PIG is more than a pit-stop on a cyberspace byway. It's more than We the PIGs. It's more than the pictures and prose that we've deployed over the years. PIG (including being a PIGster) is an ATTITUDE. It's an attitude that's always on-line, running the sights, sounds and experiences of your life through the a special PIGish filter in your brain. You can't turn it off. You can't ignore the PIGish notions which pop into your head. You CAN, however, decide what to do with those notions. It's that last point which spawned this pagan scribbling.
When I unleash my PIGishness on the richly deserving, I call it 'Spreading My Special Brand of Joy'. For me, the rules of engagement are minimal, and straightforward.
• Since a Hambo in Hambo's clothing would greatly reduce my opportunities, I put on my Clark Kent facade, when I venture out of the PIG Bunker.
• When a 'Hambo' opportunity arises, I do a quick analysis. If it won't jeopardize my livelihood, and isn't going to turn me into a crime statistic, it's 'all systems go'.
• Friends and family are 'fair game', but don't get bummed if the relationship inhibits your PIGish outburst.
• When the 'recipient' of your Special Brand of Joy is a stranger, it has 'Top Ten PIGish Moments' potential.
Here are some real deal magic Hambo moments:
• It happened while I was toiling at a customer site and one of the customer's employees lobbed a rhetorical floater in my direction. It was too good to pass up, so I went into emergency enlightenment mode and pummeled the floater out of the park.
It began, simply enough, while she was planning her trip to the county fair. Exploring the many attractions which were touted on the fair's Internet site, she went non-clinically bonkers over - you'll have to imagine her high pitched squeals - pig races. She gushed. She tittered. She cooed. She sighed. She gushed again.
Eventually, she noticed my singular lack of enthusiasm over pig races.
Her: "It's PIG RACES!"
Me: "I left my thrilled spitless over PIG RACES in my other pants."
Her: "But the little piggies are so CUTE!"
Me: "I left my 'they're so CUTE' in my other pants, too."
Her: "I'll bet you've never seen a PIG race."
Her: "I don't believe you."
Me: "The last PIG race I saw happened when a herd of 'size positive' sows stampeded at the all you can eat buffet."
Suitably enlightened, she walked away.
• I was doing some Hambo things in front of the bunker, when I spotted my next door neighbor. She looked me over and asked me if I'd lost some weight.
Without claiming to be a lean, mean, word-wrangling, machine, I responded with the Hambo equivalent of 'yup'.
She asked me for my secret.
Since the truth - chasing Hooters hotties - didn't seem suitable to the occasion, I gave her the usual shuck and jive about 'no seconds', 'no late evening/nighttime snacks'.
Satisfied with my response, she opined that her hubby needed to shed a ton or two. Warming to the subject, she complained that, having an office in his home was turning him into a lump. Full of wifely disapproval, she threatened to impose mandatory evening walks, if he didn't get with the program.
I told her it was a workable plan, but not the ideal cure for what ailed him. I then explained that she needed to invest in a cattle prod with three settings: "First Warning", "You've been sitting there all day", "You haven't moved from that spot in a week". Alarmed by her 'make my day, lard butt' smirk, I warned her that she would need to build up to the 'haven't moved in a week' setting, since it might have an adverse effect on his ticker.
She thanked me for my suggestion, sounding like she would give it serious consideration.
I assured her that - like a gun - just having the cattle prod, brandishing it as needed, would send the message and might save her from having to zap him.
She nodded, turned to leave, then, bowing to my vast wisdom, asked if I had any suggestions for wrangling her rambunctious grandchildren.
Without missing I beat, I told her, "Stun gun."
She was still basking in my compelling pagan wisdom, when I returned to the bunker.
I'll warm up your PIGishness with these gems. Relax there are no wrong answers.
• You're out in public and you get caught ogling a wench's bra-busting cleavage. How do you handle that awkward moment?
A. "Chill, darlin', I'm still recovering from that terminally 'jiggly', Baywatch marathon on the Neanderthal Channel."
B. "Do you know someplace where I can buy those in a 36C? My brother-in-law is turning into a real Girlieman."
C. "That reminds me, I need to get some milk at the store on my way home."
D. "I must say you're an udderly delightful wench."
• You're out in public when your main squeeze goes bonkers over a buffed stud whose impressive bulge is impossible to ignore. How do you handle it?
A. "That reminds me, dear, I need to stop by the store and buy some sweatsocks."
B. "His sweetie, Bubba, won't like you ogling his man like that."
C. "Your drooling and heavy breathing is scaring the tykes."
D. "Fred's Clydesdale is standing stud. Do you want me to book you some quality time with the brute?"
• A friend, neighbor or relative starts talking about her adult son who still lives at home. How do you handle it?
A. "How the hell is basement boy doing these days?"
B. "I haven't seen that homo since that night he swished down Main Street dressed only in your garter belt."
C. "He makes a vivid impression. He's gotta be the only person in human history who incurred Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from a paper cut. And 'they' said he'd never amount to anything."
D. "Now that he's reached, and surmounted, the ripe old age of 30, don't you think it's time to stop breastfeeding him?"
• Some clueless alleged adult - this one works best with a member of your immediate family such as sibling, your married offspring, or your own wife - foolishly, lets you ride herd on some young (rugrats are preferred) tyke(s).
Choice 1: You pass up a chance to deploy time-released word mines.
Choice 2: You work on eager Little Johnny or Moonbeam, teaching them to respond to certain trigger words with PIGish responses. You'll find our PIG Advice page ideal for this one. For example words related to auto repair would have your talented student say "Never trust your car to an auto mechanic whose favorite tool is a hammer." The trigger phrase 'trying out a new recipe' sets off this word mine: "INCOMING!!!!" When a far from amused parent admonishes your student for their PIGish wisdom, train your scholar to respond: "Words only have as much power as the listener bestows on them."
[I predict that you'll learn to love planting word mines, because they're the gift that keeps on giving.]
• If you have a libertard Moonbat family member - a cousin, aunt or uncle is ideal - preferably one who isn't up to speed on your PIGster proclivities, you have a shot at properly PIGish fun.
Choice 1: You play it straight, pass up your 'opportunities', then kick yourself, repeatedly, afterwards, for passing up several chances.
Choice 2: Deploy some PIGisms - you'll know which ones will work best for that individual - then wait for him, her, himher, or it to react, which they probably will. I did it with a feminazi Egghead cousin, and it worked like a charm. She got pissy about 'wench', saying: "I don't appreciate that kind of language." I hit her between the eyes with this gem from the PIG Doctrine: The exaggerated sensitivities of others are not my responsibility, nor do their hurt feelings empower them to abolish my right to free speech. She stared, mouthed a few words, then beat a hasty retreat. Later, while chatting with my mother she said, "Your son and I had a very interesting conversation."
Here are some chats laced with Pigishness.
• Kid: "What's a safe space, dad?"
Dad: "Something I'm going to need when you mother sees the mess I made in the kitchen."
Kid: "Did you call a plumber?"
Dad: "Yes, but mom gets here first."
Kid: "Uh oh."
Dad: "I think it's time to teach you a new term: protective custody."
• Your teenage son frowns at the prominent bulge in his pants. "Why does it do that?"
Dad: "God has a twisted sense of humor."
"It's embarrassing. It makes girls laugh."
Dad: "There will come a time in your life when you'll call these the good old days."
"I don't understand."
Dad: "Good. Go take care of it."
• Kid : Watching me pay a princely sum for a pack of smokes, " You don't smoke. Why do you buy them?"
Dad: "I do it for the children."
Kid: "The children? How?"
Dad: "Every cigarette tax increase swears it's for the children?"
Kid: "Is it for the kids?"
Dad: "The Nanny State says it's my patriotic duty to buy cigarettes but not smoke them."
Kid: "That's dumb."
Dad: "I agree. I carry them to drive moonbat libs like your Uncle Jack crazy."
Kid: " Now I get it."
• Your wenchlet daughter throws you this curve ball, "Daddy, why is that strange boy, Tommy Wilson, allowed to use the girl's bathroom? Teacher called it something silly...trans something."
"That's it, what does it mean daddy?"
By all means, field that one daddy, but remember that inconvenient truth. Whatever you tell her will be repeated at school, so something real like "Tommy has always been a twisted little twerp" or "Like his daddy, Tommy likes to pretend he's a girl" will thrill the cess-school spitless. Welcome to the wonderful world of 'my daddy said', dude.
• A Middle School age daughter sets her laptop on the kitchen table where mom is having her morning coffee. "Can you help me set up my Facebook page? I'm having trouble picking a gender."
Mom smiles that 'you silly girl' smile. "You're a girl sweetheart. The correct choice is female."
"That's not on the list mom."
"It has to be. There are only two."
"They have 56 and female isn't one of them."
After studying the choices, mom looks stunned. "What did your father say?"
Giggling, baby girl rolls her eyes. "You won't let me say stuff like that. Let's just say it was...colorful."
"Leave it blank. With a name like Jennifer Elaine, we'll let your 'friends' do the math."
"Maybe I'll change it every day. I'll start at the top and work my way down the list. Or I could just pick one at random, every day. Thanks mom."
• Your son looks at his Little League trophy then drops it in the trash can, asking, "Why does everyone get a trophy? Even Ruben got one and he can't even walk to first base without falling down.
Your move parenting Sparky.
"Little League is stupid. They won't let us keep score and nobody ever wins. What's the point?"
He already gets it, so getting real with "Little League is run by a bunch of lefties who have their heads up their ass." is PIGish and too true.
Don't even get me started on adventures in Zero Tolerance, where finger guns, sharing mom's homemade cookies with classmates, and chewing your Pop Tart into the shape of a gun get your tyke suspended. If you can make your young 'un understand that, I'm very impressed.
That's enough PIGish fun for now. Ideally, I goaded some of you into road testing your PIGishness. Spread the joy. Why? It's fun.
If, despite my best efforts, you're still hanging back, so be it. I'll still deploy my MISSION ACCOMPLISHED banner, if I made you laugh.