Small Town Untrained Pig Surgery
My dad and aunt used to risk their lives in a game of Pig Rodeo.
Here’s how you play it.
Get a pig pen. Get an extremely mean pig.
You don’t have to be a carpenter. Just find some posts and boards and nails, a big hammer, then think about prison, and the thing practically builds itself.
The Mean Pig
These are even easier to make. Because God already did most of the work. For some reason, he made pigs extremely intelligent. Take extreme intelligence, confine it in a muddy square, and presto: homicidal pig.
Get an apple tree too. That’s what Dad and Aunt Kathy had. The tree grew beside the pen. It rained apples on the pig. They thumped his head, giving him epiphanies, dreams, and visions of killing Dad and Kathy.
Because the tree also rained Dad and Kathy.
They’d climb the apple tree, hang from the branches, and then drop onto the pig’s back and ride.
They’d eventually get thrown and then have to run for their lives while the pig raced after them, hoping to step on their spines and drink their blood.
Back in the good old days when kids used to play outside.
One of Grampa’s pigs had babies. I hung out with the piglets, called them friends, and I named every last one of them Wilbur and swore to God this would save their lives.
I hugged them and sang to them and we gave each other Eskimo kisses.
By the way, did you know pigs have worms and these worms lay eggs and these eggs come out in pig crap and pigs roll in crap and a child who hugs and kisses pigs, essentially hugging and kissing egg-laden crap, can get worms?
Until one day, a long red worm came out of my butt.