songs - The Be Good Tanyas]
she did not suffer fools gladly.
she had a little voice, but a big swagger,
and when she sashayed through the forest,
even the nearsighted moles stopped and tried to stare.
she was the first one awake each morning,
and the first one asleep each night.
basically she was awake from 5am to 10am
and conserved her energy the other 19 hours of the day.
it's why her walk was so strutty.
she lived on coffee, worms and the fears of her enemies,
and she never forgot what her mama told her the day she hatched:
"Be good, Tanya, but don't be too good...
the littlest birds sing the prettiest songs."
[The Littlest Birds Sing the Prettiest Songs - The Be Good Tanyas]