Friday, September 15, 2006

antiseptic tropical french

It was another lazy day down at the pig factory. Jackson Jilly (a name he'd learned to regret from a very young age) checked out the sows and watered down a couple of dry ones and slopped their feed into the trough and that was it for another hour or so.

He mosey'ed (something only southerners can really do properly) down to the hay barn where Annalulu, the farmer's daughter liked to meet him and pass the time now and then.

He waited in the barn for no more than 10 minutes when Annalulu swayed her hips around the stalls and gave him a come hither wink.

But something was wrong. Something was definitely not right.

"Jackson," she drawled, "I've got something to show you."

To Jackson Jilly's horror, she reached behind her head and he heard the sound of a zipper zipping where no zipper should be and before his very eyes she unzipped what he could only refer to in the moment as her 'Annalulu' suit to reveal a two legged talking pig.

The talking pig batted it's eyelashes (which if you're familiar with pigs you know they have in abundance) at him and said something.

It was howled down by Jackson's screams.

Jackson's hair turned grey that day and no one knows what became of him or Annalulu.

But the farm had no short supply of bacon that year.

Yar.

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