Jane’s Addiction CD featuring the song Pigs in Zen, 1987 the Triple X album (mixed media photo still) by tabbyrenelle, February 2023.
“Pigs in Zen” by Jane’s Addiction Jane’s Addiction (Live) ℗ 1987 Triple X Records. Provided to YouTube by The Orchard Enterprises. Lyrics: Pig’s in the mud When he tires Pig’s in zen Pig’s in zen Pig is nude Unashamed Pig’s in zen Pig’s in zen Talkin bout the pig The pig The pig – uh Pa-pa-pa-pa-pig Goddamned pig Pig mounts sow When he’s wound Pig’s in zen Pig’s in zen Pig eats shit But only when he hungers Pig’s in zen Pig’s in zen Talkin bout the pig The pig The pig – uh Pa-pa-pa-pa-pig God damned pig Oh, I know about war But I just wanna fuck I know about pain and suffering and being cold But I just wanna fuck The pig is led to the slaughter Pig is led to the slaughter This he says Is the price some pay For a simple life How he feels That’s proof for him Pig’s in zen Talkin bout the pig The pig The pig The pig The pig The pig God damned pig The pig – uh Pa-pa-pa-pa-pig
“Eating the Pig”
By Donald Hall
🐷
“Eating the Pig,” by Donald Hall, appeared in the Winter 2018 issue of MQR, a special issue dedicated to Poetry at Michigan. The accompanying photo essay by Sarah Innes, “Forgotten Photographs from the Feast That Occasioned Donald Hall’s ‘Eating the Pig,'” featured pictures taken by her late husband, Stephen Blos, at the dinner on which the poem was based. Writes Innes:
"I climbed the steps to their corner apartment on a dark Sunday evening. Everybody had made an effort to dress up. The table was set with an Indian print bedspread, mismatched goblets, and tall candles. The pig was shiny and striped like a tiger, with an apple clenched in his teeth, and surrounded by fruit stuffing…"
These eating_the_pig_photos(and more) were on view at Hatcher Graduate Library in October of 2018 as part of its “Eating The Pig: A Dinner Party in Poetry, Photography and Painting” exhibit. Curated by Sarah Innes, the exhibit previously appeared at the Ann Arbor District Library.
🐷
“Eating the Pig”
By Donald Hall
🐷
Twelve people, most of us strangers, stand in a room
in Ann Arbor, drinking Cribari from jars.
Then two young men, who cooked him,
carry him to the table
on a large square of plywood: his body
striped, like a tiger cat’s, from the basting,
his legs long, much longer than a cat’s,
and the striped hide as shiny as vinyl.
Now I see his head, as he takes his place
at the center of the table,
his wide pig’s head; and he looks like the javelina
that ran in front of the car, in the desert outside Tucson,
and I am drawn to him, my brother the pig,
with his large ears cocked forward,
with his tight snout, with his small ferocious teeth
in a jaw propped open
by an apple. How bizarre, this raw apple clenched
in a cooked face! Then I see his eyes,
his eyes cramped shut, his no-eyes, his eyes like X’s
in a comic strip, when the character gets knocked out.
This afternoon they read directions
from a book: The eyeballs must be removed
or they will burst during roasting. So they hacked them out.
“I nearly fainted,” says someone.
“I never fainted before, in my whole life.”
Then they gutted the pig and stuffed him,
and roasted him five hours, basting the long body.
* * *
Now we examine him, exclaiming, and we marvel at him—
but no one picks up a knife.
Then a young woman cuts off his head.
It comes off so easily, like a detachable part.
With sudden enthusiasm we dismantle the pig,
we wrench his trotters off, we twist them
at shoulder and hip, and they come off so easily.
Then we cut open his belly and pull the skin back.
For myself, I scoop a portion of left thigh,
moist, tender, falling apart, fat, sweet.
We forage like an army starving in winter
that crosses a pass in the hills and discovers
a valley of full barns—
cattle fat and lowing in their stalls,
bins of potatoes in root cellars under white farmhouses.
barrels of cider, onions, hens squawking over eggs—
and the people nowhere, with bread still warm in the oven.
Maybe, south of the valley, refugees pull their carts
listening for Stukas or elephants, carrying
bedding, pans, and silk dresses,
old men and women, children, deserters, young wives.
No, we are here, eating the pig together.
* * *
In ten minutes, the destruction is total.
His tiny ribs, delicate as birds’ feet, lie crisscrossed.
Or they are like crosshatching in a drawing,
lines doubling and redoubling on each other.
Bits of fat and muscle
mix with stuffing alien to the body,
walnuts and plums. His skin, like a parchment bag
soaked in oil, is pulled back and flattened,
with ridges and humps remaining, like a contour map,
like the map of a defeated country.
The army consumes every blade of grass in the valley,
every tree, every stream, every village,
every crossroad, every shack, every book, every graveyard.
His intact head
swivels around, to view the landscape of body
as if in dismay.
“For sixteen weeks I lived. For sixteen weeks
I took into myself nothing but the milk of my mother
who rolled on her side for me,
for my brothers and sisters. Only five hours roasting,
and this body so quickly dwindles away to nothing.”
* * *
By itself, isolated on this plywood,
among this puzzle of foregone possibilities,
his intact head seems to want affection.
Without knowing that I will do it,
I reach out and scratch his jaw,
and I stroke him behind his ears,
as if he might suddenly purr from his cooked head.
“When I stroke your pig’s ears,
and scratch the striped leather of your jowls,
the furrow between the sockets of your eyes,
I take into myself, and digest,
wheat that grew between
the Tigris and the Euphrates rivers.
“And I take into myself the flint carving tool,
and the savannah, and hairs in the tail
of Eohippus, and fingers of bamboo,
and Hannibal’s elephant, and Hannibal,
and everything that lived before us, everything born,
exalted, and dead, and historians who carved in the Old Kingdom
when the wall had not heard about China.”
I speak these words
into the ear of the Stone Age pig, the Abraham
pig, the ocean pig, the Achilles pig,
and into the ears
of the fire pig that will eat our bodies up.
“Fire, brother and father,
twelve of us, in our different skins, older and younger,
opened your skin together
and tore your body apart, and took it
into our bodies.”
A “You Are What You Eat” mixed media photo still (featuring Donald Hall’s, The Selected Poems of Donald Hall, Poet Laureate of the United States, 2006 to 2007) by tabbyrenelle, January 2023
“Eating The Pig” and “Dinner for Few” homage: Cat and Pig, a “You Are What You Eat” mixed media photo still (featuring Donald Hall, The Selected Poems Book Cover in background) by tabbyrenelle, January 2023
The Three Little Pigs
by Roald Dahl
(1982)
🐷 👛 🐺
The animal I really dig,
Above all others is the pig.
Pigs are noble. Pigs are clever,
Pigs are courteous. However,
Now and then, to break this rule,
One meets a pig who is a fool.
What, for example, would you say,
If strolling through the woods one day,
Right there in front of you you saw
A pig who'd built his house of STRAW?
The Wolf who saw it licked his lips,
And said, 'That pig has had his chips.'
'Little pig, little pig, let me come in!'
'No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!'
'Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!'
The little pig began to pray,
But Wolfie blew his house away.
He shouted, 'Bacon, pork and ham!
Oh, what a lucky Wolf I am!'
And though he ate the pig quite fast,
He carefully kept the tail till last.
Wolf wandered on, a trifle bloated.
Surprise, surprise, for soon he noted
Another little house for pigs,
And this one had been built of TWIGS!
'Little pig, little pig, let me come in!'
'No, no, by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!'
'Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house in!'
The Wolf said, 'Okay, here we go!'
He then began to blow and blow.
The little pig began to squeal.
He cried, 'Oh Wolf, you've had one meal!
Why can't we talk and make a deal?
The Wolf replied, 'Not on your nelly!'
And soon the pig was in his belly.
'Two juicy little pigs!' Wolf cried,
'But still I'm not quite satisfied!
I know how full my tummy's bulging,
But oh, how I adore indulging.'
So creeping quietly as a mouse,
The Wolf approached another house,
A house which also had inside
A little piggy trying to hide.
'You'll not get me!' the Piggy cried.
'I'll blow you down!' the Wolf replied.
'You'll need,' Pig said, 'a lot of puff,
And I don't think you've got enough.'
Wolf huffed and puffed and blew and blew.
The house stayed up as good as new.
'If I can't blow it down,' Wolf said,
I'll have to blow it up instead.
I'll come back in the dead of night
And blow it up with dynamite!'
Pig cried, 'You brute! I might have known!'
Then, picking up the telephone,
He dialed as quickly as he could
The number of red Riding Hood.
'Hello,' she said. 'Who's speaking? Who?
Oh, hello, Piggy, how d'you do?'
Pig cried, 'I need your help, Miss Hood!
Oh help me, please! D'you think you could?'
'I'll try of course,' Miss Hood replied.
'What's on your mind...?' 'A Wolf!' Pig cried.
'I know you've dealt with wolves before,
And now I've got one at my door!'
'My darling Pig,' she said, 'my sweet,
That's something really up my street.
I've just begun to wash my hair.
But when it's dry, I'll be right there.'
A short while later, through the wood,
Came striding brave Miss Riding Hood.
The Wolf stood there, his eyes ablaze,
And yellowish, like mayonnaise.
His teeth were sharp, his gums were raw,
And spit was dripping from his jaw.
Once more the maiden's eyelid flickers.
She draws the pistol from her knickers.
Once more she hits the vital spot,
And kills him with a single shot.
Pig, peeping through the window, stood
And yelled, 'Well done, Miss Riding Hood!'
Ah, Piglet, you must never trust
Young ladies from the upper crust.
For now, Miss Riding Hood, one notes,
Not only has two wolfskin coats,
But when she goes from place to place,
She has a PIGSKIN TRAVELING CASE.
🐷 👛 💅🏻
This poem was published in Revolting Rhymes,
a collection of six Roald Dahl poems published in 1982.
Pink Floyd CD interior and Liner Notes cover art for the 2018 Remix of Animals, featuring the songs: Pigs On The Wing 1, Dogs, Pigs (Three Different Ones), and Pigs on the Wing 2 with mixed media (Bacon Strips by Old World Christmas Ornaments and pages 48-49 from “The Old Woman and Her Pig” retold by Vera Southgate, illustrated by Robert Lumley for the 1973, well-loved tales, Ladybird Easy Reader books) photo still by tabbyrenelle, January 7, 2023 in Homage to the Full Moon, a.k.a Wolf Moon.
“The Big Bad” Howling Wolf and Full Moon Face (by Old World Christmas Ornaments) and The Three Little Piggy Ballerinas (by Kurt Adler Christmas Ornaments) photo still by tabbyrenelle, January 7, 2023, in Homage of the Full Moon, a.k.a. Wolf Moon. FYI about The Full Moon Cycle which began on January 6, 2023: https://www.almanac.com/content/full-moon-january
‘Dogs’ from Pink Floyds tenth studio album ‘Animals’ originally released in 1977. Lyrics: You gotta be crazy, you gotta have a real need You gotta sleep on your toes, and when you’re on the street You gotta be able to pick out the easy meat with your eyes closed And then moving in silently, down wind and out of sight You gotta strike when the moment is right without thinking And after a while, you can work on points for style Like the club tie, and the firm handshake A certain look in the eye and an easy smile You have to be trusted by the people that you lie to So that when they turn their backs on you, You’ll get the chance to put the knife in You gotta keep one eye looking over your shoulder You know it’s going to get harder, and harder, and harder as you get older And in the end you’ll pack up and fly down south Hide your head in the sand, Just another sad old man All alone and dying of cancer And when you loose control, you’ll reap the harvest you have sown And as the fear grows, the bad blood slows and turns to stone And it’s too late to lose the weight you used to need to throw around So have a good drown, as you go down, all alone Dragged down by the stone (stone, stone, stone, stone, stone) I gotta admit that I’m a little bit confused Sometimes it seems to me as if I’m just being used Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise If I don’t stand my own ground, how can I find my way out of this maze? Deaf, dumb, and blind, you just keep on pretending That everyone’s expendable and no-one has a real friend And it seems to you the thing to do would be to isolate the winner And everything’s done under the sun And you believe at heart, everyone’s a killer Who was born in a house full of pain Who was trained not to spit in the fan Who was told what to do by the man Who was broken by trained personnel Who was fitted with collar and chain Who was given a pat on the back Who was breaking away from the pack Who was only a stranger at home Who was ground down in the end Who was found dead on the phone Who was dragged down by the stone
*ABOUT ANIMALS 2018 REMIX’* The individual versions of Pink Floyd’s iconic album ‘Animals 2018 Remix’ will be available to purchase from 16th September on CD, LP, Blu-ray and SACD in stunning 5.1 Surround Sound for the first time ever. The Deluxe Gatefold version includes LP, CD, audio Blu-ray, audio DVD and a 32-page book. The Blu-ray and DVD audio include the 2018 remix in Stereo, 5.1 Surround (both by James Guthrie) and the original 1977 Stereo mix. The 32-page booklet features rarely seen behind the scenes photographs of the album sleeve shoot along with live images and memorabilia. The album artwork has been reimagined for this release. Animals is a concept album, focusing on the social-political conditions of mid-1970s Britain, and was a change from the style of the band’s earlier work. The album was developed from a collection of unrelated songs into a concept which describes the apparent social and moral decay of society, likening the human condition to that of animals. Taking inspiration from George Orwell’s Animal Farm, the album depicts the different classes of people as animals with pigs being at the top of the social chain, dropping down to the sheep as the mindless herd following what they are told, with dogs as the business bosses getting fat on the money and power they hold over the other. Although it’s been a long time since 1977, the narrative of the album still resonates today as our social and economical situation mirrors that of the time. The album’s iconic cover shows an inflatable pig (now known as Algie) floating between two chimneys of the Battersea Power Station, conceived by Roger Waters, and designed by long-time collaborator Storm Thorgerson of Hipgnosis Studios. For this new release, the artwork has been re-designed for the modern era by Storm’s Hipgnosis partner Aubrey ‘Po’ Powell. Taking new shots of the building as it appeared during the recent conversion work, Po experimented with new angles and produce some striking new takes on the classic original. Po elaborates: “With the original 1977 album cover being such an iconic piece of stand-alone art, I had the chance to update it, which was a rather daunting task, but Hipgnosis took the opportunity to re photograph the image to reflect a changing world, and by using modern digital colouring techniques I kept Pink Floyd’s rather bleak message of moral decay using the Orwellian themes of animals, the pig ‘Algie’, faithful to the message of the album.”Old World Christmas Ornaments: Howling Wolf and Full Moon Face photo by tabbyrenelle January 2023
Pigs On The Wing 2 (2018 Remix) · Pink Floyd Animals (2018 Remix) ℗ Pink Floyd (1987) Ltd. Lyrics: You know that I care what happens to you And I know that you care for me too So I don’t feel alone Or the weight of the stone Now that I’ve found somewhere safe To bury my bone And any fool knows a dog needs a home A shelter from pigs on the wing Three Little Pigs (Ballerinas) Ornaments by Kurt Adler. Photo by tabbyrenelle, January 2023.
A chicken is dead in the shade beneath the coop, of what I don’t know. The soft down around her vent shows no blood. I crawl beneath the house on the hardened ground among the living birds to drag her stiff body out by a foot. I carry her hanging this way to the pig pen and drop her in, her wings catching air before her dead weight thumps down in the mud. She’s pig food now. Finally, the phantom of some chicken in the pen is real.
Three of the pigs are dressed appropriately in black, the fourth is spotted. One of them gets ahold of the chicken, parading it nervously through the pen, away from its littermates. The chicken is dropped and dragged through the wallow until its entire body turns from sienna plumage to a hard impenetrable mud brown. Finally, a black pig bites at her head. A crack. Either the beak or skull is crushed and the first taste of food leaks out of her.
There is the unpleasant task of plucking to be done with the mouths of these lumbering omnivores, but they parse through the feathers into breast. Now livid pink emerges from mud. The colors are changing fast. Spots stretches out the wing bone and begins to strip the flesh away. A black pig runs on stocky legs to a corner with the crumpled head and neck, separated now, to ingest all to himself. This act of wild eating makes them look even fatter than they are.
“This Little Piggy Broke Bread” Sugar-Cookie Pig, (baked goods, mixed media, photo) by tabbyrenelle, January 2023.
“This Little Piggy Disappeared Without a Trace” (bakers decorating gel, chalk, mixed media, photo) by tabbyrenelle, January 2023
“Pulse Queen” Written by Esjay Jones and Lucas D’Angelo Performed by (We Are) PIGS (www.wearepigsband.com) Produced / Engineered by Esjay Jones (www.esjayjones.com) Vocals by Esjay Jones Guitars by Lucas D’Angelo Additional Guitars by Ben Young Mix by Lucas D’Angelo Mastered by Maor Appelbaum at Maor Appelbaum Mastering – California – U.S.A Lyric video / Artwork and graphic design by Dean Roberts / Layla Vegas Animation by Dave the Creator.
Hey fool Hey new comer Talk big, no tone Touch machine So inviting With a taste for soil Ah, there’s goes the pulse queen You cannot fool me Take a picture in the red G Don’t forget another selfie Ah, there goes the pulse queen You cannot school me See the stains in your gold teeth Yeah I’ll pass up on your fake scene Hey pretender Talk cheap, walk bold Silver spoon, with no money Such a waste of foil Ah, there’s goes the pulse queen You cannot fool me Take a picture in the red G Don’t forget another selfie Ah, there goes the pulse queen You cannot school me See the stains in your gold teeth Yeah I’ll pass up on your fake scene Ah, there’s goes the pulse queen You cannot fool me Take a picture in the red G Don’t forget another selfie Ah, there goes the pulse queen You cannot school me See the stains in your gold teeth Yeah I’ll pass up on your fake scene Ah, there’s goes the pulse queen You cannot fool me Take a picture in the red G Don’t forget another selfie Ah, there goes the pulse queen You cannot school me See the stains in your gold teeth Yeah I’ll pass up on your fake scene
~ A Simple Cup of Tea ~
There is a brand of tea that insists on talking to me. I don't read leaves. Nothing like that. The Yogi staples his paper tea tags to the tea bag strings so I might read them like fortune cookies. He rewrites and paraphrases flits of wisdom to make them his own. So the tea bag says to me, "Beauty bestows grace."
"Okay, yeah." I sigh. I'm irritated. I hate being dealt the fucking beauty card. You know, and Grace? She takes it up the ass with a smile... Bible tells her so and everybody fighting for flag and country... women and children first to be seen and not heard... Amazing.
I honestly don't know how much beauty I actually got because everybody has a different gold standard.
I like rust. Rust is beautiful, you ask me.
Grace~ what does she do? She puts up with it unto death and manages immortality, if not her freedom. 'Course once she chooses to commit, and that's where beauty bestows grace, weakness becomes fiber. The very stuff principles get based on and morally propagated by. Admiration swollen by pride, grants the Lady her pedestal. Got me an ode, coming to mind.
You must pay homage. Pay. Toll keepers and tax ledgers and something 'bout incentives. Pay heed. Pay.
I wanna slang you around and upside yer head, Yogi. I talk like that for reasons of Grace.
Tie me on an apron.
A watched pot does too boil.
What you want for your tea is an off boil though. Something just shy. Bring out the full flavor, rather than scalding it to death.
Tea bags are not yer best bet. No sir. Probably been sold grass clippings and sawdust to bulk up the net weight.
Them Japanese ceremonies take time. You gotta ladle water over your hands and take off your shoes and crawl through a hole and sit on your knees and bow and turn the picture on your cup toward your hostess after she shows you how to sip and then you gotta share a story. Tea is not a drink. It's a practice.
You want your future told, three coins might be easier than a jumble of yarrow, but without understanding how to make one sip three sips in one, you gonna go and diss the Chinese spirits. It don't suit fools to wake 'em up for boorish chaos no matter if it's expected of fools. 'Cuz if you neglect the Qigong, then how you gonna know how to operate yer big dipper? I-Ching divines over tea to refine the universal laws of men. Grace belongs sure enough, if only to illuminate her part of the mountain. Sometime~ she only ever the vanity of a beard. Leastwise she ain't ruthless. Insists on a return to simplicity. That's how you taste the tea.
I like mud. Mud is beautiful.
Slabbing clay supposed to be wedging slabs, for coiling snakes into pinch pots, what makes a cup.
Riverbanks of mud and fire kilns can work together, keeping in mind their separate natures. Temper, temper, Grace.
She pours.
“This Little Piggy Had Tea” (mixed media, still life) by tabbyrenelle, January 2023
“Grace” (music audio) Ministry KE*A*H** (Psalm 69) ℗ 1992 Sire/Warner Records Inc. Guitar, Keyboards, Organ, Vocals: Alain Jourgensen Programmer: H. Beno Unknown: J. C Newell Guitar: Louis Svitek Keyboards, Programmer: M Bolch Guitar: Mike Scaccia Bass, Programmer, Vocals: Paul Barker Unknown: Paul Manno Drums: William Rieflin Writer: MINISTRY FYI: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psalm_69
“If 6 Was 9” (music audio) The Jimi Hendrix Experience Experience Hendrix: The Best Of Jimi Hendrix ℗ 2009 Experience Hendrix L.L.C., under exclusive license to Sony Music Entertainment Released on: 2022-10-26 Composer: Jimi Hendrix Producer: Chas Chandler Engineer, Re- Mastering Engineer: Eddie Kramer Re- Mastering Engineer: George Marino. Provided to YouTube by Legacy Recordings.
Lyrics:
Yeah Sing the song, bro
If the sun refused to shine I don’t mind, I don’t mind (Yeah) If the mountains fell in the sea Let it be, it ain’t me (Alright)
Got my own world to look through and uh And I ain’t gonna copy you
Yes, now if six turned out to be nine I don’t mind, I don’t mind If all the hippies cut off all their hair I don’t care, I don’t care, dig
‘Cause I got my own world to live through and uh And I ain’t gonna copy you
White collared conservative flashing down the street Pointing their plastic finger at me, huh They’re hoping soon my kind will drop and die But I’m gonna wave my freak flag high, high, oh
Wave on, wave on
Fall mountains, just don’t fall on me Go ahead on, Mr. Businessman, you can’t dress like me
Nobody know what I’m talking about I got my own life to live I’m the one that’s going to die when it’s time for me to die So let me live my life the way I want to There, sing on, brother Play on, drummer
vintage Happy New Year (Good Year) postcard from France
Animal Farm
by George Orwell
(1945)
(Excerpt from Chapter One)
Old Major cleared his throat and began to sing. As he had said, his voice was hoarse, but he sang well enough, and it was a stirring tune, something between Clementine and La Cucaracha. The words ran:
Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken to my joyful tidings
Of the golden future time.
Soon or late the day is coming,
Tyrant Man shall be o'erthrown,
And the fruitful fields of England
Shall be trod by beasts alone.
Rings shall vanish from our noses,
And the harness from our back,
Bit and spur shall rust forever,
Cruel whips no more shall crack.
Riches more than mind can picture,
Wheat and barley, oats and hay,
Clover, beans, and mangel-wurzels
Shall be ours upon that day.
Bright will shine the fields of England,
Purer shall its waters be,
Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes
On the day that sets us free.
For that day we all must labour,
Though we die before it break;
Cows and horses, geese and turkeys,
All must toil for freedom's sake.
Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken well and spread my tidings
Of the golden future time.
The singing of this song threw the animals into the wildest excitement. Almost before Major had reached the end, they had begun singing it for themselves. Even the stupidest of them had already picked up the tune and a few of the words, and as for the clever ones, such as the pigs and dogs, they had the entire song by heart within a few minutes. And then, after a few preliminary tries, the whole farm burst out into Beasts of England in tremendous unison. The cows lowed it, the dogs whined it, the sheep bleated it, the horses whinnied it, the ducks quacked it. They were so delighted with the song that they sang it right through five times in succession, and might have continued singing it all night if they had not been interrupted.
KMFDM Paradise 2019 CD cover (metropolis records) featuring the song: “Piggy” shown here with the Ralph Steadman illustrated “Animal Farm” (book cover and end sheets) written by George Orwell (Shelfie photo by tabbyrenelle, January 2023) “The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.” (~quote from: Animal Farm, written by George Orwell, published in 1945.)
“PIGGY” by KMFDM from PARADISE ℗ 2019 Metropolis Records Released on: 2019-09-27 Composer, Writer: Sascha Konietzko Composer, Writer: Andee Blacksugar Composer, Writer: Lucia Cifarelli Composer, Writer: Douglas Arthur Wimbish. Provided to YouTube by Ingrooves. Lyrics: Thrill of the hunt Eyes glue to the prey Wet your appetite Eat your own along the way Gorge on lions and tigers Bitches dripping in diamonds Sharpen your claws Beg like a dog
In the land of milk and honey Smell the sweet scent of success A hunter bear down on it yeah Suckle at its breast Money and cars Private jet to the stars Take it all and then some more Feed your feckless little heart
In for the kill out on the take Everybody wants a piece of the cake In for the kill
Tacky and rich Pathetically kitsch Hard as a rock You’re dying for it Got it all figured out With lawyers and clout Eat you alive Keep the suckers bewitched
In for the kill out on the take Everybody wants a piece of the cake Easy come, easy go, wet that tongue, catch that bone And run run run run run run run run
In for the kill out on the take Everybody wants a piece of the cake In for the kill
In for the kill out on the take Everybody wants a piece of the cake Easy come, easy go, wet that tongue, catch that bone And run run run run run run run run
In for the kill In for the kill In for the kill In for the kill
It’s true I baked these sugar cookie Piggies for the sake of art. Oven Photo taken on January 1, 2023 by tabbyrenelle.
Political language — and with variations this is true of all political parties, from Conservatives to Anarchists — is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.
"The Muppets raped Kurt." C. Widow Love screeches. Her face is wide and her bright red mouth wider... and she screeches again incoherently, swaying and slogging around the stage in her stained slip. Mascara collects under her eye like a painted football player, streaks running not from crying so much as sweating. But she uses the effect to her advantage, and addresses her audience like she's crying. "I'm indignant!" Love screeches.
"What's a matter?" Fozzie Bear asks and tips his fedora. He says, "Waacka Waacka Waacka."
Love screams curdling and incoherent. She stomps around in what were once fuzzy slippers and now look like greasy matted roadkill. "Sacrilege!" She howls, "How dare you bastardize him!"
"Uh, Ms. Wuv-- Are you cuh-went-wee on dwugs?" Asks Baba Wawa. She is pressed against the stage, in her fitted red blazer, and gold button earrings. She lifts her microphone upwards held steady as bait awaiting Love's giant gaping mouth.
Love explodes into a fit of hysterical crying. Everything about her is leaking.
Baba Wawa keeps a cool face with a tiny noncommittal smile. Her eyes stare sleepily and unblinking. She is patient as her formula takes effect. Her arm is as firm as the Statue of Liberty hoisting her torch. "Uh Ms. Wuv? Can you tell me what's making you cwy?"
Love blubbers and shudders and plops down on her bottom. She loses a slipper in her descent and wipes dripping snot on the back of her arm. She leans over Baba Wawa's microphone above Baba Wawa's mildly-condescending-pleasant-without-sincerity-and-yet-not-entirely-provably-insincere expression and shrieks, "They're fucking up His message, Babs!"
"Uh Ms. Wuv-- Is it twoo you O-widge-in-a-wee sold the wights to Koat's song?" Baba Wawa investigates using a monotone delivery. Her heavy drowsy lids give her a certain air of boredom. Her trademark work ethic makes her seem not so much trustworthy as reliable.
Love sniffles as she considers the question.
"Ms. Wuv, duzn't that make you a hypocwit?"
"High-Yaah!" Miss Piggy grunts and makes a quick karate-chop toward Love. Her long hair tosses around like a shampoo commercial.
Love howls and grabs the rhinestone tiara off Miss Piggy's head. The audience watches Love attempt to place the sparkling headpiece on top of her dirty tangles.
Miss Piggy lunges at Love's neck and the two of them fall into a tussle, Love's thighs squeaking loudly against the floor like the sound of skidding basketball shoes.
Baba Wawa turns her microphone into the crowd and points it at a young woman. "Uh, Fwannie Fah-Mah Joonior, do you be-weave the Muppets raped your Fah-tho?"
Francis shakes her head. She glances briefly at her mother's wrestling match with Miss Piggy. "Please consider the source." She says without humor.
Baba Wawa nods. She appears both serious and appreciative. "Fwannie Fah-Mah Joonior, does that mean you be-weave your muh-tho is cuh-went-wee on dwugs?"
"I don't have to reach far to answer that." Francis replies as she observes Miss Piggy and her mother pulling each other's hair and biting each other's fingers.
Baba Wawa ducks as Miss Piggy throws Love's other slipper into the second row, narrowly missing her hair-sprayed bangs. Her lids flutter momentarily and there is some speculation she may go down. She seems accusatory as she pivots for gleeful witnesses. She efficiently straightens her blazer and stands with an uplifted chin.
The crowd roars with cheers and applause as Miss Piggy slams Love's face into Animal's bass drum, and returns her now bent tiara to her now disheveled tresses. "Hmmmph!" Miss Piggy bellows and crosses her arms over her fat cleavage in smug triumph.
"HERE MY SMELL!" Animal roars and his unibrow goes up and down suggestively. He raises his arms above his bobbing head and clicks his drumsticks three times before launching into a frenetic solo on the toms. His grin is wide and toothy. Love quivers and spasms, splayed on her stomach below, her head still resting in the hole of the bass drum.
This Short Story, “Piggy’s Got Back” originally titled “Polly Wants a Cracker” and posted in 2016, is being Reprinted on December 31, 2022 in memory of Barbara Walters, who made everyone she ever interviewed cry, except for Miss Piggy.
“Pork Soda” photo still life with Primus CD cover (December 2022) from the Hot Diggity Dog series: You Are What You Eat by TabbyRenElle a.k.a. the Music Warlord. (bathed in flashing pink led lights, miniatures by: Our Generation Retro toys, on white grooved vinyl shelf liner.)
Pork Soda by Primus from the album: Pork Soda ℗ 1993 UMG Recordings, Inc. Released on: 1993-01-01 Producer: Primus Author: Les Claypool Composer Lyricist: Primus Lyrics: Now listen up you know ya come home from working that nine to five and Lay yourself down on burgundy couch, you know, it never really was Burgundy. It was red, and you painted with the goddamn sprinkler and Now you have bits and pieces of burgundy stuck to your but every time You get off of it. You never tell your family, you never tell your Family because, you know, ol’ Junior, he’s got no brains, and what can You do? What can you do? (And old Junior, you know, got a little crazy With that P.B.J. that one day ??) Grab yourself a can of pork soda You’ll be feeling just fine Ain’t nothin’ quite like sittin’ ’round the house Swillin’ down them Cans of swine Ha ha ha! Yes, Dad’s an idiot alright! Well, alright, I’m really starting to worry about you. You had to have That two-car garage with the large driveway so you could park that Goddamn boat in it. If it wasn’t for the boat (blah blah blah) Grab yourself a can of pork soda You’ll be feeling just fine Ain’t nothin’ quite like sittin’ ’round the house Swillin’ down them Cans of swine I like Kansas wine Well, maybe it’s something simpler, like your team lost or your Girlfriend used to be a guy, you know, I don’t know. I mean (blah blah blah)
After steeping Your tangerine caffeine, the tea bag fortune says, "Tag, you're it,"
strings attached, to the Positivity, "Without the storms and rain, life would cease to be."
Venus says when she tried on-line dating, she got sent so many dick picks, it was like their frankfurters would stretch from sea to shining sea—several times.
Each relished a woman with an appetite for dirt bike hotdogs
and truly wished to be the one
every one
would be in love with.
She felt their vulnerability but regarded their casual exhibition as impersonal
and wondered, so just what’s in these wieners?
and took a quick look at this “paste-like and batter-like poultry product”
by forcing bones,
with attached edible tissue,
through a sieve or similar device under high pressure.
And to her surprise the take-away was inside
his haiku
about how coots sound the same fighting as they do fucking.
Pork
by “advanced meat recovery machinery”
separates the edibles from the inedibles without
smashing the bone.
and less than 10 percent water
and Corn syrup,
Salt,
A common meat preservative antimicrobial,
capable of killing off harm
full
bacteria
Flavorings
stocks (a stockade)
(a want)
ad
classifying his search for a bi-valve to tie his ball-gag while
boiling water with parts of the carcass.
Found in chowder and instant hand warmers.
To help keep meat-based products pink.
He voyeurs back to back
episodes of the Gadget Girls,
those money savvy tarts,
showcasing vibrating modern conveniences to fangirls
who give good feedback
Side effects, including
dizziness,
gastrointestinal issues,
headaches and,
if consumed in large quantities,
kidney stones.
A filler or thickening agent.
Brewers also often use it in beer.
Uncontrollable bouts of laughter.
Resistance to his own measure
and mean streaks…
An increased risk of cancer.
Frequently found in fertilizers.
An increased shelf life…
he doesn’t want to end up like his father, a master of wood a carpenter.
Paid by some Hopi or Chinook
to erect
a totem pole.
A pure-blood Irish-Catholic.
Not a drop of American Indian
but at the EXPO
where his father’s booth proudly displayed
his polished
life-sized
mahogany Jesus bust with a detached centerpiece of hands folded in prayer,
a Chief,
no less,
approached him
and praised him
for being a true visionary.
They discussed wood grain and how to coax the spirits from the rings.
His father had additionally provided a small demo of his skill at a wood block where he informatively described his blades and planes and proceeded to whittle a whistle in the shape of a dove and when he lifted his lips to blow through the hollow tail, a sweet perfect note in ‘C’ sang out the beak.
His father designed and built the alter at their church and donated his oak banisters and handrails to senior centers and nursing homes and taught how to build his benches, picnic tables and bunkbeds to a Boy Scouts of America troop.
Made his actual living on elaborate personalized coffins
King Tut woulda been so lucky
to have been buried in a sarcophagus
carved by his father.
and
He didn’t want to be like his mother
who was a master glass blower.
A mistress of the crystal ball.
Literally providing instruments of hocus pocus
up and down
the west coast.
Mostly middle-aged women
sporting her witch-balls
(intended to ward off and or capture dark spirits)
in their whimsical tea gardens,
several shingle-hanging psychics
paying top dollar for table-top oracles
elevated by silver-plated tripods.
Wand knobs, divination pendulums, and ritual chalices sold like hotcakes.
However, his mother raked in the most cash for her rearview mirror car ornaments,
glass chillums,
and elaborate water bongs.
He says he wants to be the cocktails they serve on trains…
And the Trip Advisor requests a review
which will garner points
that look like stars
and add up to a badge.
“Wild Boar” (Tabby as Chaos) from the Girl Soda Atlas Mother Nature WildCard deck (colored pencil illustration) by K.J. Legry (December 2021)
“All Men Are Pigs” by Studio Killers (Karaoke Loop)
“War Pigs” by Black Sabbath The Ultimate Collection ℗ 1970 Warner Records Inc. Remastered 2009 (US & Canada) | 2009 Gimcastle Ltd. under exclusive licence to Sanctuary Records Group Ltd., a BMG Company (Rest Of World ex. US & Canada) Drums: Bill Ward Unknown: Brian Humphries Bass Guitar: Geezer Butler Vocals: Ozzy Osbourne Producer: Rodger Bain Unknown: Tony Allom Lead Guitar: Tony Iommi Writer: Bill Ward Writer: Geezer Butler Writer: Ozzy Osbourne Writer: Tony Iommi ~ LYRICS ~ “War Pigs” Generals gathered in their masses Just like witches at black masses Evil minds that plot destruction Sorcerers of death’s construction In the fields the bodies burning As the war machine keeps turning Death and hatred to mankind Poisoning their brainwashed minds Oh lord yeah! Politicians hide themselves away They only started the war Why should they go out to fight? They leave that role to the poor Time will tell on their power minds Making war just for fun Treating people just like pawns in chess Wait ’til their judgement day comes Yeah! Now in darkness world stops turning Ashes where the bodies burning No more war pigs at the power Hand of God has struck the hour Day of judgement, God is calling On their knees the war pig’s crawling Begging mercy for their sins Satan laughing spreads his wings oh lord yeah!
Tabby Ren Elle 
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