Just in case you’re wondering how us writers make all this shit up, let me tell you — truth is indeed stranger than fiction. Case in point: I was once a guest in the house of an eighty year old woman. She lived alone and had thousands, THOUSANDS, of little pig figurines all over her house. You couldn’t even move in that little house without bumping into a pig. There were pink pigs, white pigs, polka-dotted pigs, teacup pigs, cartoon pigs, realistic-looking pigs, she even had a real pet pig tied up out in her backyard. I asked her what the story was with all the pigs. This is what she told me:
“I once got electrocuted. This was forty years ago. I was washing dishes at my kitchen sink during an electrical storm. The lightning shot inside my house, hit me directly on top of the head, rammed through my body, shot out my butt and burned the oven directly behind me.
When I woke up two minutes later, there was a burned circle in the back of my dress and the oven was smoking. I called an ambulance and passed out again. Next time I opened my eyes, I was in the hospital and my hair was curly. A doctor told me that lightning had completely burnt up my rectum and I was going to have to have an asshole transplant.
They gave me a pig asshole. Because, as the doctor told me, “A pig is the closest thing to a human.”
During my recuperation from the pig asshole transplant, people didn’t send flowers. They sent me pig figurines. They thought that was funny, I guess, I don’t know. But the idea caught on and that’s how I got to be the world’s foremost collector of little pig statues. They even wrote me up in that Guinness world record book. Just goes to show you that out of every bad, there’s something good.
Well, there is one other good thing… When I fart, it smells like bacon.”
True story. You just can’t make this stuff up.