I Took a Pig to the Knee

I used to be a farmer like you, until I took a pig to the knee.

It all started on a crisp Tuesday morning. I was minding my business, fixing the fence that Old Bessie the cow had mysteriously "walked through" again. My prized pig, Sir Oinks-a-Lot, was trotting around happily, snorting at birds and chewing on things he probably shouldn’t.

Now, Sir Oinks-a-Lot was no ordinary pig. He was big. Like, "might actually be part bear" big. But he was gentle as a spring breeze—until that fateful moment.

As I hammered in the last nail, I heard a rustling behind me. I turned just in time to see Sir Oinks-a-Lot charging toward me with all the grace of a freight train on greased rails. His tiny eyes were wide with what I can only describe as pure determination. Was it fear? Hunger? A sudden desire to impersonate a linebacker? I’ll never know.

Before I could step aside, BAM! A solid 300 pounds of pork collided with my knee. I crumpled like a sack of potatoes, yelping as Sir Oinks-a-Lot trotted off, apparently unbothered, to sniff some flowers.

"Why, Oinks? WHY?" I groaned, clutching my now-immobile leg.

That was the day I hung up my farming boots. These days, I just sit on the porch, sipping iced tea, telling my story to anyone who’ll listen. Folks in town still whisper about it. Some say it was an accident. Others claim Oinks had seen me eyeing the bacon catalog a little too enthusiastically.

Either way, I learned two things that day: Never turn your back on a pig, and never underestimate their sense of justice.