"Hogs have little to no place here!" I squealed at the hog in a most hoggish tone, being a hog myself.
He only looked at me, blinking, uncomprehending. This hardly troubled me, though, for I have other means of dealing with such hoggery.
Have you heard of bacon? Or if you have not, are you at least partially familiar with the existence of bacon? And if not even this, can you at least swear to me in good faith that you have tasted bacon's sultry ichor?
The reason I ask is that bacon is one of my main methods of deterrence when the hogs come squealing round. They can't hardly bear the sight of bacon, and for good reason, for if a hog can endure the sight of a sizzling strip for even a simple second, he will have little recourse but to gobble it up with a quickness, so voracious is the kommon hogg.
To kounterakt thiss, the hoggic race has since time immemorial conditioned into themselves a primal aversion to the sight of the flesh of their own kind.
This, incidentally, is known as the Hoggic Master-farce, and please, for thine safety, as well as that of thine family, mention not this Master-farce in the market square, for it is a spot of sorest tenderness amongst the beings of this plane.
Ham Mogul Borlince is very possibly the saltiest of all regarding the aforementioned Master-farce, as his profits have been sundered in twain ever since. Do not feel too sorry for the mogul, though, as it is widely known that his true identity is none other than the nefarious, notorious, acrimonious . . . Rodney O'Jim.
Yes, that Rodney O'Jim. The circumcising assassin. The kneecap borrower. The orphan orphaner.
What kind of man orphans orphans? Taint it sorry enough they've been orphaned already, and then to go ahead and pile a further orphaning on top, like niblets on a sundae?
Krymes krymes krymes. When will it all stop? I know not. Folk's krymes know little to no bounds, most particularly when supervision is lacking.
For this reason I have taken it upon myself to supervise all things, so that none may get the jump on any other. Course, I spend most of this time with my premium diesel-powered telescope aimed at the anuses of the local maidens as they bathe in Hogge Streame, but I know my days cannot be more efficiently spent.
One thing which used to trouble me is that the maidens' fathers insist upon flanking me to all sides as I go about my urgent business by the stream, and while at first I thought they sought to dissuade me in my investigations, I am now of the mind that in fact they intend the opposite.
These powerful, lumbering men bring me tankards of diesel fuel, as well as oil for my telescope, services which I appreciate more than they can ever know. These brave men are my greatest supporters; the cheer me on, particularly when I am pursuing a particularly fruitful line of inquiry.
My intention is to thwart any wastrel who might harbor some designs on the anuses of these sweet maidens, and I strongly suspect that such an individual would go about this using some kind of robust telescope, most likely powered by premium diesel fuel.
You might think that my best bet would be to comb the surrounding woods with my own telescope for these wastrels, and I completely agree.
However, I feel it best that I first familiarize myself with the delicate goods I seek to protect, namely, the maiden's lithe anuses. So far, I have logged a mere ten thousand hours or so peering at the supple maidens, time sufficient to master any domain, and yet it is not enough. So imperative is the sanctity of these maiden's anuses that I feel strongly I must multiply this figure tenfold, thereby achieving "uber-mastery", but I fear even this may be insufficient.
The maidens' fathers agree with me wholeheartedly, as evidenced by their boisterous bellows of mirth and claps on my back whenever I launch into a lengthy justification of my long-term strategy.
At times, though, I have to wonder if they are not motivated by altogether more mercantile forces than the holy sanctity of their daughters' trapdoors.
You see, oftentimes as I scry upon the maidens, a sticky goop is vomited up by the pesky serpent which has been affixed to my pelvis for many years now. The fickle fathers are incredibly keen on said goop, and have filled over a quarter-million barrels with the stuff since my holy labors began. They become extremely coy when I bring up the topic, but my private investigator tells me the goop is being sold in the city as an exotic hair lubricant, which also doubles as toothpaste.
Such fiscal wiles fail to hold the meagerest candle to the dazzling genius of Rufus O'Boris, a phlegm merchant who practically brought the boys to a standstill when he unveiled his Konkoktion Komplet. This little number was said to kontain so many vitamins that a robust lumberjacker couldn't hardly swig it without ralfing to high heaven. Fancy that!
Now I'm no Steven Hawkums, nor an Alfonso Einsteen, but to my eye the so called Konkoktion Komplet was little more than unrefined sewage wedded to a bit of cinnamon, and contained as many nutrients as one could expect from such an unholy fusion.
Thank goshness Rufus O'Boris's kordial occupies a separate niche from my snake-goop, for the fathers have recently started kicking me five percent, their way of saying "Thanks for ensuring our daughters' sublime anuses remain unbeheld by telescope-touting kretins."
Their gratitude sometimes makes me feel slightly uncomfortable, and I wonder if this is caused by the secret I hoard from them most jealously . . . ?
You see, I have a great network of associates who look and smell very much like myself. To a man they are chronic telescopic voyeurs, and I have informed them all via post of the inexhaustible goldmine which keeps my pelvic serpent perpetually nauseous.
Already a number of them have emerged from their manholes and come scuttling over the land like ravenous timber wolves.
In effect, I amount to little more than a diversion for the fathers, who are eternally occupied with harvesting my goop, and can therefore pay little heed to the legions of troglodytes who, even as I pen these words, are eyeballing the sacred goods.
If only the naive fathers knew.
If only they could even conceive of the sacred geometries woven by our telescopic beams as they converge together in the frantic plunge towards the supple spring. Are they really so blind that they cannot see the myriad watchtowers jutting well above the canopy? These have become crucial, as the forest is hopelessly overcrowded, and I understand there is an emerging lens shortage in the metropolis.
Krymes krymes krymes. Did you know there is no such thing as a kryme? It's true! Even that which, according to the "world", amounts to the most grievous of krymes, is really no kryme at all, but actually amounts to a service of the highest order.
Speaking of the "world", I do not believe there is a world, and will happily descend to the mat with any sirrah who squeals otherwise.
I see no world. I see a fistful of undulating geometries, a delightful moving picture show of shape and color and sound, but no world. There is a film, a membrane, if you will, and on one side there is a world, and on the other side there is none. Once one has popped through said membrane, there is no desire ever to return to the fanciful days of world.
Sometimes, the body will interact with another body, and will behave and speak as if there is a world. This makes perfect sense, as the body actually remains on the side of the barrier where the world exists, and must behave suchlike, or else risk being flattened by a steamroller, ground into chum via wood chipper, or even packed into hundreds of sardine tins for a pretty profit.
This all being said, if you perpetrate even the most trifling of krymes on my watch, I and my lawful kohorts will see you transfigured.
We are justice incarnate. Make no mistake.
Particularly not the mistake of ceasing to read this, for this would amount to the most heinous error of them all.
It would also be a kryme, and even now myself and the boys are rattling our obese forms through your ventilation in case you should happen to err thusly.
Should you pause now in your perusal, even momentarily in order to scratch that pesky itch, we shall descend upon you from above like so many thirsty beavers, at which point we shall proceed to chastise you mightily using our specialized pistonic appendages.
Recently, the fathers have become frustrated with me, and I can hardly blame them.
It all started several weeks ago, when I realized that my telescope is simply not powerful enough to fully safeguard the bathing nymphs, and so I have employed my goop profits towards upgrading the magnification using an atomic oscillator.
Unfortunately, my head must be placed directly beside the fuse box, and a further neptunium nodule resides roughly at groin level. Since I spend an average of twenty-two or so hours each day pressed up against my telescope, I believe these recent nuclear upgrades are the cause of the fathers' emerging concerns.
It's the goop, you see. In the past week or so it has transformed from something resembling adhesive paste, to a sickly orange sludge, having the consistency of cottage cheese, and smelling indistinguishable from sauerkraut.
On the plus side, my output has increased dramatically, but the fickle fathers are not pleased. They have been forced to rebrand my goop as a facial cream, and at great expense.
Ah well, the demands of commerce. I have bigger, more nubile fish to fry.