What the hell am I going to do with this page? Skewer Korrectniks, brain-deaders, call 'em as I see 'em, and from time to time, give props to way cool individuals that deserve a hearty two-thumbs up, that's what I'm going to do, dag-nabbit!

Am I in direct competition with my Brother In Arms, Hambo? No way. This page is meant for Porcus to sound off and spout off on really important issues like Twatney Spears, Babes of The Month, and maybe some other pesky stuff like our upcoming election, border jumpers, and assorted scum that renders a "blip" on the PIG radar.

I won't claim to be the prolific writer Hambo is, but I'll post my musings from time to time, in between beers, pizzas and fishing trips.

As founder of PIG, I should have recognized the responsibility of sticking my neck out and offering up my two cents worth on an occasional basis, as I created PIG as a forum for everyday folks (Like me, Hambo, Staff and our contributors) to voice their opinions on any subject.

I thought I should make the clear distinction between Hambo and myself. While we are in many ways, very like-minded, we also are two very different individuals. He has his "ways", I have mine, but when we meet, 100% Guaranteed, we cook something up, each and every week.

So PIGsters, your humble publisher is finally coming out of the closet to launch what's left of his mind upon you, should you care to stop by.

Name is Porcus Maximus, founder, creator, builder, designer, and discoverer of talent, (Hambo & Staff) of the best damn website, PIG.

Enjoy.

P.S. No need to assemble outside of my house, mob-style, with tar and feathers, hockey sticks, pitchforks, shotguns, torches, etc. You'll never stifle the voice of freedom that's heard every day here at The Free State Of PIG.

DROP AND GIVE ME 20 !!!

How would you like to wake up to THAT, in your face, at 4:30 AM, screaming "What is your major malfunction, numbnuts?" Takes a way special breed of American Warrior called a United States Marine to withstand that brand of mental and physical training, ladies.

This posting is a twofold shout out to our brave, United States Marines, and in particular, Gunny John, PIG's number one fan for life since PIG went online.

Gunny John had related some personal and professional insights with The Free State Of PIG, Hambo and myself over the years.

We consider ourselves privliged for having Marines like Gunny John visiting PIG and corresponding with us.

Before I continue, I am in no way discounting the bravery and dedication of the other members of the branches of the armed services that serve our country in harm's way. In fact, Gunny John is going to stick his bayonet where my sun don't shine, but several members of my family served in the Navy, during the Korean War, Vietnam, and the first Gulf War as pilots and officers.

I hope I didn't make Gunny John's Shit List by disclosing that, but that's a fact, Jack. The Free State Of PIG need's Gunny John & Co. on our team.

Back to The Corps. What inspired this posting was when I recently watched the DVD of Full Metal Jacket, for the 20th time, and more specifically the guy that stole the show, Marine Sergeant R. Lee Ermey, who in the movie portrayed Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, one hell of a hard-ass.

I don't know if Gunny John uses that film as a training guide for new jarhead recruits, but I did, for my kid. It instilled some fear in him that solved a few "teenage" related problems. The Marine mentality worked like a charm on my son, as I threatened to take that approach toward him unless he changed his tune.

From the Halls Of Montezuma, to the Shores Of Tripoli, The Free State Of PIG offers our utmost gratitude, and totally salutes The United States Marine Corps for all you do, on a daily basis.

Hey Gunny John, if it weren't for you defending our liberties and way of life, there would be no PIG, and I would be writing this from a Commie Gulag, and speaking either German or Japanese.

Oh, one more thing John. Do you think next time you're stateside, can you bring your platoon to my neighborhood to perform a clean-up job? See, I've got real bad neighbor that uses the whole surrounding area as his personal urinal, ash tray and trash can. I live in a way private, family oriented area, and we don't need the likes of this guy spoiling a good neighborhood.

I know, you Marines are handling more important stuff like hunting down terrorist scum, and keeping us safe. But, if you were to autograph a grenade, and send it over, Scouts Honor, I'll put it to good, creative use once the pin is pulled.

Gunny John, I hope I didn't get too mushy or sloppy with my expression of gratitude for what you do for us, and willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice for a lump like me.

Hambo and Porcus wish you and your undercharges Godspeed and come home soon from those front lines. In the meantime, The Free State Of PIG will maintain our stronghold and continue and stay dug into our trenches on the Homefront.

I would close out by saying "God Bless America", but America wouldn't be blessed if it weren't for Marines like you.

Thanks.

True PIGster's don't need the likes of a wannabee, failed, ex-outlaw, Porcus to explain the difference between cops like Barney Fife and "Dirty" Harry Callahan, but for those going into personal, legal problems, which may have required handcuffs and brief incarceration, I'll tell you the difference.

Barney Fife types, for some reason, cannot think outside "The Box." Spit on the sidewalk on his watch? He'll have you hauled in, and prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Top that off with him telling Floyd The Barber and Aunt Bea about his big time bust.

Now, let's move onto a guy that has no conception of what "thinking inside a box" is, "Dirty" Harry Callahan.

Ficticious? Yes, in the sense of movies, but there are some pretty cool, veteran cops, that have the ability to think creatively, and way outside "The Box."

If you thought for a second a cop like Dirty Harry would compliment you by hauling you in for puking on the sidewalk after too much tequila, you're wrong. If, however you make the fatal mistake of barfing on his shoes, different story.

I don't think he would whip out his way trusty .44, but if he did, he would probably make you wipe the vomit off of his shoes, and let you go along your merry way.

Moral?: Too many small minded cops, not enough Dirty Harry's and way too many scumbags.

Famous Dirty Harry Quotes;

"A man's got to know his limitations."

Harry Callahan: "You heroes killed a dozen people this week. What are you going to do next week?"
Officer Davis: "Kill a dozen more."

Lieutenant Briggs: "Suppose they panic and start shooting?"
Harry Callahan: "Nothing wrong with shooting as long as the right people get shot!"

Harry Callahan: "Briggs, I hate the goddamn system, but until someone comes along with changes that make sense, I'll stick with it."

Then of course is the all-time classic, when Harry is enjoying a hot dog but notices a bank robbery in progress.

Callahan walks across the street with his .44 drawn, locked and loaded.

One dillweed makes the fatal mistake of taking a shot at Callahan.

Harry responds with some rounds of his own, killing the son of a bitch, and wounding his crime partner.

The real fun starts when Harry encounters the wounded bank robber, whose rifle is arms lenght away.

Harry's .44 is pointed right at him almost reached for the rifle, and Harry said, "Uh-uh. You know, in all this excitement, I don't know if I fired five shots, or six."

"This is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world. It can take your head clean off. You've got to ask yourself one question, Do I feel lucky?, Well, do you, punk?"

The classic moment came when the wounded perpetrator said, "I gots to know."

Harry pulled the trigger with a deafening, silent "click," smiles, and walks away.

No offense to the dedicated law enforcement peace officers, whose sole duty, when they put the badge on and holster up, looking out for the citizenry's safety and security, but Jimminey Crickets, when you see Otis The Drunk staggering down the street, by all means, haul him/her in and let them sleep it off. No need to issue him a court appearance, summons or citation. He's a real good repeat customer.

But, future law enforcement types, tin stars, rent-a-cop wannbees, don't be so damn zealous upon graduating from the academy.

Is it me, or did John McCain just steal Barak O'Bama's thunder, AND pull the rug from underneath his bid for the White House by choosing Sarah Palin as a running mate?

Indeed.

After O'Dumbo thought he could sneak into the White House by naming a real numbnut like Joe Biden as his V.P. running mate, McCain named a hottie, and she is smoking good looking, Alaska Governor, Sarah Palin.

I do not campaign for Mr. McCain, but his advisors deserve a bonus for pulling her name out of the hat. Guess who's going to start taking an interest in politics? The 18 to whatever demographics of the male persuasion.

Compare her to Cynthia Heinz, a real mutt and slut, who could never represent the United States in a true First lady, or Co-Presidential capacity. But this lady, and judging from what Porcus has heard about Sarah Palin, she is a real lady, way worthy of representing America in an Executive manner.

McCain, you out-pimped the pimp, or out Messiah'ed The Messiah in your selection of Sarah Palin for a V.P.

But Porcus, you're advocating for people to vote on good looks, and no platform or policy, huh? well, duh. Politics are all about gaining whatever uperhand you can. Isn't that what Democrats like Ma Porcus does?

Well, we could rewind back to 1992 when women were voting for Forked Tongued Slick Willie and Messiah Al because, well, they're young, and um, well oh my God, like, they have nice hair, and, like my friend was saying...BZZZZZZZZZT!

Total tune out time.

Now, about Sarah Palin. She strikes Porcus as the type, that when the door closes and she ditches those eyeglasses and lets her hair down, she's a real Tigress, with some yum-liscious qualities.

I would be lying if I said her good looks were secondary and beside the point. It will become a pivotal issue.

Mr. O'Bama, you're right about 'Hope' and 'Change,' but we here at The Free State Of PIG don't want you or you Zombie-like cult following's brand of Hope or Change.

Just go...away...please, O' Dumbo.

But Porcus has to ask a hard question of Governor Palin. When you decline the offers from Hugh Hefner and Larry Flynt, would you object to showing up at a Porcus barbecue, and changing into a "Got PIG" T-Shirt, while Porcus wets it down?

Didn't think so. How about a bikini? Didn't think so, but no harm in asking, huh?

McCain, you scored in your choice for a V.P, running mate. You revitalized your dead-as door- nailscampaign by introducing a smart, intelligent, and way good looking woman onto the national political scene.

It was recently brought to my attention by my Co-Commander and Brother In Arms, Of The Free State Of PIG, Hambo, of my fixation of the female form, especially in the Sports section, and even more especially, well endowed women that were blessed with being top heavy, front end-wise.

Okay, the cat's out of the bag. I confess! But you should, too. Your very first Happy Meal came straight from the tap in the form of your mother's breast. Both male and female infants are included.

The fixation on women's breasts and overall figure on men's part is timeless and universal.

Witness the great Renaissance painting's by Raphael, Titian, Michelangelo...the list is too damn long.

Don't forget some of those Spanish painters that nailed the female form, either.

Let's not forget the famous Frenchman Auguste Rodin with his famous sculpture, titled, "The Kiss" depicting a nude man and woman in a passionate embrace. Pictured, below.

Porcus recalls his first sex-ed class in Junior High School. It was co-ed, for about five minutes.

The teacher, a woman, displayed two anatomical diagrams. One male, one female.

With her pointer, she smacked it right onto the females groin area and asked, "Can anyone tell the class why women have wider hips than males?"

I raised my hand and teach said "Okay"

I said "Well, it sure makes them look good, coming or going!"

THE KISS

Score!!!

With that, and after the laughter died down, all boys were to be instructed seperate from the girls.

Us dudes regrouped and made a deal with the girls. They tell us what the teacher taught them and in exchange, we'll share our instructions with the girls. Fair enough, and worked out well.

Fast forward to a year later. I found myself talking to a family member that had been married and divorced five times, and he knew my hormones were raging off the damn scale.

He told me in these exact words, about the power women wield over men.

"The power of pussy is as follows: Take one pussy hair, attatch it to the Titanic, put it in the Sahara Desert, with all engines in reverse, over the sand, and that little hair will drag that ship forward, to destinations unknown."

He further stated, "If women weren't so anatomically beautiful, and physically different, they would be extinct."

Is Porcus a member of the He-Man's-Woman-Haters Club?

No way. Okay, women do have their moods and moments, which can be most unpleasant, but in exchange, we (men), if we play our cards right, get some poon tang.

As a matter of fact, I, Porcus, want to thank all ladies of the attractive persuasion for making the world a gallery of beauty, just by your gracing the same air I breathe.

Fat, ugly women need not apply.

But Porcus, you do objectify women, right?

You got that right. And the reason is because of their physical, aesthetic beauty, passion and femininity.

The reason for this post was inspired by a former co-worker that had a most healthy rack extending into the next zip code and asked, "Why do men have such a fascination about women's breast's?" Obviously, she was and is mighty proud of her tits.Hell, if I were her boyfriend, I would lock the damn door and have my way with her gifts, Dutch Style.

To answer that question was a Jackie Gleason moment, as all I could say was "Hummina, Hummina, Hummina." But the truth is, I had only one answer: Biology.

Yes, men love the female form. It's our damn playground. Starting from the top, being the Explorer's we are, we'll stroke the hair, look deep in the eyes, swap some spit, and work our way downtown.

When we're done, to the ladies' satisfaction, please, let us not cuddle, talk, or any of that crap. We got ours, you got yours, and let us sleep. Jack Daniel's or Johnnie Walker Red helps in such situations.

Dirty Little Secret Time: Okay, Ladies, when you think your man is asleep after lovemaking, and you're laying in bed naked, your man just might not be asleep. He really may laying there with one eye open, admiring your beauty, and appreciating the love you just made together.

Crap! Mrs. Porcus saw this and is running towards me with open arms, saying "You're so romantic! Can you do that to me?"

The Horror! My own wife!

All kidding aside, grab your woman, be it your wife or girlfriend, put your arms around her, look in her eyes, and tell her how much she means to you, and make her spread eagle, doggie style over the kitchen sink, and administer some "love" her way.

National Geographic Channel just aired a documentary about the L.A. Riots in 1992.

As an up close and "right there" witness to that mayhem, I'll tell you, the cause is simple. Mob rule.

Was race a factor? Hell yes, and here in the Pitchfork, nothing is sacred, not even the skin color of criminals.

Certain ethnic groups, and we all all know who they are, felt shortchanged for shit that never happened to them, were awaiting the Simi Valley jury's decision of the four L.A.P.D. officers in the Rot-Knee King trial.

6:30 PM, First day of rioting. I'm at my college, in the lounge, where a T.V. is airing the opening ceremonies of the riots at the intersection of Florence and Normandie. That's where Damien "Football" Williams made his debut by kicking the crap out of Reginald Denny, an innocent trucker, caught in the wrong place, wrong time.

I called my buddy, Mike, in Beverly Hills, who I was supposed to meet for dinner with his parents, and he said he was scared shitless, and can I come by.

No problem. I entered the Santa Monica Freeway, westbound, and as I looked to my left, (south, or South Central L.A.) I saw what I had only seen on news reports from war-torn regions in the Middle East. Fires and loads of black smoke. All over the damn place. looked like Beirut.

I get to my friends place in Beverly Hills, and he was on the phone with his parents who decided not to come to L.A. because of the riots.

I used his phone to call my mother, who lived in Simi Valley at the time, to let her know I'm OK and I'll be up there later, and I'll check on my brothers in the San Fernando Valley on my way up.

Mike and I watched the news reports, live from downtown L.A., especially, City Hall.

Numbnuts (me) came up with the brilliant idea us of going back to downtown with a camera and see up close what all the fussing is about.

He was game, so we get in my brand new truck, and arrive in Little Tokyo, about a quarter mile from City Hall.

We ran over to City Hall, and what do we see? A mob consisting of a mixture of a bunch of disgruntled blacks, hispanics, and wait, white suburbanites. Spoiled white suburbanites at that. What the hell were they doing there? Mix in some media photographers, alcohol, some way misguided fools who tipped an unmarked cop car, and that's my cue to tell my friend, "I'm SO outta here."

We made it to my truck, after dodging some bricks and bottles being hurled our way, and cruised though downtown L.A. The looting already started and there wasn't a cop in sight. It was a No-Shit-Free-For-All, No-Rules-Anything-Goes Fiesta.

I got up to my mother's house at about 2 AM and she was scared to death. The Sheriff's department had deployed helicopters over the Simi Valley area, anticipating that some gorilla's would emerge from the mist, and try to storm Simi Valley.

The next morning had a classic front page photograph of Simi Valley residents lined up outside of the local gun shop, buying ammo and firearms. Guess who/what never made it to Simi Valley? Codename: Gorillas.

Day Two: I had to go back to L.A. for a final exam. I loaded an aluminum baseball bat in my truck for "equalizing" purposes. On the way in, the smoke and smell from the fires blanketed the entire L.A. basin. I picked up my friend Mike, and we were the only two students that showed up for our finals.

Our professor, a trendy, liberal, Westwood, Starbucks type, ran in and simply said, "I'm scared to death. Since you two showed up, you both get an A+. Bye."

With that out of the way, I told my friend I want to check on some other people I know in Koreatown.

First stop, 9th and Vermont. I had a friend, Victor, who owned a carniceria, or hispanic meat and produce market. At that intersection, three of the four businesses were burnt to a crisp, except for Victor's place.

We rolled up and we see Victor with a sizable posse on the roof, armed to the teeth with rifles and shotguns. I had to ask, "Hey, how the hell is your store the only one standing?"

He replied by giving a pump on his shotgun, and simply said "There's no way those Miates (Mexican slang for June Bugs, or niggers) are taking my place.

Cool.

After checking in on some other friends, I had to check my home in Rancho Cucamonga. On the way, a cop pulls me over to alert me that I was going over the speed limit.

He didn't issue me a ticket, but did ask, "Do you play baseball?"

"Not recently" I said.

"Did you know I can arrest you for carrying a concealed weapon with that bat behind your seat?"

I snapped back and asked if he had been to L.A., like in the last 24 hours. His answer of course, was no.

With that, I told him I was coming from L.A. and this was my means of protection, and I came pretty close to using it, too.

Sometime Around Day Three: The day "They" come out of the woodwork, like the cockroaches they are. "No Justice, No Peace" creeps were echoing their sickening mantra all over the fucking place. To counter that however, the California National Guard were also all over the place. My girlfriend at the time was a Korean, and she felt the need to stock up on supplies...in Koreatown.

We hit the Korean and American markets and on the way back to Cucamonga, we were at a stop light on Wilshire Boulevard, were a bunch of Guardsmen standing post. I told my girlfriend to give me the 12-pack of Pepsi, which I gave to the Guardsmen.

I expressed my gratitude for their service, and wished I could have given them some brews instead of soda, but they were on duty.

What came in the aftermath? Not much. Some "No Justice, No Peace" crumbs still refer to the riots as "civil unrest."

The L.A.P.D. is now more reluctant than ever to profile or clean up the 'hood, for fear of "violating" someone's civil rights.

If you thought Korean's mistrusted blacks before the riots, well, nevermind. They're not exactly holding hands around a campfire singing Kumbaya in unison.

People lost businesses, homes and lives.

One dumbass Korean business owner, was nailed for insurance fraud, claiming he lost his business due to arson. That part was true, but the problem was, he forgot to turn off his surviellance camera, while HE torched his own place.

What's the point of this post? I don't know, but National Geographic started it by airing their L.A. Riot documentary.

My mother told me in the aftermath of the riots, that every generation has a defining moment, where one never forgets where they were, or who they were with at that moment in history.

Hers was the assasination of JFK. The L.A. Riots were my generations, then she reminded me of the 9/11 tragedy.

About a year ago, I found myself in the Alaska Airlines terminal awaiting a flight in the lounge in Portland, Oregon.

All was quiet, as folks were waiting to board the plane. I was doing a crossword puzzle. An elderly woman was fiddling around with her purse. A few National Guardsmen were joking around. A few snot gobblers were playing musical chairs.

And then..."IT" came into the lounge.

"IT" is the one person NOBODY wants to end up sitting next to. She, and her 450+ pounds of hot air waddle up to the desk, and insisted upon letting not just the poor souls behind the desk know each and every ugly part of her personal life, but she was so loud, nobody could escape her personal Mickey Mouse, trailer park drama.

I just laughed as the two guys behind the counter found something else of high priority to do, like scrubbing toilets, and excused themselves from her bellowing.

At first, I thought she must have strayed from her mental center's group outing without her meds. I was wrong. She was a passenger. Utter doom for the person that ended up sitting next to "IT."

When I finally boarded the plane, I found myself squeezing into a window seat next to another beached whale. This dude however, was very courteous, saw my discomfort and asked if I wanted to exchange seats with his mother.

Damn right I do!

Naturally, my new seat was right next to...IT! Why me? Why? Why? Why?

I'm no Stephen King, but this was sheer horror, worthy of being made into a movie, or a novel at the very least.

In a way, I guess I was blessed, as when I took MY half of MY seat, she actually moved her blubbery fat ass arms about an inch to allow me access to a seat I paid for.

Then comes the non-stop stupid ass small talk, but at a very high decible level, for all the passengers to hear.

"Are you married?' "Do you have kids?" "What do you do for living?"

All these questions while I had to sit at a 3/4 angle with my legs extending into the aisle, no thanks to Her Fatness spilling over into MY seat. That's right. A good portion of her arms, legs, gut, mammaries and hot breath were invading MY paid seat.

At that point, I wished I had a portable, Pocket Hambo to talk me off the ledge and put Hot Air Blimpo in her place. Honestly, I was about to lose it, and fortunately, the stewardesses saw my lack of comfort and offered up extra snacks and drinks.

When I politely declined, Fatso told me I should have accepted and that she would have eaten them. Duh, you think?

Luckily, it was only a one hour flight, and when we landed, I made like an NFL running back for the gate, looking for an opening, and my wife. The other passengers were very sympathetic to my ordeal and gave me a wide berth to scramble fast and far from "IT."

After claiming baggage and leaving the airport, I had Mrs. Porcus take me to the nearest liquor store for some liquid relief. I honestly would have settled for a gas station that sold anti-freeze to erase the horrors of that flight.

Moral Of The Story: If airlines refuse to charge double wide loads extra, that's fine. But then us folks of regular build ought to be discounted if we have the misfortune of enduring a flight where we are treated like packed sardines when seated next to human mastadons.

Also, when booking a flight, specify that you DO NOT want to be stuck next to a human hippo, otherwise, demand a discount, up front. It is your money after all.

Did I mention it was Alaska Airlines? At least Southwest has some nads when it comes to double and triple extra wide loads.

My wife, Mrs. Porcus, had asked me, "Why is it, that whenever you hear your National Anthem at professional baseball games, Memorial Day parades, or even on T.V., you have a teardrop rolling down your face?"

I had to switch caps and go into All-American mode, and give a lecture, one which we should all be fully versed in.

I'll backtrack a tad and explain, Mrs. Porcus is a foreign (fully legal) national.

That said, I'll explain.

Our flag and our National Anthem, are now, and always will be, bigger than me, you, the high horse the likes of Michael Moore, Cindy Sheehan and rest of their ungrateful ilk rode in on, and hopefully, will being ridden out of Dodge on, too.

Our flag, in all it's Stars and Stripes glory, represent the freedoms and liberties bestowed upon us by our Creator.

It represents a dream for new immigrants, that arrive on our shores, hoping and praying for some way of a quality of life improvement, here in the land of the free and home of the brave.

It stands for a can-do attitude, which seems to be instilled in the American Spirit. And we "Can-Do."

It also represents the men and women that have made the ultimate sacrifice in defense of you, me, our loved ones, friends, neighbors and yes, even flag burning scum.

It represents our Purple Mountains of Majesty, our Fruited Plains, and all points in between our Sea's to shining Seas, and the American folks that live and work there.

Wait, I was just interrupted with a question from Mrs. Porcus who just raised her hand.

Perfessor Porcus granted her the floor with her question.

"Aren't you proud of being of Irish/Italian descent?"

Good question, and my reply was this:

"What the hell for? I had as much to do with my heritage, than a snail does it's."

As I paced the lecture hall, here at P.U.in trying to hammer the message home, I said I was damn glad my ancestors rolled off those boats and onto our shores.

I further added that I am proud to be an American, and feel blessed and fortunate to have been born, raised and educated here.

So, is Porcus a soppy, mushy type? When it comes to respecting our nation and flag and what it stands for? Pass me a Kleenex or hankie, because the answer is, hell yes, sometimes, especially when my beer supply runs out.

After I got my point across to Mrs. Porcus, she said to come clean, and admit that I also cry during the Wizard Of Oz.

So, anyone out there that wants to laugh at me, call me a wuss, puss or crybaby, come on over, I'll teach you a thing or two.

I could use my crossbow, baseball bat, crowbar or meat cleaver, but my way of schooling would be to take the pointed, business end of one of my flags and stick it in your soon to be glory hole.

God Bless America, and thank you Frances Scott Key for those words of The Star Spangled Banner that have inspired millions, and Betsy Ross for creating a timeless, iconic symbol known as the American Flag.

Okay, this one scalds my skillet.

In the previous posting, I mentioned my need for "qualified" help, and I found some help in the lovely lady pictured.

She said she would love to help The Free State Of PIG, as long as her privacy was maintained.

When I asked why, she told me her family would disown her if they found out she was associated with PIG.

When I asked why, again, she said her family thought we were pigs and I'm a good girl.

I told her, her secret was safe with me, and your family was right,we are pigs, and as far as the "good girl" stuff goes, I informed her I was way willing to change that image.

Well, someone, and I know who that someone is, followed her on her assignment to fetch me some watermelons at the Farmer's Market, breeched her privacy, and posted this picture.

Porcus is not a dictator and always gives folks the benefit of the doubt, but my edict is as follows to the person in question:

No pizza, one week.

Beer is being rationed to one case per day, also, one week.

Also, hereby sentenced to one week of either The View, or Oprah. Pick your poison.

Suffer.

Now, the lovely lady pictured, whose only duties were described to her is allowing Porcus to gawk at her, while she does pretty much...nothing, is distraught, and now I have to lure her back to the PIGdom.

In my quest to lure her back, I commented that those two melons in her hands, were nothing compared to the two sweet juicy fruits right behind them, under her blouse.

Anticipating either a cinder block dropped on my head, or five across the eyes after that comment, she surprised me by blushing, smiling and said she would give me a second chance.

After that I said "Great! By the way, you like fondling your melons, but how about nuts"

Needless to say, she's gone.

Alright, dammit!

Somebody posted a picture of the Porcus Personal Staff on Page One, and I know who the culprit is, too.

The nerve! How dare you!

I'm not a snitch or name dropper, but I can provide the initials of the dude who dropped the dime on my way personal Staff.

Does H-a-m-b-o ring a bell to anyone out there?

Just what qualified them in the first place for the coveted job of babysitting Porcus? That is a "Well, Duh" question.

The anonymity of these sweeties, for The Free State Of PIG's sake must always remain top priority.

They might not like their privacy invaded.

Crap. Now I have to recruit some new "personal assistants."

Thanks alot, pal, now I have to conduct interviews for new "personal assistants."

Ladies, if interested, you need to be informed, we are not an equal opportunity employer.

Far from it, ladies. Strict criteria and raising the bar are top priority.

However, if you can match the measurements of the ladies pictured, all you have to do is show up, and the job is yours, I'll be real busy smoking cigars, leafing through important publications like Playboy, and breaking out my tape measure, you know, to check your qualifications.

Your qualifications:

1.) Ability to serve pizza and crack open cold brews at our whim.

2.) Ability to pick up Porcus' car keys when he intentionally drops them... three times in 15 minutes.

3.) The ability to go Bruce Lee on the person looking over my shoulder, Mrs. Porcus, and protect your commanding officer, me and second in Command, Captain Hambo, at all times, and if it requires Commander Porcus to unsnap your bra, and use it to launch projectiles towards the enemy, well, Commander Porcus will happily award you with a medal, and happily pin it where it counts.

Thanks ladies. Porcus already knows none of you will be showing up, but if you happen to know a chick that loves to wash cars in her bikini, send her over.

Thanks for the mammaries, ladies.

Okay, Free Staters, someone tracked down my wedding photo's, and your trusty publisher knows who it is, dammit.

All things aside, PIGsters of the dude persuasion can only dream about a scenario like this.

What is the point of this picture? Damn glad you asked.

The point is, is that the woman pictured, maybe Mrs. Porcus, maybe not, did this voluntarily, and all the Gloria Allred's and her Brigades of Femo-Fascists can come banging on my door, with subpeonas, torches, pitchforks, etc., demanding I take the photo down.

I have several, right to the point words for them, and they are as follows:

Fuck you, First Amendment, change the channel if any uptight, sanctimonious, pious assholes have an objection, or go to another site.

In Memorium: R.I.P. Old Friend

Rest In Peace, or Reqiescat In Pace (Latin)

Well, PIGsters, my recent hiatus from The Free State of PIG is attributed to me not tending to my Piece 'O Shit MacIntosh. It took a major league dump, and I tried and tried to bring it back to life, but to no avail. It's fried. Toast. History. Why? Because of neglect on my part, probably.

I suppose in dog years, that workhorse of a computer would be well over 70 years old. I rode that thing until the hubcaps fell off and worked it to it's maximum capacity, like right into the ground, and truth be told, that machine somehow helped me 'Git - R - Done', day after day, week after week...etc.

In many ways, it was more than a computer to me. It housed my inner most PIG notes, my portfolio, resume, graphics, a little way cool porn, bookmarks from the PIG faithful, email addresses, settings, and some most important software that I used and needed to build The Free State of PIG.

But I can't complain. It served PIG and me well for many years. It helped Hambo and I forge a trail of individualism, free thought and expression and satire not really seen online before on the internet superhighway. Well, that, plus Al Gore, of course.

Hambo used to joke about my old computer as if I were dating the ugly duckling at High School, but I showed him that my "ugly duckling" or "Piece 'O Shit Mac" could crank out some cool graphics for The Free State of PIG - Steaming Loads, Sereant Pork, Hambo's Hammer, Girlie Man and Barbi Q. Ribs are among my favorite PIG graphics - and only I, your humble publisher, knew how to push the right buttons to make The Bitch perform.

I had made the switch to a PC, and I'm not going to lie. My new system is, to me, like going from an old Al Bundy Dodge, to a streamlined Corvette, complete with a bikini clad Hambo Honey sprawled on the hood. Juicy indeed. I have dubbed my new unit, The Beast, and it really does compliment PIG's War Room quite nicely.

What I'll do next is one last try at reviving my old motherboard partner in politically incorrect deeds. I'll take it up to a Mac specialist and see if there is any hope of life left, or at least burn some discs to retrieve my original files and fonts.

If the verdict is final, that it's flatlining it's way into the digital afterlife, and no hope of retrieving my files, well, it's time to grab my aluminum baseball bat and put it out of it's misery.

I commented to Hambo that while my old Mac was unplugged and taken off it's long held perch on my desk and thus relegated to a dark corner of the room status, I swear, The Bitch was staring at me, as if I had a lingering ghost lurking in my home, much like the car in Stephen King's "Christine".

Now that I have The Beast, I can't help but feel a really creepy feeling that The Bitch is stalking and watching me begin a new relationship with The Beast from it's exiled spot in the corner, much like an ex-girlfriend that finds out you're dating someone else one day after you break up. Spooky.

Does size matter? In this case, hell yes. It really is a Beast of a computer, capacity wise, plus the size of the monitor allows me to read files without my reading glasses.

So PIGster's, we're entering a new era of the PIGdom. Hambo will no longer have to hear me moan, groan, whine or snivel about my Piece 'O Shit Mac being in the shop, on the fritz, freezing up or getting moody on me, and conversely, I won't have to hear his smart-ass remarks about my computer.

A moment of silence from the PIG Faithful would be much appreciated before I do the final deed. It will probably be a Kleenex moment as it's going hurt me more than it will hurt The Bitch.

Always remember this: The Free State Of PIG was created and constructed with a Non-P.C. unit.

Goodbye Bitch, I bid you a fond farewell, you served me and The Free State Of PIG well, and Hello Beast, Porcus is back in the game.

"From My Cold, Dead Hands."

QUOTES FROM CHARLTON HESTON • • • • • • • • • • • • "Political correctness is tyranny with manners." • "Here's my credo. There are no good guns, There are no bad guns. A gun in the hands of a bad man is a bad thing. Any gun in the hands of a good man is no threat to anyone, except bad people." • "As I have stood in the crosshairs of those who target Second Amendment freedoms, I've realized that firearms are not the only issue. No, it's much, much bigger than that. I've come to understand that a cultural war is raging across our land, in which, with Orwellian fervor, certain acceptable thoughts and speech are mandated." • "Get your stinkin' paws off me, you damned dirty ape!"

Socially conscious and historically and culturally way ahead of the rest of his peers, Heston had a way of articulately telling his adversaries to kick rocks, pound sand and pretty much screw themselves with such a quiet flair and touch of class, that you never heard his critics even try to start something with him ever again.

Hear those crickets making their noise over in Hollywood? That's the only sound you'll hear from the likes of Michael Moore, George Clooney, Ice-T, Rosie, Spike Lee and the rest of the lip-flapping crowd he managed to silence while he was still alive. Even in death, his critics are silenced and it's too late for insincere, pathetic posthumous apologies.

Heston always championed the importance of our Second Amendment rights, contending that without them there would be no First Amendment.

From Al Gore to Michael "Maggot" Moore, Heston was TOO REAL.

From Time-Warner and Ice-t to Harvard Law School, again, he proved TOO REAL.

To show you just how TOO REAL Heston was, even while battling Alzheimer's late in life, these examples just might say it all for Heston the gentleman:

• In the 2002 documentary film Bowling for Columbine, Michael Moore interviewed Heston in his home, asking him about an April 1999 NRA meeting held shortly after the Columbine high school massacre, in Denver, Colorado. Moore criticized Heston for the perceived thoughtlessness in the timing and location of the meeting. Heston, on-camera, excused himself and walked out. Moore was later criticized for his perceived ambush.

• George Clooney, while receiving a special filmmaking achievement award joked that "Charlton Heston announced again today that he is suffering from Alzheimer's."

When asked if he went too far with his remarks, Clooney responded, "I don't care. Charlton Heston is the head of the National Rifle Association; he deserves whatever anyone says about him."

Heston: "It just goes to show that sometimes class does skip a generation," referring to Clooney's late aunt, Rosemary Clooney.

Heston further commented on the Clooney "joke": "I don't know the man - never met him, never even spoken to him, but I feel sorry for George Clooney - one day he may get Alzheimer's disease. I served my country in World War II. I survived that - I guess I can survive some bad words from this fellow".

Heston was way more than another dime-a-dozen Hollywood pretty boy, and as hard as Porcus may try to describe Heston as a head and shoulders above the rest type of dude in the context of the Pitchfork, I'll shut the hell up and provide this link for those of you, like me, with short attention spans to his Harvard speech and let his own words do the talking:

Charlton Heston On Culture Wars At Harvard Law School

Porcus Prediction: When you get finished reading this, you'll realize the timelessness of those words. Important now. Important 100 years from now. Because of his stature, Heston could get away with saying "politically incorrect' things most mere mortals would be tarred and feathered for saying, if not thinking, publicly.

With his death, Heston has passed the torch in the spirit of all Old Betsy's across our fruited plains to the rest of us, ever reminding us to stick to our guns, even until the day someone tries to hijack your rights and guns from YOUR cold, dead hands.

So, Her Royal Highness hit another snag on her road to Her Coronation. Boo- Freaking-Hoo.

It's no secret, here at the Free State Of PIG, that PIG's founder, me, created PIG and was majorly inspired by the Clinton-Rodham's commandeering of the White House, back in 1991.

I'm sitting here, in PIG's War Room, where even Hambo needs special clearance to enter at his own risk, recalling Her Highness apologizing for a made up story about her being a victim of Bosnian sniper fire.

I expect that real stinky load of shit from a pathological, opportunistic, thinly veiled whore like her. What makes me pissed, and has me scratching my head is, Bosnian's are either, A, bad marksmen, or B, the Bosnian's didn't put a bounty high enough to justify the cost and waste of a bullet, thus leaving alleged sniper to say, "Fuck it."

Talk about a missed opportunity. Oh well. If Her Highness thinks she's dodged real sniper's bullets, she really hasn't seen anything, yet. Just wait, as her campaign progresses, and she sticks her fake facade of a face further and further out, she will suffer and incur the wrath of not only the Free State Of PIG, but the likes of Porcus, Hambo, Staff, and other pundits.

Keep it up, Bitch, the American public just may give you enough rope to hang yourself with.

PIGster's, come November, don't say we didn't warn you, and I'll expand.

During Bill & Hillary's Two-For-One felonious occupation of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, they somehow managed to garner nothing but comtempt from our military, specifically, Air Force One, and Marine One. Why? Because they themselves offered up nothing but disrespect for our military themselves.

Enough of that. This "Thing" running for the highest office in the land, is as Rush Limbaugh states, is nothing but "Symbolism over substance." If you have a brother, sister, aunt, uncle, in-law or friend serving in any branch of the Armed Forces, please think before casting you vote. Do you want a military that is armed with state of the art weaponry, but no ammo?

That's one part of what you'll get when you cast your vote for Hitlery.

Please, help Porcus in his quest to remove the "Beat The Bitch" and "Kountdown To Klitocracy" banners from your beloved Free State Of PIG site. By doing so, you would also be contributing to what's left of my sanity.

Hambo & Staff give you thanks in advance.

P.S. Did Porcus neglect to mention how he's getting all cyliders fired up and getting ready for a real "Beat The Bitch" campaign? If he didn't just keep tuning in.

Help Porcus in his quest to Keep America Beautiful by Beating The Bitch. Thanks.