The Second Little Pig

Truth is all about perspective. You may think you know my story, but you don’t know nada, bruv. No worries, though, homes. I’ll set ya straight. Just let me tell you.

Yo, what’s up? The name’s Manny, and like most middle children, I’m kinda the forgotten one in what you may think of as the story of the ‘3 Little Pigs.’ You prolly think you’re familiar with the story of me and my two bros, but that’s because you haven’t heard it from my perspective yet. This means, of course, that you haven’t heard the truth.

It all started when my mom, who is a real hog - no offense intended - decided our pig pen wasn’t big enough for the 4 of us. Actually, she decided our daily ration of pig slop from Farmer Joe’s friendly bucket wasn’t enough to be split 4 ways, and so all 3 of us kids got the boot. Which, when I think back on it, wasn’t such a bad deal. Some starving sows have been known to eat their young, so in a way, we got off easy. The thing is though, no one understands that we 3 pigs grew up in this terrible fatherless poverty. Lotsa people see a fat pig and assume it must be healthy; they don’t even consider that mosta that fat is genetics and not nutrition. There were some days I felt like one of those starving Ethiopian kids you see with the distended bellies who are so starving they look bloated...but anyways, long story short, at the tender age of only one year, we were thrown out into the harsh world and told to “figure it out.”

Now here is the first point I wanna make. When people hear our story, they never stop to say “Oh, those poor children,” or “Think of the socioeconomic conditions that underprivileged demographic had to overcome...I wonder if all farms are like that?” or nothing. No, they immediately go into labeling my younger brother and me as ‘lazy.’ Try walking a day on my trotters guys.

So, back to the story. What you have now are 3 one-year-old orphans walking the harsh streets and hoping to survive the predators that are obviously abundant in the area. This is what is really happening, and what do people focus on instead of all of the neglect, child abuse, and endangerment rampant in this situation? They focus on our poor carpentry skills! Seriously?! And, it gets even worse, because when we (very resourcefully I might add) scrounge up enough sturdy materials to actually build our own homes (at the age only one, again!), and we do it all in one day’s time, what are we called? Lazy! I’d like to see any fully grown human accomplish as much. Now granted, my little bro shoulda prolly known that a house made outta straw wasn’t gonna make it outta the first good rainstorm (of course, half the world lives in homes made outta mud, so seriously, enough giving this dude grief…). But me, I did better than him and half the world’s human inhabitants, and I built my house outta wood. What is wrong with that? Have you ever driven by a construction site where they’re building new homes? Well, if you have, I guarantee you saw tons of wood, piles of it, and prolly frames constructed of it, et cetera. News flash guys, houses are built outta wood! Prolly like 99% of them in industrialized nations. So quit giving me the business! I know full-grown human adults, kinda like Farmer Joe while he was starving me to death, who can’t even put a birdhouse together outta wood with a set of printed instructions and a box full of tools. Sheesh!

But I digress. So here we are, master carpenter infants trying to survive on our own, and who should appear? Only the most successful predator in all of the American wilds - a freaking wolf. There is a reason they pay farmers in Idaho to murder these beasts...because they are savage! I once heard of a wolf, one wolf and no kidding, that got into a chicken house and single-handedly killed over 200 chickens in one night! That sounds like a Vietnam coverup! But in fact, it is even worse than ‘Nam because a wolf can’t chuck a hand grenade into a schoolhouse and just walk off. No, a wolf has to kill all 200 chickens one by one by one by chomping those amazing teeth down on them over and over and over again. This realization, if you are just now finally making the connection, is what makes our story truly amazing. Because, if you are a betting man, the odds of three little pigs being able to mortally defeat an invincible foe like the big bad wolf through only our own craftiness and ingenuity would have to be something like 2000 to 1. Yet we do. However, the way we do it is different from what you have heard, as I mentioned before. So consider that fact to be aforementioned, and just let me tell you.

My younger brother, Porky (thank goodness I got named before they ran outta good ones…), got attacked first. The common narrative would lead you to believe this happened because he devoted the least amount of time to the construction of his home, and the wolf saw the vulnerability of the structure and decided to exploit it. What a load of bunk! The reason Porkchop got picked on first is because he built his home closest to the woods. He did this because he has always been a nature-loving pig who has felt a connection to his primal side and the ancient habitation grounds of his ancestors. Wanting to look directly upon God’s great green majesty every morning was the factor that put him most directly in harm’s way, not his preference for straw (which, I might add, is very common among animals raised in a barnyard). So, the wolf spotted Porko first, and ol’ Porksie fled when his domicile was compromised. And this next point is very important to note. Where did Porkbro flee to, when he got expelled from his home so violently? Did he run to the home of his oldest brother Snowball (better to have a name inspired by classic literature than mindless cartoon, imho, even if Snowball’s kinda douchey), knowing that Snowball was so wise and thorough in all of his preparations? No! He ran to see me. And why did he come to my home instead of Snowball’s? Because he knew that I was the only pig that could beat those 2000 to 1 odds. He ran to see me because I’m a freakin’ super pig!

So Porkball gets to my place, and the wolf is hot on his heels. Porkhole bursts in, sweating like a… well, you know… and hurriedly tells me what is up. But before I even have time to formulate a plan - BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, the wolf is pounding on my door. So now, understandably, I’m a little panicked! Give me a roll of duct tape, a box of sewing needles, and about 40 hours of preparation time and I can MacGyver my way outta any situation, but believe me this was im-promp-tu! So, thinking on the fly and knowing Snowball doesn’t stand a himself chance in H-E-double-hockey sticks, I actually think to quickly unscrew many of the support braces I had installed on the load-bearing joists in my home, thereby allowing the wolf to be able to blow the thing down. You see, I want him to exhaust himself with that effort and to run outta breath in the process. That way we can run to Snowball’s house quickly enough that the wolf won’t be able to catch us on the road. Smart, right? I learned all about oxygen debt when training for my first marathon. You gotta pace yourselves, kids. So anyways, he huffs and puffs and huffs and puffs and nearly hyperventilates (as planned) and blows my intentionally compromised house down, and Porks and I simultaneously take off outta the back door and scramble over to Snowball’s.

Now this is where the traditional story takes perhaps the biggest turn of them all. Usually, pig #3, the great Snowball, is the hero of the tale. “He works so hard…” He is so smart…” “Those other pigs were lazy and fun-loving…” I am so sick of those crap interpretations. Here, again and finally, is the aforementioned truth!

We get to Snowball’s home, and what do you suppose that stuck-up porker is doing? Well, let me tell you. He is standing in front of his phone, recording some dumb dance for prolly the 100th time, trying to get it just right before posting it to his Tik Tok page. You see, the only reason Snowball went to all of the effort to build his impenetrable house of bricks was because he wanted a material thick enough so that no sound would permeate out and opaque enough so no peeping eyes could peer in. Like so many youth of our misguided generation, he is under the illusion that an online persona and the anonymous “likes” that come with it are a substitute for actual fellowship and relations with others. The Porkster and I’ve been accused of being party pigs, but in reality, we just don’t own phones and we enjoy the company of others. This lost generation of tech addicts has tried to paint these admirable qualities in a negative light, calling us unmotivated and irresponsible, when in reality we are just Emersonian nonconformists aspiring to transcendent levels of enlightenment. Duh!

So anyways, we bust in on Snowball shaking what our mommy gave him, and he about craps one of his favorite building materials. Then, when we tell him a vicious predator is hot on our trotters… well, we coulda built a second house of bricks right then with what nearly spewed from his metaphorical anus (or metaphorically spewed from his actual anus?). Between nearly passing out from fright, trying to stop the recording on his phone, and his blubbering over “What’ll we do? What’ll we do? Blub, blub, blub…” Snowball was completely worthless. So, I took solid control. I slammed the door right before the wolf came knocking, I slapped Snowball right in the face and handed him a paper bag to get his hyper-ventilating under control (a breathing technique I learned when I became CPR and first-aid certified), and I even had the presence of mind to go right through Snowball’s cupboards to see if he had any food (remember, I am a starving pig still). I stumbled upon some carrots and a bitta something that looked like meat, which mighta just been a dead rat, and I threw it all in a pot with some water and got it boiling real quick. If I hafta save Snowball’s life, I reckon, the least he can do is comp me a meal. And what a meal it ended up being!

You see, despite the loud banging, I had practically forgotten that the wolf was outside. He wasn’t getting in, and I knew it, so I wasn’t worried about him anymore. Honestly, when dinner is cooking in the corner, I pretty much ignore everything else happening in the world. It’s a special pig talent I have. So imagine my pleasant surprise, right when my pot of water hits full boil, a real piece of juicy meat falls right into it! Talk about manna from Heaven! Down the chimney drops the frustrated wolf, up jump the flames of the surrounding fire, and a few minutes later down my throat goes the best meal I've had in my life! Brains over brawn baby, every time, and the hunter becomes the hunted, et cetera!

And that is pretty much the end. A few years later I ran into the boar I believed to be my absentee father, and I murdered and ate him too. I mean, stuff like that is a lot easier the second time, and pig tastes way better than wolf. I mean bacon, sausage, and pork chops? I get it humans. I’d eat me too. But, you are gonna have to catch me first, and I’m smarter than you think. If you ever get too close, I’ll just throw you a tablet with some Candy Crush on it and watch you get all distracted for a few hours. If I had thumbs I’d rule the world… but oh well. And now you know the real story, don’t you? It's like I said, truth is all about perspective.