Of all creatures put to pen & paper in the cosmic sketchbook of divine cartooning, "Porky Pig" is a recognizable trope with which few of us choose to identify, yet do. Part of him is a "little slow" on the uptake, awkward with a bumbling stutter that "can't say what it means", and perhaps a little bit too "square-headed" as Daffy hoots around in manic circles.

He's repeatedly "made the fool" by swifter, cagier forces as he holds up his hands with an angry "now, wait a minute!" to reclaim something of his tattered dignity. Perhaps there is something in his habits that sets him up for failure-- for example, not setting up "clear boundaries" in the beginning as others run "rip-shod" over him later. He grumbles; he complains; but perhaps he was "too soft" for his own good. And by the time Porky begins to really fight back, the cartoon is nearly over and the kids watching at home see him for the fool he is.

If this overly sounds like your life, then we have a problem.

In the sketchbook jungle, characters clash. And one time "Porky", so to speak, was up against a caricature of something completely outside the world of "Looney Tunes".

If you can imagine an ornery cuss from the glossy, hard-bitten "Entertainment Tonight" veneer of beach balls, Donna Summer songs, "Hit me with Your Best Shot" playing endlessly on the radio at a driftwood wienie roast, "The Osmonds", ski lodges, "the mile-high club" on airplanes, polyester white suits, disco medallions, lines of coke, throwbacks to the 1980 film "Caddyshack", and a cardboard standup of Princess Leia from "The Empire Strikes Back" with a set of tits taped on leaning against the wall at a loud frat party, then you'd understand.

A conflict was brewing like a rumbling volcano. And under this volcano was squared Porky Pig and this saber-toothed tiger in a radio engineering class.

Porky struck first, poking at the cat with a stick:

"Ah-blee-blee-blee-blee-blee-suck-my-dick!"

The saber-toothed tiger pounced, the two rolled around with the stronger on top, and the carnivore disemboweled Porky with a frightening verbal assault that revealed the porker for the pitiful sack of pig-shit he was. The pig lay there, blood tricking from its lip, as the saber-toothed tiger paced around and then licked its paws. The volcano was bursting, casting down chunks of flaming rock. The forest was on fire.

As Porky lay dying, he lifted his chin and shrieked: "T-T-That's not all folks. . . . . I ought to skin you alive, you rotten cat!" The saber-toothed tiger paused. There was something in that pig's squeal that unnerved him. He considered "finishing Porky off", thought better of it, then scurried off into the underbrush with a rustle.

Porky lay there for a while in excruciating agony, then piled his guts back into himself and crawled away with his rump in the air-- leaving a blood-slick through the jungle.

The whole place lit up.

Porky escaped and got mended, a long scar running up his underbelly.

What happened to the saber-toothed tiger, if it perished in the inferno (-- and lost its job as an instructor) no one can say.

I think back to that experience and second-guess myself.

 If only I had been a warrior with a spear, instead of a soft, gullible porker then I would have stood a chance. Honor in strong, noble manhood standing guard instead of Saturday morning diversions, eating cereal and snuffling away like a kid.

Because this ain't no cartoon. . . . .

*******************

"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

(Rheeee of Crickets)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

("I heard that, Missy!")