Pig love, Pig pain, Pig and fig and art by the the smaller boned spinster that she drew when she was 14 years old!

Getting closer to the magic 1,000. Life is looking up.





I just need the energy. I'm joining a boxing gym today and I plan on eating healthier. The raw foods was a sham. I just don't think there is such a thing. I kept feeling that some of the food wasn't as raw as janie from the veggie co op has promised. I think Janie is all about the green(backs) and not as into global warming as her t-shirts suggest. Janie drives a Prius. That I can't deny. But Janie also is rude and uncharming and she always overcharges me on the radichio.




The events of the last few months have filled my blood with too much bile and I need to cleanse much of it out. I plan to preserve a more workable amount in the blood because I feel it's necessary. The repulsive fig nutaro will regret her decision to lie and lie and cause mommy henya to have insomnia. Mommy henya loves america and fig and judge gerald rosenberg have made her love it less.


I wish fig would try to elevate herself from her homebase of the sewer and just apologize(profuckingfusely) for her vile behavior. Instead, she is under the impression that she can take it to the courts and perjure herself and pay others to perjure themselves and get away with it. I won't even go into her pitiful pit bull, SW. She too will be on the revenge radar until some resolution is obtained. As will be the other liars in this tiresome saga. The fact that many on a message board find you unpretty and unfunny, fig, does not give you the right to deny me my rights. It just doesn't. 3 years is a long time. Judge Gerald Rosenberg made a choice to run away from justice and to his tuna sandwich, and that too will be revealed.





I have lived 33-39 years and the best private eye could not unearth a real enemy so the fact that real enemies exist now is relevant. Vindication is not vindictiveness. Retribution is not vigilantism. blah blah rightouscakes.





Well, this is all might seem cryptic. But, since all my commenters have been anonymous or semi-anoymous I can't help but feel that I'm writing to the void. I have so many important things that could be being done that are being displaced by the efforts that need to be taken for retribution. And, that just exacerbates the crimes of fig . karma plus.





Anyway, I have no idea who reads this blog. But, it would only seem to make sense that a few have. As a chronic procrastinator my new big plan is to really take this blog by the horns when I reach 1,000 hits. Then, this thing is going to become a destination for the discerning and delicious blog seeker.





I had over 35 topics I wanted to adress that I can't remember now. I wanted to vent and rant about things but suddenly I can't remember exactly what they were. The synapses are not up to par this morning.

Here's more Delmont pig poem-- very undedited.






That job didn’t work out
And once again out of joint
went our valiant piggie's
snout
The details are painful
Our pig still wasn’t making her employment gainful
Accusations of ineptitude, of data procceced wrong
Oh! her boss was some withholding cow
Further details
weren’t given our newly laid off/canned/fired sow
She was sure that her daily 8 hour efforts
Had made the eagle eyed cow look less stupid
Alas, just when she was about to collapse
Who came by - cupid!
She’d met a fawn while waiting for her train
The world opened, the streets were hers, sun, sleet
or rain
How could it be --
That there was truth to such mythology?
An arrow of love aimed at her
It almost made her tense
as if she were prey
To folly, and nonsence.
And then this dreadful thought:
It will all go away!
That's what they all say.
What if this small cherubic
figure didn’t aim the same arrow
at the fawn
What if this was
some sorry same old
and not a new dawn?

Our sagacious swine
was taught from an early age
That fawns and pigs were not to be
She told herself that she was over 21 and free
She felt the the arrow and it went deep
If she wore a pace maker it would beep

At the thought of what others would think her heart leapt
She learned at at early age
That some secrets could be revealed and
some only kept

She’d only heard about all, this
thisness that was in her
But till now she’d only been romanced by a goat
and a kindly but unsavory cur

Now, all she'd heard so long
in poetry and song
had come along
She thought of her own lyric
which made her feel a bit sick
and that is:
That even the richest of the rich
get the seven year itch.

Our porcine so fine was a bibliophile
But reading and feeling are a different style
And even though it was all so intoxicating
She didn’t feel most of the fear abating.
A big fear was of being burned
Muttering on some plate like bacon
“I should have learned.: I should have learned.

The hog had trusted before and had been betrayed
But one sometimes finds a pillow
How else do our beds get made?
She’d make her bed, alright
And she’d sleep there, day and night!

Any time to spare was spent with the fawn
Greener turned every lawn
Time wasn’t ruled by bullying hands
Happiness wasn’t only found in foreign lands
All pigs are warned to not lay their soles bare
Her sole felt naked, exhibitionistic.
she worried about her welfare

She fealt Far away from her past
where
She’d learned that things
Don’t last.


She was sure like all it would not last
It’s still hard to talk about what happened
Our pig fell
Fell fell fell
But not in mud
More like concrete
When this spark she did meet
All the lyrics of songs she had heard
Suddenly rang as true and pure as a chirping bird
It wasn’t false premises or cheap sentiment…
Oh shit she still had to pay her rent..
It couldn’t have come at a worst time
It couldn’t have come at a better one
She felt for the first time in a long time
That the clouds lost the battle to the sun
This sun
This sun
She shined on our pig and the pig shined back
Then the fawn
began to make our pig feel as if she
wasn’t getting some hint
The fawn started treating the pig
like a used coin
when she used to make her feel mint

The arrow was now a knife in the back.
our pig took to the pen
Send her poems to the new Yorker
they wrote back--
"You’re not supposed to rhyme you porker."
You’ll live to regret
she replied
she hasn't heard back
as of yet.

The pig still is upright
but she still wants to know.
if she went too fast
or was it that she went too slow
oh, no!