JINETES DE CERDOS DE LA REVOLUCIÓN

When I was in my early Twenties I had a little more of a radical and impulsive streak than I do now.  During that time there was a lot of turmoil going on in the country of Colombia between the Colombian Government and the F.A.R.C (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia).  In the struggle over the control and direction of Colombia between those two groups the indigenous population was suffering through violence, discrimination, and massive land destruction and forced seizure in the name of progress.  I watched as the helpless indigenous, caught in the middle, were being rounded up, kidnapped and killed indiscriminately. 

One day I decided that I couldn’t just sit by and let that happen.  I took the next plane flight headed for Bogota.  After I’d arrived I took the El Concho bus line until the road disappeared into the jungle.  Then when the bus could go no further I rode a donkey deeper into the Andes Mountain range.  When the donkey died of exhaustion I captured six feral roosters, lashed them together with an on-the-spot hand carved yoke with six holes for their heads , and like a dog sled team mushed them higher and higher up the mountain face.  Finally, I reached my goal; a small village of indigenous pig farmers.  These were not your ordinary pig farmers, though, they were known as Jinetes de Cerdos de la Revolución (J.C.R). 

You may have never heard of the J.C.R because they were considered a minor rebel group in the much larger battle between the Colombian Government and the F.A.R.C, but the destruction they did cause was legendary.  The members of the J.C.R were expert pig riders on par with the Bedouin horse riders of the Arabian Peninsula.  They had one simple yet extremely effective tactic.  As the convoys of soldiers entered their territory to try and destroy their village they would charge down the mountainside on their pigs of war to attack.

 Now, rather than attacking with hand-held weapons, they chose a different method.  When word came that a convoy was coming they would begin feeding their pigs C4 plastic explosives.  Being pigs, they could care less what they were eating and would gorge themselves.  I, myself, saw one pig eat 40 pounds of C4 in one sitting.  The rebels would then insert a long metal electrode into the pig’s rectum that had wires coming out of it leading to the detonator battery box which the rider held.  Now you’re probably asking “Well Rusty, why do they have to ride these boar bombs? Can’t they just send them on their own to destroy the target?”, to which I would reply “You obviously have never tried to direct an explosive loaded, 300 pound pig at full tilt down a mountain into a convoy of trucks filled with tyrannical government soldiers before?”  Let me tell you….it’s not easy.  Pig bombs require guidance not unlike the Japanese manned suicide torpedoes (Kaiten) of WWII that required a person manually steering them into the target.  The rebels, over time, adopted a martyrdom philosophy.

  After several months of living amongst the J.C.R, our day finally came.  One of their scouts came running towards the village with reports of a massive convoy heading up the steep mountain pass.  The rebels immediately went into action stuffing their pigs to the brim, strapping on the saddles, putting on war paint and inserting electrodes into rectums.  With the amount of time I had spent amongst the rebels I was ready to fight and die, if necessary, for their cause.  I felt ALIVE!!  The problem with me fighting, however, was that everyone already had their own trained pig that responded to their commands, and I did not.  I pleaded with them to let me help.  The village elders finally capitulated and gave me a pig.  My pig, which was the only one available, happened to be a scrawny 80 pound pig that was cross eyed, but with an impending battle looming I wasn’t going to be picky.  My sickly pig would only eat about a half pound of C4 before it was stuffed but at least I could take out a soldier or two to help the revolution.  We stormed out of the village and down the mountain side.  In minutes we were in view of the unsuspecting convoy and careening toward martyrdom.  VIVA LA REVOLUCIÓN!!

  I was far in the back of the stampeding bacon bomb brigade as my pig was considerably slower and due its crossed eyes was hitting every other tree on the way down.  Suddenly I saw, at the front, the lead pig of the cavalry bursting forth from the jungle.  It sprung into the roadway crashing right through the front windshield of the lead convoy truck exploding on impact.  The detonation rocked the entire mountain side as 50 pounds of C4 was ignited inside the pig’s stomach by the last reflex grip of the riders hand on the trigger.  An entire squad of soldiers was reduced to hemoglobin pâté in the blink of an eye.

  The convoy was stopped in its tracks; a sitting duck as bomb pig after bomb pig came bursting from the flora.  The explosives were in such rapid succession and the impacts so violent that by the time I burst out onto the roadway all that was left was the still raining down shrapnel of vehicle and body parts.  I looked around for anyway to put my boar bomb to use but nothing was left of the convoy or the J.C.R.  The once khaki colored dirt road was beet red and jet black from the combination of bodily and vehicular fluids.  Everything was on fire and if it wasn’t already dead it was just moments from it.  I realized that I had nothing more to accomplish in Colombia.  With my journey abruptly at an end, I giddy-upped my cross eyed companion, bid farewell to my brothers-in-arms, and moseyed my way back towards Bogota.  Viva la Revolución.

HIGH FIVE'N and DEEP SIX'N

I figured that I’d expand upon my Rusty’s Miracle Loaf small business enterprise, which is booming by the way.  If you aren’t familiar with Rusty’s Miracle Loaves refer to my post (Lake Shitticakapupupeepee from 24AUG2011).  I almost exclusively eat the Dollar Store white bread and GNC multivitamins.  I do this because TIME is MONEY.  I have a schedule of approximately a full sized loaf every three hours.  Upon producing and packaging the loaves I have a network of distributors of whom I keep in an underground status as I do not pay taxes to the Government.  I figure that the product I offer is not necessarily a manufactured product in the same way as let’s say a wooden chair or a car stereo would be.  I think that what I have for sale is more akin to prostitution.  A lady of the night sells her body for money.  She is not producing anything; she is just utilizing the natural function of what God gave her.  Her bodily orifices will perform as they were intended, for the most part.  With Miracle Loaves, my body is performing as IT was intended.  The prostitute was most likely going to fuck someone anyways, thus it stands to reason she might as well make some money while she’s at it.  I was going to shit anyways, so therefore I will make money as well.  The wooden chair or the car stereo were not going to materialize out of thin air, to be sold for profit, without the effort of a worker.  As my loaves are going to be created whether I like it or not, why not construct a corporate structure to take advantage of the situation?  For every $1 worth of bread I eat I produce $6 worth of nutrient rich shit for fertilizer.  That’s a 600 percent increase!  On any given day I’ll clear 200 to 300 bucks easy.  Not bad for just sitting on the crapper playing video games and reading Penthouse.  The toilet, not necessarily the bathroom, but the toilet, is my sanctuary, as it is with most men.  If I could do all my business from there I would.  

 As far as spending goes, I have to admit, I tend to splurge stupidly when I have extra money.  Lately, however, since I’ve been raking in the cash on this venture of mine, I wanted to treat myself. I figured since I’m on the crapper every three hours, I’d have something installed.  It is a robotic arm attached to the wall across from me.  It’s only function is to HIGH FIVE me every time I yell out “CHU-CHING!”, which just so happens to coincide with the DEEP SIX-ing of my shit.  For comic relief I had a live monkey head mounted above the arm which is kept alive intravenously utilizing a blood transfusing pump system installed behind the wall.  It just sits there and does a monkey scream in terror every time it sees the arm move to high five me.  The monkey head can’t do much else but scream in terror as it’s pretty much brain dead and running on the constant injections of adrenaline pumped into it to keep it functioning in a semi-conscious state, but it’s still hilarious!  Oh man, I feel another loaf coming on right about now, I gotta go and get paid! CHA-CHING! CHA-CHING!

Side Note: You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how much time and effort I put into creating the bathroom scene picture with the robotic arm and live monkey head using nothing but MS Paint.  Too long is the answer, far far too long, but it does look awesome though. 

LAKE SHITTICAKAPUPUPEEPEE

I have always had aspirations of owning a farm.  For now, though, I am relegated to my back yard.  I have set up a small garden area where I grow squash, tomatoes, radishes, etc.  Next to that I have several rows of corn.  I used to use a Native American technique which is to add a small fish (a guppy or something similar) to the seed hole thus introducing a burst of nutrients from which the plant can feed as it grows.  Kinda like the original Miracle Gro.  This, however, started to get a little tedious as my garden grew larger; plus I was decimating the population of my kid’s goldfish bowl as going back and forth to the local pond for more guppies got to be a pain in the ass.  So, I had to come up with a solution.  “D’uh!” I said to myself.  I could just go and buy some fertilizer or manure from the garden shop in town. 

            The manure worked out great but it started getting pricey.  Then one day, I was sacrificing butt babies to the porcelain god, when I flushed the toilet, it clogged, and started overflowing.  “Aw fuck!”  I shouted as the toilet gushed forth like a geyser pouring onto the floor of the bathroom and immediately out the door.  The chocolate river ebbed and flowed through the hallway, then across the hardwood of the living room on its way to the kitchen.  I panicked and grabbed one of my cats, knocking it unconscious by whacking it up against the wall and dropped it in front of the tide of turds as an organic sandbag to slow it, but it was no use.  I figured if I added more cats I could halt the rush of shit water so I started whacking cats against the wall like their species depended on it.  Five unconscious shit soaked felines later and the deluge still just continued right around them.  I thought to myself “If I only had more cats! Fuck!”  The surge of fecal fluid trekked across the glued down squares of linoleum flooring in the kitchen and headed for the screen door in the back.  I could only sit there in disbelief as the river of rank finally exploded through the mesh of the screen door leaving solids on one side and a liquid colon cocktail on the other to flow down the steps.  Finally, one of my cats regained consciousness and, remembering it’s emergency flooding training, ran to the bathroom, gripped the toilet input water valve wheel with its teeth and rightee tight-eed it.  The flow at the bathroom end had ceased.  The business end of the tsunami of shit, however, concluded its path of destruction in my garden by flooding it completely.

            All I could do was let the waters of the newly formed Lake Shitticakapupupeepee drain into the ground over the next couple of days.  I threw my hands up in frustration and avoided the garden for a full week.  Upon coming back to till the soil, rip out dead plants and start the garden fresh, I noticed that not only were my plants not ruined; they were flourishing.  The squash and radishes, despite a brown hue, looked amazing.  The tomatoes looked like plump ebony goodness and the corn like…well; it looked like really good corn; with corn on it.  That’s when it hit me!  Why the fuck am I paying for manure when I’ve got it for free right here!?  In fact, apparently, my shit is so bangin’ that if I can get a garden to look this good, I could even sell this stuff.  So that’s what I did; I sold it.  I started eating a loaf of white bread and a multivitamin every day then followed it with a Metamucil chaser to speed things along.  I was a human fertilizer assembly line.  I had it down to three hours between shits and thanks to all the white bread in my diet it came out in perfectly firm logs ready for plastic wrapping.  I call it Rusty’s Miracle Loaf.  They are selling like hot cakes and on top of that I get Government tax breaks for falling under the Green Business Initiative.  So, I get paid and veggies get made.  Ain’t America great?!