Member-only story
Humor Adjacent
Me And The Pig Man
Tom Trubiani was a nice enough guy if you could get past the smell. And the insanity.
This is a Substack post that almost nobody read. So, since I don’t have time to write and I like this story, I’m recycling it here because recycling is good for the environment, right? Also, please consider subscribing to my Substack (did I mention I have a Substack?).
Apparently, I can only string two words together after downing a giant cup of coffee. (That makes it sound like I have a substance abuse problem which I definitely don’t have. I prefer the term “crutch” which makes it sound like I’m an invalid, like Tiny Tim. Everybody loves Tiny Tim. Even though you couldn’t call him “Tiny Tim” today. You’d have to call him “Height-impaired Tim” or something woke like that. Are my eyelids supposed to twitch?)
A n y w a y,
Tom Trubiani was known as The Pig Man
He lived not far from here on 94 acres of land in a dilapidated farmhouse where he raised pigs. Big pigs. Big, feral, hard-to-contain pigs.
Sometimes they got themselves shot because, well, what else are you going to do with an angry 300-pound pig?
