Once upon a time there was a curious man from China who wore a magical pair of glasses. Everywhere he looked he saw things other people could not see


(Chapters One and Two)

Slap, squish, squeal, squat.

The redundant rhythm underscored the futility of the vulgar exercise. Again and again he would slap her backside with his pole, her soft underbelly would squish into the mud, she would squeal and squat deeper into the slimy surface. If only his pole was a little longer and sturdier he might be able to get her to move. But the piglet was determined never to give way to his thrusts.

“Move you slimy pig! Get your bloody ass into gear or I’ll serve you to the whole Virgin Brigade on a spit!” 

Her resistance sent him into a rage. He was a recognized friend of the PLA and she was a worthless pig. He knew if he kept thrusting hard enough, sooner or later he would prevail.

“OK bitch. Here’s one for your bloody Chairman!”

With all the passion of a Marxist martyr, every sinew stiffened, he skillfully aimed his battered pole at her most vulnerable spot and fell on her in an avalanche of  youthful rage.

Suddenly she was up and running. Maybe it was the the force of his rage, the threat of being barbequed or maybe just the mention of the master’s name, but something got her off her ass and into action. For all her stubborn delay, her final submission came all too quickly. With the full weight of his body thrown into the thrust of the pole, her quick jerk upwards sent him sprawling into the wretched mud.

The words “Damn shitty pig” rose from his throat but what came out of his mud caked mouth sounded more like “Dung shall ping!”

He sat up, still feeling the squish of the mud crawling up his ass, and thoughtlessly wiped the filth from his face with the ragged paper stuck inside his mangy shirt. Even without his glasses he could see the errant piglet now suckling her mother’s teat like one of God’s favored creatures.

“Great! She gets the tit and I get the shit!”

Somehow he knew that even with his glasses this disgusting view would not improve.

He muttered, this time coherently, “Finding flowers in the dung isn’t so easy when you’re the one wallowing in it.”

(Chapter four)