By Wil Forbis
November 1, 2001

"Goddamn Pig Fuckers," I heard a voice hiss out from my right, causing me to look up from the current literary volume I was perusing, The Erotic Adventures of Nancy Drew #54: The Case of The Arousing Mummy, and search for the source of this crude intrusion. I looked around in the moderately filled GreyHound bus for the sort who looked most likely to comment on "Pig Fuckers." My eyes fell upon a young woman, dressed in a underground but stylish sort of way, looking moneyed enough to make one wonder what she was doing on a GreyHound and with eyes of scathing fury. "Goddam Pig Fuckers" she repeated, as if to reassure me that it was indeed her sending out these blasts of vitriolic verbiage. I followed her gaze out the window to try and locate the source of her attack.

At first, I was confused. Though we were parked for a rest stop in one of those small, seemingly nameless Idaho towns, I could see nary a pig nor anyone who could be attempting copulation with one. Had I missed, with my usual Murphy's luck, the chance to witness another of the great wonders of the world: man and beast intertwined in passion? But it became clear from the looks of the quiet goings on of the outside, that nothing even resembling pig fucking had gone on for several hours. Greyhound passengers milled around, taking smoke breaks and stocking up on junk food at the nearby store. A row of local teenagers strutted about dressed in T-shirts championing now deceased 80's metal bands. An older local wearing a John Deere cap, mused silently in between spitting out wads of Redwood, real man's chewing tobacco (two cans for the price of one.) However, pig fuckers were not to be seen.

But, wait, it occurred to me. Aren't local Idahoites commonly referred to as… How you say in America? "White trash?" And is it not a pervasive myth in today's culture that white trash, or denizens of small mid-western towns in general, engage in sex with farm animals? Were these people her intended targets?

"Them?" I asked. "Are they the pig fuckers?"

"Fuck, Yeah!" She replied. "I hate those fucking red neck fuckers! And I hate dip-shit towns like this!"

"Gosh," I said. "I can see being somewhat annoyed by these low-brow hill-billy types. But what makes you hate them?"

"Look at them," she responded with disgust. "They don't know how to dress, they don't know that they eighties ended, they're all stupid, they get pregnant at seventeen and then make a living appearing on the Jerry Springer Show, and not to mention, they're all homophobic, racist bastards."

"Well…" I said, somewhat disheveled by the force of this young lady's words. "Those are some pretty far reaching accusations. Are you sure all pig-fuckers are like that?"

"Yes, I can," she replied, a steely glint gleaming in her eye. "Have you ever met a pig fucker that didn't worship Warrant and crack racist jokes."

"Well, yes, actually," I said, fondly recalling several pig fuckers I'd known that were intelligent, well groomed individuals.

"Yeah, well then you must be one of them," the girl replied and then turned to look out the window.

Now you can accuse me of being a wide range of things and if you know me you probably have, but labeling me white trash is a dubious assumption at best. I grew up in Hawaii and truthfully, the cultural training to achieve proper white trashiness is simply not there. You know, the '76 Camaros, the eight track recordings of "The Best Of Ritchie Blackmore's Rainbow", Girls with bathroom cabinets filled with enough hairspray to fuel the Space Shuttle Columbia... But since I'd been to the mainland, I'd had the pleasure of knowing several denizens of small town America and saw some key holes in the girl's argument.

Thus, I added some confident grit to my voice when I asked, "Isn't it hypocritical of you to label an entire group racist, to dismiss an entire group of people with a wave of your hand. Isn't that sort of grand classism what racism and homophobia are all about?"

"Huh?" the girl grunted, clearly off balance. "I…"

But I learned long ago the best way to win an argument is to not let your opponent speak. So I quickly interjected by saying, "Really, your arguments aren't anything new. You can hear them mirrored in a variety of places in American culture these days - on late night talk shows, in the chic coffeehouses of urban America, even occasionally in this column. For all the rhetoric of tolerance and diversity, the one group that seems to have been left out of its well extended embrace has been pig fuck… er, I mean white trash. Among the facsimiles of the cultural elite that populate urban America, any comment that is potentially racist or sexist or homophobic won't last long, but it still seems okay to cast aspersions on white trash. Are they they last legitimate target left in a politically correct world?"

"Yeah!" a voice called out from behind me. I looked back to see a young man with a flannel jacket and Slayer T-shirt. "I'm tired of being a target for p.c. twats like her!"

"Me too!" said an elderly woman with a burning cigarette and a noticeable amount of chin hair. "We don't get any respect around here!"

"That's right," screeched a young woman balancing two toddlers on her pregnant belly. "Let's get her!" And with that the mob descended upon the snooty neo-bohemian in a flurry of biting, kicking, chewing and even some gnawing.

Upon completion of the terrible act, the mob retracted, and I, frighten by their newfound savagery figured I better ensure I would not be their next target. "Nice work people," I called out. "Aren't you glad I called that chick out on her elitist chatterings?"

A resounding chorus of "yeah," "Absolutely" and "Definitely, man!" assuaged my concerns.

"I guess we really showed her didn't we?" I added, beginning to feel warm in the glow of their adulation.

"We sure did, Wil." said one of the older and wiser of the group - a white trash Poppa Smurf, if you will. "But we succeeded only with your sterling leadership. Without your blistering defense against her Ivy League accusations, we would've been lost. As such we would like to offer you the erotic services of the prized lovemaker of our community." And with that he stood back to reveal an oinking, q-tailed swine.

Well, when in Rome…

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Wil Forbis is a well known international playboy who lives a fast paced life attending chic parties, performing feats of derring-do and making love to the world's most beautiful women. Together with his partner, Scrotum-Boy, he is making the world safe for democracy. Email - acidlogic@hotmail.com

Visit Wil's web log, My So-Called Penis, and receive complete enlightenment.