This is a creative writing attempt to disguise a true situation that has pestered my imagination ever since I stumbled across it. I am trying my hand at satire. We'll see how I do.

Once upon a time there were three little pigs. Their names were Lies to Himself, Masochism, and Self Entitlement. These were not the names on their birth certificates. These were the names they earned because of their zealot devotion to gluttony, lust, sloth, and envy. The eldest little pig wore sloth like Joseph wore his Amazing Technicolor Coat. The other two abused envy and twisted it so that it looked like wrath but it was envy pure and simple; not pure like innocent, but pure as in its basest form and though it is never simple, that’s the phrase. And though both these little pigs were acquainted with wrath, it was a religion for one of them along with a loathsome form of pride. There was also a lot of self-pity swirling and whirling around all of them to make them the princes of pity. Their sessions of self-centered complaining and acrimonious loathing of a world they felt owed them a living were frequent and tiresome, like listening to the lament of a grocery shopper on the Saturday afternoon before Super Bowl Sunday. “But I thought the store would be empty today!”

Their grievances ranged from, all right, hold on right there. I wish to warn you, voyeuristic reader that these little pigs cuss. They cuss as if they need to use all their cuss words today in case there is no tomorrow. They are generous only in their cussing so to protect you, my dear voyeuristic reader not to mention to comply with hub rules, I will put a parenthesis, like this (), in place of each curse word so you can actually get a visual on their limited vocabulary. I hope this satisfies all and sundry so that we can continue with our little tale of woe. Besides, worse has been said in the whitest of houses, the White House.

So their grievances ranged from “I don’t () want to go into () work today. I should still get paid because I () have to go there five days a week!” “I don’t () see why I have to be nice to the () customers,” to “I got a () pay dock because I didn’t wear my () uniform to work because I didn’t () feel like it and so they () deducted my () pay and gave me a () lecture about complying with company policy!” Yes, the range of complaints was staggering and reasonable? Reasonable anyone? Do I have a bid on reasonable? No takers? Moving on.

These little pigs together teach an invaluable life lesson to anyone who will risk slipping on the haz-mat suit long enough to walk into their world. I was forced by life’s circumstances to be in the horrific position to observe quite a bit. Let me share lest you or someone you love edges close to that slippery slope and finds him or herself wearing the ole pig mask.

Lies to Himself was the old man in the sty. He was the father of Masochism and the uncle of Self Entitlement. They all lived together in a house they built of smoke, shattered dreams, and delusions. Behind the smoke were walls and floors, ceilings and a door, all the accoutrements of a real dwelling, but it was so filled with cigarette smoke and desolate ennui that they either couldn't see the reality of their situation or the nicotine they were ingesting was releasing just enough dopamine in their brains that they believed there was no way out.

To be accurate and give a clear picture, their house was a dark, cheap faux wood paneled apartment on the front half of the first floor of a white, three-story building situated in the middle of a soulless block with other buildings whose architecture seemed to closely resemble a prison compound rather than a street. Walking down the block it felt as if the very brick, every stone, and every wood board had given up on any human ever living inside them that might bring dreams with them or try to keep hope alive. No one cared about their home so the buildings lost their willingness to provide sanctuary. They merely kept out the rain and sometimes not even that. Their structures had become as decrepit as the lives of the people that parked their collective beaten down lives inside them.

The apartment that the three little pigs lived in was a sty of trash, dirty laundry, filthy dishes, unwashed windows, sticky floors and walls, and carpets that had the stale odor of mold, mildew, cigarettes, and old booze. All three of the pigs had such an abhorrence to household chores that it was a sure bet the place would remain this way in perpetuity. Never once did their glances seem to take in the disgusting filth in which they lived. Remember, these little pigs were human beings with the ability to cognitively process on an abstract level, only they chose not to. They operated on the basest level of self-gratification and they surround themselves with like-minded people. Their lack of manners was exceeded only by their lack of morals. They religiously took the easy way out, blamed others for their “bad luck,” and dumbed themselves down, each in their own unique way.

Since this cautionary tale of woe is satirically based up the beloved story of the Three Little Pigs, the “homes” referenced herein are the individual “homes” each of the pigs resided in between their own dirty and selectively deaf little ears. The differences in these three “homes” are merely the differences in individual temperament, character, and age only. The commonality is that all three “homes” were filled with nicotine, useless women, unimaginatively typical girly magazines (I’m censoring myself), cockroaches and silver fish, and liberally littered, ridiculous excuses of why they lived like they did lying around like beer cans after a frat party. They all lived precariously close to the edge of having their respective “homes” come tumbling down. It was only a matter of time.

I will stop this chapter here so my hub does not get to lengthy.  The second part will be posted shortly as I have to make sure the language of these three little pigs is cleaned up.