Gut Rumbles
 

August 22, 2007

My friend Ed, among other things

Originally published June 8, 2002

My friend Ed once played linebacker for Eastern Kentucky University and won a Division II National Championship ring while he was there. He also injured his neck, and subsequent surgery left him with a weakness in his right hand, which is odd, considering what a hoss he is through the chest and shoulders. Ed is a large fellow. When he needed someone to drive nails on a fence-hanging project, or perform other right-hand tasks around his mini-farm, he called me. When I needed someone to help move a refrigerator, or wrestle a 400-pound pot-bellied pig off my back porch, I called him.

I am not making up the 400-pound pot-bellied pig. My ex-wife (the bloodless cunt) and I bought our mini-farm from a couple who built another house, now known as "The Governor's Mansion" around the old neighborhood, less than a quarter of a mile away. They moved all their animals to the new home, but the animals never forgot where they once lived. They came to visit their old abode frequently. The occasional runaway goat or stray rooster never bothered me. But the pot-bellied pig did.

"Bacon" was a female pot-bellied pig that resembled an overloaded, warped fifty-five gallon drum on four short pegs. One summer day, she went in heat, dug her way out of her pen, and showed up at my house, looking for love in all the wrong places.

I learned that if you point your finger down the road and yell "Go Home!" to a 400-pound pot-bellied pig, the pig pays no attention whatsoever. It lays on your back deck, grunts contentedly and goes to sleep. I tried to poke at her and get her to move, but she only grunted, then farted at me really loudly, so I stopped poking. I thought the giant fat-bag would get hungry and go back home in a day or so, but Bacon seemed happy to be back at her old homestead. After four days of pig-occupation, I set out to evict that squatter from my land.

The neighborhood posse got together and even recruited a guy wearing a shirt with "Roy" over the front pocket to help. "Roy" was a contractor installing a sprinkler system at the Governor's Mansion that day. I don't believe he really knew what he was getting into.

Bacon was asleep on the deck, as usual. Our game plan was to approach the pig, have one person assigned to grab each leg, then drag the grunting lard-bucket over to the rescue truck, where EVERYONE would help lift Bacon into the bed. That plan went to shit when Bacon saw four people grabbing her legs. She didn't like that. She arose on her pegs and took off running, scattering her grabbers in her wake.

You wouldn't think so, but a 400-pound pot-bellied pig has some elusive moves that would put the best broken-field runner in the NFL to shame when the pig really doesn't want to be caught. We chased that bloated bitch around the yard for at least ten minutes before we finally cornered her. That's when she showed us her tusks. And she had some TUSKS.

Sue, Bacon's owner, assured us that Bacon wouldn't hurt a fly. "She's just scared," Sue said. Well, SO WERE WE, looking at 400 pounds of tusk-baring, hostile, PMS-ridden, bitchy pig. We finally decided that Bacon couldn't kill us all if we attacked in a human wave, so we did, and once Bacon was "hog-tied," she simmered down and returned home peacefully. I don't know if "Roy" received any bonus payment for his intrepid extra-curricular work, but he deserved one.

I don't know how that story sprang from my memory banks. It just DID. I was mentioning my friend Ed, then one thing led to another. What I STARTED OUT to do was share this email Ed sent me:

Is Fishing Better Than Sex?

* A big, juicy worm always gets a fish excited.
* You don't have to eat a fish while it's still flopping around.
* You can take a leak in the bush anytime you want.
* Stroking your rod won't piss off a trout.
* Sipping a beer and scratching your balls is all the foreplay expected of you.
* Anything you stick in a fish's face, it eats.
* A fish will never gag, choke, or come up for air.
* A red snapper won't cry if you call it a flounder.
* You wear rubbers on your feet, not on your dick.
* If you want a bigger pole, you can have a bigger pole.
* A smart fish knows when to keep it's mouth shut.
* It's okay to cook a fish to make it taste good.
* Fish bite for a guy of 60, same as they do for a guy of 20.
* You're never called a jerk when you throw back an ugly fish.
* Fish are real happy when you pick up your gear and go home.

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