There once was a libertine pig named Porkanova. His porcine face was heavenly, his lovemaking prowess worthy of legend. One night, whilst strolling through the farm, a beautiful sow caught his fancy. Her name was Pigopatra. And in an instant, their lives had changed forever. And by that, I mean they made sweet, saccharine love. Cue the music – baw chicka wow wow. Oink!
They did very naughty things that night.
Little did Porkanova know, however, that Pigopatra had played the oldest card in the libertine-lock-down book: she pulled the goalie. And as would be expected, Porkanova’s world-renowned virility translated into instant implantation.
So there was a piglet on the way – a pork bun in the oven, if you will, as it were. Needless to say (but I’ll say it anyway) – this baby was not destined to do great things, like the holy, heavenly baby Jesus. And Porkanova had vowed not to get married until either he or one of his pig cousins had become able to fly. So he did what any other pig in his situation would do. He claimed the baby wasn’t his.
This made Pigopatra very sad. So much so that friends kept sending her PigSpigot cards in the hopes of cheering her up. But their congratulatory notes did nothing to assuage her shattered soul. She fell into a deep depression.
Then, one day on the farm, Porkanova passed her as she held her head in her cloven hooves and sobbed louder than he had ever seen someone sob before. His conscience was shaken, his heart torn asunder. He could no longer live with the guilt.
And this was how Porkanova finally came about to doing the right thing. He married Pigopatra (with a prenup of course) and their wedding night, now with no fear of unplanned fertilization, featured the best loving they each had ever had. Porkanova, in a matter of days, had gone from irresponsible and irrepressible impregnator to a caring, devoted father, ready to take on life’s challenges, ready to go from making love to living it.
