An Exploration Of Porcine Exploration

Memo to Austin Gullette: YOU ARE FAMOUS.

Over time, this site has had many potential mascots. Shrimpy McShrimp. The Big-Eyed Taco Ninja. Halle Berry. But today, we open a very special place in our hearts and minds for Austin Gullette, age 45, resident of West Monroe, Louisiana, and an authentic, genuine, documentable, Southern pigfucker.

And not in a metaphorical manner, either. This isn't like when I call Dennis Hastert a complete asshole for trying to insinuate that George Soros gets his MoveOn money from drug cartels. On national TV. The Speaker of the House just casually throwing out libel. Hastert is a COMPLETE ASSHOLE, but I don't mean he is actually, literally, a rectal sphincter without any pieces missing.

Austin Gullette, on the other hand, was arrested for fucking a pig. Legally, they refer to it as a "crime against nature", but the crime was fucking, and the representative of Nature that received unto the fucking was a 125 pound, Vietnamese, pot-bellied pig. And I thought I felt bad when all the gamers went nuts over Jenna Jameson. Imagine living in Louisiana and knowing that one of your own not only fucked a pig, but got caught at it. Probably didn't even get to finish before he had to run off into the bayou, pants around his ankles, desperately trying to call upon his limited mental capacity for some kind of excuse that would get him out of this pigfucking rap, and failing.

I almost feel bad for the South, that's how embarassing this is. I mean, yeah, when I talk about the South, and the inbred pigfuckers that reside there, part of me did believe in a strictly abstract sense that yes, some of them had, when it comes to pork, probably verbed the noun, as it were. But that was abstract. It's different actually reading about it in print. Actually attaching a name to the dick attached to the pig. It starts to seem almost gloating. Almost morbid. Almost... wrong.

And it would stay that way, except that, like a perverted Paul Harvey, you don't know the rest... of the story. See, it wasn't his pig. Apparently, Austin Gullette felt that having intimate relations with a pink, snouted animal was not quite Southern enough. No, he had to have sex with... HIS SISTER'S PIG. Just that faintest implication of incest, like when you make a martini by rinsing the glass out with vermouth. Was it a crime of opportunity? Was his sister's pig the only one he had regular access to? Or was it some kind of sublimated stand-in for his own immediate relative? The world may never know.

It was the sister that caught him, by the way. That's gotta ruin your week. You hear some squealing, you head out into the yard to see what's wrong, and hello, Porky. And the worst part is, the penalty for pigfucking in Louisiana is either $2,000, or up to five years in prison. So either he's gonna be hitting her up for the money to pay the fine he incurred by molesting her pig, or in a few years, he'll be out, and there'll be some REALLY awkward family dinners from that point on. "Well, I'll carve the roast now, assuming Austin didn't have his WAY WITH IT while I was finishing up the coleslaw. Well, Austin? Did you drop your PANTS and have FILTHY SEX with our DINNER?" At least, that's how I'd imagine it would go. And Austin couldn't even get indignant. When you've humped livestock, you really can't ask that people just "let it go".

But lest you think I'm just rambling on, trying to say "sex with a pig" as many different ways as I can, there is one final detail to the story that I've been saving until the end. And that is the pig's name.

The pig's name.... was "P-Pie". P-PIE. It's like the pig was pre-destined to be a euphemism for its own fate! "Austin was gettin' himself a little bit of p-pie in the back yard, if you know what I mean." I hope someone's already snapped up the film rights to "American P-Pie.".

The South has risen again, and its name is Austin Gullette. American. Southern. Fucker of pigs. Welcome to the annals of history, Austin. You've earned it the old-fashioned way. With your sweat, your toil, and your insatiable desire to stick your dick in a pig. In the immortal words of Hee-Haw, SA-LUTE!

Insert Beatles Song Joke Here

Memo to religious obsessives: YOU ARE DUMB.

I know, I know. How many times can I nail a dead horse to a cross? I do try to wait at least three days between instances, to allow the horse to resurrect itself, but still. On the other hand, punks keep getting up to get knocked down, as they say. Specifically, Southern religious punks. From the lovely small town of Alexandria, VA. Where God works in mysterious ways.

They say that when God closes a door, he opens a window. An enlightening analogy, yes, but somewhat inappropriate-sounding when you're talking about someone's bathroom. You see, in Alexandria, LA, there is a family. A family named Cross. And the Cross family has a bathroom, and the bathroom has a window, and outside that bathroom there is a store, and outside that store there is a light. And when the light shines through the window, which is yellow and frosted, some people say they can see... wait for it... a CROSS.

This has kicked off a bit of a fervor in Alexandria, LA, where schools apparently lump "refraction" in with "evolution" and "human sacrifice" as inappropriate subject matter, and where there is apparently nothing better to do than get yourself worked up into a Baptist frenzy over your neighbor's shitter.

Not everyone sees a cross, of course. Wouldn't want the bathroom miracle to remain consistent. Some people see many crosses. Some people see an angel, and some people see a crown of thorns. That last one kills me, because other than artistic representations, there aren't a lot of crowns made of thorns lying around for comparison. They're not next to the wicker baskets at Wal-Mart.

So you can imagine why I'd be a bit skeptical when, say, Zelma Seals McCoy is quoted as exclaiming "I see the thorns. I see the thorns. God is real."

I know that this column tends to be written from what might be considered a somewhat... secular perspective, but let's assume, for the moment, that the Judeo-Christian god is the one true god, as real as a Hostess fruit pie and twice as nice. What kind of fucking backhanded, half-ass respect do these people think they're giving Him? God is great! God is all-powerful! God has chosen to reveal His Divine Self through a stain on a rock, an oddly-shaped potato, and if that weren't low-rent enough, a LOUISIANA BATHROOM WINDOW. Behold the majesty of The Lord Our God, and don't forget to flush!

Now, if the waters of the toilet bowl were to part, and a bunch of silverfish, led by one silverfish holding a staff, were to then cross the bowl, we might be talking here. But it strikes me as incredibly disrespectful to attribute a vague light effect to your omnipotent uberbeing with such fervor and stupidity. Stupidity as evidenced in the Book of Lambert, verse 24, paragraph 2: "And lo, there shall come a time upon the Earth when the dull-witted shall speak, and their spakings shalt be recorded by a small-town journalism intern, and the recordings shall be posted upon the World Wide Web, and then reposted at a time known as the EPOCH OF THE DIVINE SPAKINGS." Which modern theologians prefer to translate as ACTUAL QUOTE TIME.

"It's shocking to see so many people, people my age, people I went to school with." - Roncey Miles, daughter of the Cross matriarch, and the first to see the cross. Yes, in a small town in Louisiana, many of the people who came to look at a cross in a bathroom window are peole Miles knew and went to school with. It is as if they never left the small Southern town of their birth. IT IS LIKE UNTO A MIRACLE.

"It was so amazing, so breathtaking." - Andrewnette Sampson, leaving me the perfect opportunity to make another "stinky bathroom" joke. But instead, I will take the high road and just make fun of all the names listed in the article, like "Andrewnette Sampson", "Roncey Miles", "Ricky Beauregard", and poor, poor little 7-year-old "Keraneicia Aaron", who is destined to spend her entire adult life sighing with exasperation before spelling out her name a fourth time to outsourced call center employees in third world countries.

If God wanted to work a miracle, he should have shown up in a delivery room seven years ago and saved the poor Aaron girl from her fate. Unfortunately, He was much too busy at the time painstakingly forming the image of the Virgin Mary into a single Cool Ranch Dorito bound for Oklahoma. Hey, he can't be everywhere at once.