HogWild in Hawaii!

Part 4: Crazy Naked White Kids, Testicle Reductions, and Pigs on Parade

You know that famous “Hang-loose” sign that Hawaiians give? Ya know, the one with your hand twisting with your thumb and pinky up? I heard this ridiculous story of how this came about and I’m wondering if any of you Hogz out there can confirm it. Supposedly this dude, Father Damien, was a great man who provided comfort and leadership to a leper colony in Hawaii. Now Father Damien was alleged to have lepers disease himself. He lost his middle three fingers. So when he waved hello, all he had was his thumb and pinky. And thus the tradition. Sounds like a big pile of elephant-bricks to me, but maybe someone knows the real story.

Speaking of elephant-bricks, I’ve got a new term for “having to take a dump.” Now you can say, “Hey man, I gotta go. It’s time to cut the brownies.” Nice.

Man I hate nubs who cut the brownies when they’re talking to me on the phone. That’s just niZasty. One time I thought my dude was grunting at my bad jokes. I mean, he was, but he was also squirting caramel. Not cool.

We went on this crazy hike up and around a mountain on the Napali Coast. It was over 10 miles. Now some of you Hogstaz may be like, “SO!” But for me I NEVER walk ten miles unless my destination is an ice cream factory. And this wasn’t just some walk in the woods. It was a hike! Uphill both ways. Rocks everywhere. Loose footing. Mud. Dirt. Not even a sidewalk! It gave me a genius idea though. I’m going to invent nature trails with people-movers. Like they have in big airports. Why hike up a mountain just to see some nature-stuff when you can stand on the escalator and enjoy the same thing?! I know some of you environment freaks are saying, “Hog, you sick bastard! You can’t destroy earth’s beautiful habitats just for your convenience!” I have one answer, “Sure you can.” Look, I’m not about destroying the beautiful trees and flowers and animals. I love them too. That’s why I went on this stupid hike. (And because Mrs. P made me.) But think about the old people. They can’t climb these treacherous hills. They should be able to enjoy this stuff too. They need a people-mover. And if lazy people like me just so happen to benefit— then so be it!

I think we did all right for this kind of hike. We weren't pros like the bastards who breezed by with their Nike backpacks and Nike hats and Nike hiking shoes and Nike water bottles and Nike shirts with Nike slogans. We were just regular nubs with no backpacks and no hats and no fancy shoes and no water bottles and a stinky white t-shirt with a stinky slogan. We did okay for some amateur athletes. Don’t tell anyone but when I saw those professional Nike hikers, I just wanted to trip them and laugh.  Stupid pros with their stupid wristbands and stupid compasses and stupid maps. Damn I hated them! I would pay to watch a TV show where professional hikers bite it. That would be a great show. 

There really were some incredible sights on this mountain. Huge plants with huge leaves. It’s like, if you don’t pollute the air and strip the soil for the use of important shopping centers— the plant life really thrives. These were some huge leaves. I ran through for a bit, giving these big leaves high-fives like I was going down the NBA All-Star line-up. It was all good until Mrs. P is like, “That’s the Ooiee-ooiee Poison Plant!” I squealed like a little bitch. “Oh tish! Somebody get a doctor! Call 911! I cut the brownies and wiped my butt with that leaf! Aaaaah!” It took Mrs. P twenty minutes to calm me down and finally let me in on her joke. Very funny. It wouldn’t be so funny if YOU thought you had the ooiee-ooiee virus.

On our journey we saw 2 toads on piggyback. I think they were making more tadpoles. I was going to snap a picture but this isn’t a porn site.

Speaking of unspeakable acts, these 2 crazy naked white kids were running around! What the hell is that! Damn white people. I was like, “Miss, why are your children running around like naked-freakazoids? Can’t you afford bathing suits?” She was all like, “But he’s my baby!” No. “Ma’am. He’s 8 years old!” Some people have no shame! These parents have no shame! They thought it was cute. Then they get a genius idea. “Let’s photograph our naked kids!” That’s not gonna be MY kids. My kids will be BORN wearing clothes. They need to learn to be ashamed of their naked bodies like all true Americans. Damn, don’t tell me to feel any differently. I’ve seen myself naked. You’d be ashamed too!

On this hike of an exotic Hawaiian forest I realized something. Life is better on TV. If this trip was on E! they would’ve edited out all the struggle hiking and just cut to the bikini bims cooling themselves off by dumping cold water over their white t-shirts.  

But reality hits when Mrs. P starts nagging me, “I TOLD you not to slip on those rocks!” Now, don’t most women, when they see their loved one slip on a rock and nearly bust their ass at least feign compassion? Like, “Are you okay?” Or, “Let me help you.” No. Not Mrs. P. I hurt myself and she nags me about it.

Me and Mrs. P just have different outlooks I think. We’re climbing this thing getting all thirsty and hungry and she says, “I wish there was a blueberry bush here.” I’m like, “I wish there was a Pepsi Tree here.”

There was a little boy running without his parents. He ran right past us. Then he tripped and bonked his head. He nearly fell off the side of the mountain. Seriously. Mrs. P got really mad at my reaction which of course was:  “Cool.”

I mean, it wasn’t cool that he fell. But it WAS cool that I almost got to see something tragic without it being me. Now don’t front like you don’t do the same thing! When you rubberneck at a traffic accident involving an overturned flaming car, are you trying to help? NO! You’re hoping to see a guy with his arm wrapped around his skull.

So I didn’t get to see any cool tragedies involving children flying off the sides of mountains but I did see something else that was really cool. This disabled dude was off-roading the trail in his wheelchair S.U.V.! That was sweet. When I get old I want  a chair like he had. Plush leather interior, chrome wheels, 6-CD disk changer with surround sound, and all-wheel drive. I was like, “Nice wheels man.” He gave me a thumbs up (or was it another finger he had up?)  

Damn woman shouldn’t mess with my doo-dads! Actually I’m thinking of messing with my own doo-dads. I’m considering a testicle-reduction. I think it will make my jammy look bigger. Think about it. Why pay all those bacon bits for some quack cock-doctor to yank your yodel until it extends an extra half-inch? Please. Most bims don’t care if you have big jammy or not. Unless it’s like a tree trunk. Then they tend to run away. I don’t have that problem. Mine is like a tree twig. Impressively stiff, but easily snapped in half. Whatever, that’s my problem. But to help correct it I’ve considered some illusions. There was the old tattoo-vertical-pinstripes-on-it idea. Too painful. I was going to strap an elongating circus-mirror to my stomach. Too freaky. So now I’m considering shrinking the size of my grapes to make my kosher dill pickle look a bit bigger. I think this makes sense. As I get older my grapes are swinging lower and lower. It’s damn disgusting. I can’t step into the shower without banging them on the side of the tub! And who wants to look at bruised balls with black-and-blues? I got some old saggy grapes. They look like a grandma’s breasts. I figure if I can get them medically stapled and maybe shrink the grapes to be like big raisins it will make everything else around that area look more impressive. It’s like an American bim with B-cups living in China. She’s got HUGE HONKERS! At least compared to everyone else.

Don’t feel bad for me. I use what I got. I use it a lot. Never hit the spot when a bim got crotch-rot. Damn, I’m poetry in motion.

So I went to this bootleg luau in Hawaii too. First thing was they were selling leis! Shouldn’t this be included? Twenty units! Hell ain’t no lei worth twenty bacon bits! And I mean that both ways! And all the luau bims were underage. Aren’t the child labor laws applicable in this state?! Then there was the pregnant luau dancer. I’m not sure if she was luau dancing or having contractions. Then they had these bootleg fire dancers. Instead of hunka-hunka men, they were awkward teenage boys. They were all throwing the fire sticks the wrong way. One guy caught his shorts on fire. He got hit with a flying fire-stick. He’s all screaming, “My nipples are melting!” Baby.

But the best part was the all-you-can-drink Mai-Tais. Now I don’t encourage drinking. In fact, I never drink. Unless it’s included. And since we already paid for this thing— you gotta gets your money worth! So I downed like seven of these drinks. That’s not easy for me either. I get pretty tipsy just when Mrs. P makes the Kool-Aid too strong. And I ate my money’s worth too. I ate the kosher luau pig and had mad 2^nd helpings of the coconut cake. Damn good too. 

I tell you one thing about those Hawaiians. They sure know how to kill a pig. And not just kill him. But celebrate his death by adorning him with fruits and carrying his carcass around for all to see. That’s what I want when I die. I don’t want to buried in some boring-ass ceremony. I want to baked in an underground pit, then decorated with pineapples and leaves and a necklace made of kiwi. Then I want people to take their picture with my dead body. No coffin for me. Just lay me out on a stretcher and have tanned buff shirtless men carry me around while everyone is dancing to cool island music. That’s what I want. I can’t wait.