Wanted: Assistant to The Mind-Reading Pig

August 20, 2014

“We should live here,” I said in mock seriousness.

Julie and I had just driven past the upside down house that was a museum of some sort and were approaching the replica of the Titanic, complete with fake iceberg. We were on our way to a cabin near the big amusement park for a little vacation. About a half hour earlier while on the highway, we had begun to see billboards advertising a multitude of touristy things, and as soon as we had taken our exit, we quickly started seeing them: helicopter rides, knife stores, bizarre hillbilly-themed dinner theaters, water slides, an endless array of pancake houses and mini golf courses, and even a show featuring a mind-reading pig. We had both marveled at that last one.

“Look at that!” Julie said, pointing at King Kong climbing a building with a big “Wax Museum” sign. “They’ve got everything here.”

“Let’s do it,” I said. “Let’s move here. You can get a job at Flapjack’s and I’ll be the mind-reading pig’s assistant.”

Julie glanced at me and frowned. “Why do you get the fun job?”

I smiled and thought for a second.

“Here you are, sir,” I said, leaning down and placing the bowl of gourmet slop in front of Chester.

 Chester grunted and buried his snout in the bowl. I breathed a sigh of relief, but an instant later he lifted his head, his mouth and nose now covered in brown goop, and looked up at me with his black eyes. Suddenly he opened his mouth and squealed loudly. Although I was used to that hideous shriek, I cringed anyway. With his right front hoof, he knocked the bowl onto the floor. The crystal shattered, sending shards of glass and the slop all over the large dressing room. I immediately crouched down to clean up the mess, as usual, starting with the bigger pieces of glass.

Although I dared not look up, I could feel Chester staring at me. After what felt like several minutes – though it couldn’t have been more than 10 or 15 seconds – Chester jumped off his stool and headed for the stage door. Just before he reached the handle – which was about two feet off the floor and designed so he could grip it with his mouth – he stopped. I glanced his way, just in time to see his curly tail rise and a torrent of excrement stream out onto the floor. When he was finished, Chester grabbed the handle, pulled the door open, and exited the room. After a moment, I continued picking up the bits of crystal and wondered where I’d left the mop.

 “Yeah, real fun,” I muttered as we drove past another mini golf course, this one fish-themed.

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