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The Pig and the Farmer

By , South Bend, IN
Once upon a time there was a pig and he was pink. He didn't like being pink because he was a boy, so daily he rolled in the mud until he was a mud-colored pig. This was not awesome enough for this pig. One day he broke into the shed and, while looking for emo black paint, he killed the farmer's daughter. He didn't know it would kill her, but he did it and he was unhappy. He liked the farmer. The farmer gave him food. So he ran away instead of confronting the farmer over his dead daughter. The pig ran away. The farmer came out to the shed and saw his dead daughter. He thought that finally, her boyfriend had gone insane. He had known that would happen. The boyfriend was supposedly over his illnesses, but hte farmer didn't buy it. So the farmer took his shotgun and went to the boyfriend's house.

"Boy, you went too far."

The boyfriend had just broken up with the girl by proxy of his little brother, and thought that was what the farmer was talking about.

"Look, sir, it's not really that bad. There will be others."

"Others? Others?? Don't you talk to me about others. My wife's been dead two long years and I don't plan to remarry. There will be no others."

"What??"

"You killed her! You killed her!" The farmer shot the boyfriend in the foot. He screamed.

"You're crazy! I haven't killed anybody! All I did was break up with her!" He ran from there, limping and trying to get his cell phone out of his sagging jeans.

The farmer sighed and sank to the floor. He wondered what he had done wrong. His wife, his daughter, now he was sure to get a lawsuit from the kid. He shot him in the foot? What was he thinking?

Just then, out of the blue, the pig waddled up. He had decided to confess anyway.

"Oink," he said.

"Go away," said the farmer.

"Oink," said the pig.

"I said go the hell away!" said the farmer and shot the pig. The pig died there.

The farmer started to cry. He wondered if he really was crazy, like the boyfriend had said. He decided he probably was.

He shot the gun at the ceiling till there was only one bullet left. He rolled the barrel, and pointed it at himself.

"One," he croaked, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

"Two," and he pointed the gun at the pig. Nothing came out of the gun.

"Three," and still nothing.

"Four," and the pig got a bullet. The farmer sighed and did the fifth. There was still a bullet, though, and he died.





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