Spanky looked at the sheaf of bills before him and put his pudgy hands to his face, then ran the porky appendages through his greasy, rapidly thinning—yet somehow still fat—hair.

His huge wife-cum-cousin, Shitpig Kronberg, was literally eating them out of house and home.

McDonald’s $780.

Spanky gaped at their McDonald’s Platinum Card statement.  

Shitpig, dissatisfied with her family-sized bucket of McFlurry, had evidently leveraged the Savile-Kronbergs’ VIP status at the Bartlett restaurant and had had herself directly connected to the various chemicals that went into the iced confection.  She had consumed three industrial sized cylinders of Ice Cream-style Non-Dairy Sweetened Congealed Hydrogenated Lard Shake Product when she was cut off by the store manager, alarmed to see a month’s supply of food additives vanishing into Shitpig’s maw.    

Shitpig had then gotten into the piping behind the fryers, laving it clean before Animal Control could be summoned to tranquilize her.

There had been no charge for the romp in the grease trap, Spanky privately noted, thinking that the couple had just found a fun new Date Night activity that fit their tight budget.

AL’s Feedlot: $6000. Spanky’s eyes stood out in their vast, doughy sockets when he had seen THAT one.

At the time, Shitpig told her immense husband that she was going for “a day of beauty” at a spa.

No one could argue she didn’t urgently need that, Spanky reasoned.

What she had really done was arrange for a trough and spent her birthday consuming slops at a Confined Animal Feeding Operation.  She had elbowed aside her four-legged porcine relatives there to be fattened for market and treated herself to all of their food, as the six-and-seven hundred pound beasts, sensing a predator, cowered in a corner of the pen, shaking in the face of the abdominous human’s naked, vulpine hunger, the sun glinting menacingly off their competitor’s large bald spot.

She had eaten ALL of their food.

Some of the larger and tastier-looking hogs had bite marks on them, Al claimed, credibly, when Spanky had challenged the bill.

Human bite marks.

It was as though “someone…or someTHIN’…was eatin’ on them boars alive,” Al said, terror emerging in his words.  

“Specially ‘round the bacon area.”

Goodness knows Spanky didn’t begrudge the ‘Pig a birthday indulgence—heck, he himself was known to ‘make it rain’ once a year for the cute boys at Studz—but her spending had gone way, way too far.

Arby’s $340. Bob’s Big Boy $712. Sysco $12,341.

“Shiiiiiitpiiiiiiiiiiiiiig!” Spanky screamed, his reedy effeminate voice shaking with emotion.

When his slow-moving spouse eventually appeared—her imaginary MS was really taking a toll—Spanky was waving the collection of invoices in the air.

“Do you have any idea how we’re going to pay for all this?” he demanded, indicating the bills.

“Do you even know where money comes from??” the obese hermaphrodite continued angrily.

[end of Part I]

Just then, a look of intense concentration came over the Shitpig’s preternaturally dull face.  

In her mind, she was whisked back to her days as a promising student at The University of Illinois at Chicago.

Shitpig had earned legendary status at the school.

She had answered the final exam in her Philosophy class with perhaps the most brilliant response of her generation, and earned an “A+” in so doing.

To the single question “Why?” where her classmates wrote volumes, culling life’s meaning from Descartes, Leibniz and Kierkegaard, she had simply riposted “Becuz Yodils.”

Shitpig started to respond to Hon’s inquiry with her customary “Shitpig not knows,” when she was drawn into a kind of fugue.  Symbols from classical Economics flashed by.  It was like a scene from a Hollywood movie, but instead of Russell Crowe, starring a gigantic suburban housewife with a severe learning delay.

…“M3” whizzed past her head.

…John Maynard Keynes...

…The Gross National Product of Ghana...

…Marginal benefit…

…Market equilibrium…

Shitpig knew that Hon had something called a “job.”  She was a bit vague on the particulars, but she thought a “job” involved sitting in a computer discount warehouse while someone named Ramesh yelled at you from India, telling you what to do.

She wrinkled her colossal nose in distaste.  Although proud of her position as a very important social media influencer to other idle, mildly-retarded hausfraus, Shitpig didn’t really like work very much.

The glyphs streaming in three dimensional space had turned from arcane academic emblems back to topics more familiar to Shitpig.

…Oscar Meyer Weiners...

…Monosodium Glutamate...

…Red Dye No. 3…

Then her globular face cleared.

Shitpig DID know the answer.

“Oh, that easy one, Hon,” the monstrosity said.

“Money come from Don.”

I wanna be Shitpig Fucking Kronberg when I grow up.....

:shatner::burger:­:rockon::notworthy:

Bravo!
\
:fancy:

Does Spanky really address his wife as "Shitpig"?

. said:

Does Spanky really address his wife as "Shitpig"?

­I would guess that he does NOT care for this term, given the lengths he goes to to ban it on his forum.

OP I am in love with you

I guess in the second act Shitpig gets crazy paranoid and thinks that agents from Sysco, Smithfield foods and Yum! Brands are following her around because they want to harness her poo for a secret project?

OP is a :jew:

. said:

. said:

Does Spanky really address his wife as "Shitpig"?

­I would guess that he does NOT care for this term, given the lengths he goes to to ban it on his forum.

­beautiful flower is what appears when you type Shitpig in any form his forum.

. said:

. said:

. said:

Does Spanky really address his wife as "Shitpig"?

­I would guess that he does NOT care for this term, given the lengths he goes to to ban it on his forum.

­beautiful flower  is what appears when you type Shitpig in any form his forum.

­I tried S*H*I*T*P*I*G* and he had it covered.  :lol:

Didn't read any of this.  None whatsoever.

Bravo OP. Work of brilliance. The Shitpig has assuredly consumed enough food on credit that its hard for the poors to keep up with the payments.

An exercise in narration that builds anticipation for the next installment.

. said:

Didn't read any of this.  None whatsoever.

Get out of this thread. Final warning.
­:fuckyou:

. said:

OP is a :jew:

­Hi Brian.  :wave:

The fats are mad and in debt.

Droll, very droll.     
                           \
:snob:

. said:

Didn't read any of this.  None whatsoever.

­Yes, you did.

A story of retarded gluttony in the fat lap of poverty.
           \
:ebert:

Two huge piles of heavily larded, artificially sweetened, chemically fortified human shit.

Lori the self-proclaimed poet continues her streak of failing to produce any literary output in any genre.

Meanwhile, dots who are just fucking around write better prose than she ever has or will.

No wonder she’s oinking mad!

Underrated Shitpig story.

another classic.

Many thanks OP!

OP is a genius