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Hog's Trip to the Bahamas, Part 3: Goatee S&M and the Free T-Shirt

Oh the Bahamas was a wonderful time. The sand. The sea. The sexy strumpets wearing only sea-shells on their squeez’ums. So you MUST capture this on film. But not your own film. The official film of the resort you happen to be at. So here comes the obnoxious loud guy with the camera. “Hey woman in black, you give my camera a heart attack! Take a picture for me!” Oh, the corny lines. “Hey women in Red, leave him and come with me instead!” All so he can take your photograph and plaster it on the wall for all the guests to see. Then you have to pay him for it, or else it stays up there as blackmail. 


And I thought that they would at least have a sense of humor about it all. I guess not. All I was trying to do was buy the pictures of hot bims. The clerk was like, “Now why would you want to buy the photo of a couple you don’t even know!” So I can cut HIM out and tape HER to my ceiling! Idiots! What do you THINK I want the picture for? $15 toilet paper? As IF they didn’t know I was a pre-vert when I got stopped by the border police for having an illegal pair of X-ray glasses in my bag.


Now, is this ironic, or just mo-ronic? This huge heap of humanity is waddling across the pool area—total BFN (Big Fat Nasty) when the radio starts to blasting the song, “Mountain of Love.” Why was I the only one in hysterics? I can’t be the only one alive without an ounce of compassion! I KNOW you would have busted a gut laughing too. Though you probably would’ve laughed harder when I jumped this kid for his water-wings. Ya know I can’t swim real good. Sure Dayton, Ohio has that bitchin’ Surfer Scene and the concrete jungle of the Bronx is home to many a great Olympic Diver, but, somehow I missed out. So I rolled up on the little punk and pulled the inflated bright orange floaters right off his scrawny arms. He’s all like, “MA! MA! This man is stealing my water wings!” Shut up PUNK! But I couldn’t get ‘em up over my elbows. They really work though! They helped me as I frantically doggie paddled away from the kid’s totally livid Father. Like, since when does Dad need to pull off his shirt and DIVE into the pool threatening to “choke the TISH out you!” Overkill really. I think the first atomic wedgee was enough to. No need to yank off my bathing suit and swing it over your head in front of all the laughing onlookers. And if you thought they were laughing while I was IN the pool—gee wilikers! (Don't even ask, I have no idea what a wiliker is either. But I'd say my jammy probably looked like one after 3 hours in the pool.)

thoe thexy!

The things Hog will do for a dollar.

wit da Ganja flute, man, it's easy to hit the HIGH notes!

HogWild gives a toot of the magic flute. It was easy for him to learn since it's the same fingerings as his skin flute.


The pool was fun and all but the ocean was where it was really at. You don’t go to the Caribbean to get all that beautiful chlorine. You go for the 75 degree, clear ocean water. Aaaah. It was like wading in a piss pool—without the piss of course. Except for all the fish that piss and caramel in there. Do you ever think about that? I do. Like, when I accidentally get a mouthful of ocean water I’m thinking, 

Dude, I never drink, but when you've already paid for it-- ya betta get your money's worth!

If it's FREE, it's for me! So Hog got a little trizzed on the complimentary Bahama Mamas.

“Oh my God, how much fish urine did I just swallow?!!” NizASTY! But besides the incredible relaxing feeling of the ocean and soft undulating tide (that sometimes undulated my ass over!) it really did a number on my facial hair. It made my goatee really S&M! (Soft and Manageable.) Oh, big deal, ay? Well Mrs. Potato-Head loved it! And she hates my goatee! She says it’s a breeding ground for beard critters, and mice, and spoiled sour cream. But after dipping it in the Earth’s natural salt water for an hour, she was stroking it! Don’t you want your bim to be stroking it? Then make it S&M! S&M is the only way to go. She was stroking it for hours. Stroke it to the east. Stroke it to the west. Stroke it to the woman that I like the best! I be strokin’! Oh sorry, got a little Clarence Carter in me today.


I don’t know if I told you this yet. But Mrs. P and I were only able to afford this sojourn to Paradise because of the incredible generosity of her parents. They have a time share deal and let us come along. We got our own room and everything! Incredible. I know I’ll never be that nice to my kids. Wanna come with us on vacation? Okay, the vacation is in Club “Our House.” You brats play maid, and I’ll play like I’m paying you. I’m just a bizatch like that though. So as part of the deal we agreed to sit in on this Time Share lecture/sales pitch thing so we could get free T-shirts. (Actually we thought we were getting Free Airline tickets but, oh I’ll explain that CRAP in a second.)

Ah, rodents humping each other on a shirt-- Classic.

Now these were some t-shirts I'd rather have gotten! Why is it that every island has to sell vulgar t-shirts? Plus, they lure you in with the sign 3 SHIRTS FOR $10! But only the thin, poorly constructed, hand-drawn with a crayon shirts are part of that deal. All the "good" shirts, like the bootleg Hilfigers, are more bacon bits.

Ganja seems to be quite popular in the Bahamas.The even use it as a flavor of soda. I liked the Cherry-Ganga Cola. Choice of a bombed generation.


We’re sitting outside at a fancy white plastic table with a fancy umbrella looking at the beach, while this attractive bim chatters about why we should buy a time share at their resort. (For those not in the know, a time share is like buying a vacation, except you’re buying like 100 of them at one time and throwing down 20,000 units up front. The plus side is you get a toaster and a t-shirt.) So Ms. Pretty Sales Girl is like, “So where would you like to visit, Mr. Wild?” Now, I’m a pretty saavy camper. I Hog's Makin' Bacon. Yeah right. More like flipping his Sausage.know that where ever I mention, she’ll have 101 travel packages set up for. And being that I had zero units to spend I told her these totally bootleg places that I want to go to, just because I know she’ll have no answer. I’m like, “Brownstown, Indiana.” “Why?,” she asks innocently. “It’s a small historic town. I’d love to visit it’s all natural dung farm and it’s traffic light museum/single town intersection. She was like, “Get real.” So I rattled off my other choices. Libya. Iraq. Kosovo. North Korea. She’s starting to get mad. Then I put her over the top, “Do you offer any all-inclusives in Siberia? Perhaps all the snow you can eat?” She’d had it with me. “I see I can’t talk to YOU Hog, I’ll talk to your level-headed, way-too-pretty-for-your-no-class-ass wife.” Yeah whatever, don’t take your job too seriously now. I know you’re saving lives and all . . .


Talk about saving lives—I had to save Mrs. P’s life. No I didn’t nearly choke her with my underarm aroma. I had to buy her S.C.’s (Tish Crackers.) As is well documented, Mrs. P has a problem pooping. Especially at new and exotic locations. So my poor wifey is filling up with poopy-doopy and she needs to purchase some S.C.’s, some laxatives, something other than what I told her she should do--  the KBT (Ketchup Bottle Technique.)  You know how you shake the bottle and nothing comes out? You tap it on the side, shake vigorously, pound the bottom of the bottle--- nothin’. But what works every time—and I know it’s crass—but sometimes ya gotta do it. You stick your knife into the bottle to loosen it up. Same concept with the constipation. You’d be surprised, a little pinky goes a long way. Anyhoo, Mrs. P totally rejected my advice even though I used to practice proctology. (I practiced on small animals as a kid. But my therapist says it’s best to cram those dark memories into a small closet and never discuss them again.) So I saved Mrs. P by making the purchase for her. She was too em-bare-ASS-ed to do it herself. So I walk in with my usual goofy aplomb and declare to the cashier, “Y’awl got any Poopin’ Pills?!” And so I bought them for my delicate bim wifey. Cashier was like, “Have a nice night.” I was like, “I will NOW!”


Because when Mrs. P gets constipated, she gets anal. You’d think hey, that’s how this happened in the first place, ain’t it? Just loosen up. HA! I kill me! But I felt for her. Stomach pain is the worst. That’s why I will never get pregnant. #1 I don’t have a uterus. #2, the tummy pain would cause me to drown the kid in Pepto-Bismol. Poor kid would be doused in that pink sludge. I’d give birth and the doctor would be like, “Congratulations! It’s a Flamingo!”

Side by side on the store's shelf. Conclusion: MIDNIGHT SNACK.

Only on in a place like the Bahamas are Condoms are less expensive than Candy. That may be because when a bim buys the chocolate bar, she knows it's guaranteed to be packed with Nuts and Snickers always Satisfies. 


I was so sympathetic to Mrs. P’s anti-pooping plight that I didn’t even humiliate her with my daily sales round at dinner. Usually I walk around to all the tables with BFN’s (Big Fat Nasties) and offer to sell them limited edition T-shirts that say “Dessert Lover.” But not today. 


So needless to say the Time Share presentation was a big scam. I’m sure the vacations would have been nice, but the “gifts” they use to lure you in were totally bootleg. They SAY you’ll get 2 airline tickets to anywhere in the world just for listening! So that’s why we did it. But of course these scumbags put 8,000 restrictions on the tickets that they only tell us 

about AFTER we finish the high-pressue, BUY NOW! Presentation. Sure you can have your two FREE airline tickets but you can only fly on the 3rd Wednesday of any winter month and depart before 6am. You will have 1 connecting flight for every 200 miles of your journey. And there is a boarding fee of $130 per person. Plus a built-in gratuity tax. And a one-time $13 unit holding charge. “That’s not FREE, you Gasholes!” Plus these tickets are for standing room only flights. You’ll have to stand on the airplane, in the bathroom, and be sure not to make too much noise or else the pilot might hear you and throw you off. Totally Bootleg. Or, if you prefer, you can have 2 t-shirts that make you a walking advertisement for our Resort. Great. Bastards. I’m like, “Fine! I’ll take a t-shirt, Extra-Large please.” She’s like, “We’ve got Small, smaller, super-small, and Microscopic Small. Extra-Large costs an extra 4 bacon bits.” HELLLLLLLL no. I was like, “Bitch, I just sat through 2 hours of harrassment and high pressure sales on my VACATION. If you don’t give me my t-shirt I’m going to TAKE a t-shirt, wrap it around your skinny little neck and pull it so tight that your left eyeball will violently erupt from its bare bloody socket. Then I’ll put it on a spoon and shove it up your ass!” She’s like, “Um, I’ll get my manager.”  The manager valued his eyesight. He gave me my shirt.

Coming soon, Part 4: Mrs. P drags Hog to the bootleg Mall of the Bahamas. 

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We found the people of the Bahamas to be most black and shiny. Plus, when you turned them upside down they dispensed Salt and Pepper! 

Don't get all offended Hog Fans. Mrs. P was so WHITE that she actually wore a fake-tan cream so she wouldn't confused on the beach as paper.



A refreshing splash of ocean water! The perfect place to pee! No seriously, it is WRONG to pee in the ocean. I don't CARE if the fish do it. You are not a fish. Unless you want a metal hook through your fat lip, don't pee in the water! Okay, if you're a fisherman like 40 miles out, fine. But if you're in a public swimming area-- it's just groatee! In camp, my counselor told us that if we peed in the pool, they had added a chemical that would encircle us in bright orange so everyone would know we had peed. To this day I am paranoid that that chemical is somehow present in all pools and oceans. I'm not scared of sharks, just the Pee-Pee Ring.

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