Current mood: busy
The first thing my Creative Writing instructor wanted us to write. Here we go.
The Three Lil Pigs
Eighteen years. The age that Ma and Pa Pork kick their kids out of the pen. Eighteen years, or was it 18 months, or dare I say weeks. The point is that Mom's nipples are sore. Dad is having a midlife crisis about his fate.
Bacon, ham, pork chops, hopefully a seed giver. No matter Dad's fate, the folks have too much on their mind to deal with sharing space with the offspring.
They are pigs, and since I do not know of any prep schools for the non-kosher futured individuals, I assume they were home schooled. Regardless of how they obtained their educations, it is safe to say they lacked the tools for an adequate one.
So with the neglect of their parents leading the three little pigs to the wild, from a Darwinian stand point, they do not seem fit to survive.
But survive they must, and one think each thought they knew was how to watch their own backside. It was a mutual agreement that they decided to go their separate ways in search of shelter, food, phat booty, and the American way.
I don't know if I'll get a chance to finish this tale, so if someone could write the tale of the first pig, I'd appreciate it.
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