Pig Trouble - Fiona Apple
“There’s an oink, oink in the night / it gives you such a fright / He’s got a tail that’s curly / he’s coming for you, girly” – #fionaapple #bobsburgers
Song, not just Apple in jaws of fetal pig, or EPONYMOUS Pearls thrown swinelike, but apotheosis bon mot, and modern-day Kurt Weill in Oscar Wilde’s jodhpurs, trot three hapennies per canter incessant din around her, prepared to be on call, be ready, to take over, the instance someone needs an alliterative pig-punch, pop outro, not too curly at the end, nor too pink on the outside, but passionate “any means necessary” sticktoitiveness of a No 'Malcolm in the Middle,' nor Blackish for laughs X were he, he reminded one of a harpoon man in Moby Dick, except now, and harpooning the bad guys: TURNING Japanese vessels of slaughter for Nipponese men who only could eat, so said their herbalists, whale blubber, from spite and with rancor to show gluten what freedoms its cost, their glttonous status caused this bloodbath at sea, by none but Capt. Quahog, full speed ahead, he hoarsely screamed, killing whales for fun had always been his dream, and oil-burning lamps were environmentally friendly, said hipsters from Greenpoint, not thinking about anything but their beards, the environment was over and not listening anyway – whales sympathizing instead at the last thoughts the poor men and women out there in the night, lover’s would never return or quarantine with them, practice social distancing, or make love in a mask again, and ne’re wash bitumen soot blacked rooms, now she dies – unless you count Instagram a man.
Apparently he left her, or died trying, to make ambergris out of whale sperm, he prepared her for such outcome, telling her to wed, not mourn him, before the plague.
And so Fiona 'overpowers meatier disillusionment' in sanguine swine reverie, lucidly dreamed, Roy Orbison’s 5-octave instrument, vaguely operatic, like Caruso, nothing too serious, mote it be, in piggish reverie of fevered, slowly turning, rotating unskewered snout to tail-tip, con apple en boca.
Gracias. Dios de Narcos Sinaloa CARTEL offered her, compliments of a Chef whose vocation made it de rigeur, no reason not, Eve smirked – you might remember her debacle in that paradisaical Hell they called a garden.
Apple, upon hearing, cancelled 3 dates of her sold- out BOLT tour and like one –a bolt -- departed, egressed, HALF-UNdressed, amscraed outta there), Halfway Across the Universe, averse to many things but not that.
She fetched her Label's Gold Boltcutter Trophy from its platinum plaque, and with boltcutters in her grip, pulled out that apple, affixed by some French superglue called Glue Superbe, and pulled it out, woke it up, licked her fingers, and holy fuckin’ Chainsaw Massacring Swine-hurters, smoked a nice strain of 60% Sativa / 39% Indica: 60 for her heart,39 for her mind, and 1 CBD wrapped in garbage, which she gave to the swine.
Goddamn Julie Nammers, the fok what Zef motherfuckers think.
If they didn’t know, that made her and the piglet whose second chance ended up in Lyon, whose hero it wanted to meet, but in an alive way, Paul Bocuse, who finally had the excuse to confide in, not confit, upon her the anxieties he had
at his ripe old age, over what he’d done and to how many, and what would finally be said of him.
And Fiona just said, 'Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,' shushing him properly.
… He felt better, and they toasted something green.
He needn’t have worried, because guess who became filthily rich?
He was adopted by Morwenna Banks and David Baddiel and their two kids,
And in just six weeks time, with them and their salty mouths, came his, Babe’s (they named him).
His own piggish cursing, unbecoming, blamed on PTSD -- alright, but THE PIG BECAME PEPPA, AND MORWENNA BANKS WAS HIS MU
M.
(READ PHILLIP LARKIN: HE’LL BE ALRIGHT) –@MRJYN
Fiona continues:
“But you kissed a fetal pig / And now you two are boyfriend-girlfriend / You got pig trouble / Pig trouble, little Tina” by fiona apple
