This is NOT Science Fiction. It's Comedy, just so you're not disappointed.
For all those porks who, like myself, miss the old country, hit this amazing link that allows you to see Lisbon in 3D while you navigate its streets! And if you have a chance, work your way to Belem for the famous Pork pasteis de nata, which look 3D but you can´t taste, right beside Geronimos.
http://www.vpike.com?e=38.707054,-9.135488:0:lisbon%20portugal
Note: Everything you will read is true. None of my family know I have written about their escapades, so they will be pleasantly surprised when they find out. Portuguese have Pets, and then they have Animals. Their chickens, goats, rabbits and the odd sheep are NOT pets. They eat them. Some stories will reflect this, so be warned.
Written by Paul K. Dayton
Chapters
1)The man with the Deadly Farts
2)The Diarrhea Chronicles – Part 1 - Cat with the red butt
3)Can I be Portuguese too?
4)The Diarrhea Chronicles - Part 2 - Uncle with the red butt
5)The Mighty Hunters - Part 1 Potato gun massacre
6) The Mighty Hunters - Part 2 – Pick the Right Target, stupid!
7) Crazy Porkncheese chickens
8)Tree Cutting Canadian porkncheese way
9)Uncle V. Bees
10)How to Drag Logs up a Hill
11) The Killer Canoe, also called Why You Shouldn’t Miss Church
12) The Dumb Doberman
13) Unfunny Diatribe
14) Uncle Shroom and Aunt Petunia
15) Uncle Superstitious
16) Coke, Mentos, Phosphorous, and where this all started...
17) Uncle With Demon Children from hell
18) The Mighty Hunters, - Part 3 – Aunt Vampire
19) Uncle Caulk
20) The Mighty Hunters - 3
The Mighty Hunters
I’m a pork, which to all you laypeople means Portuguese. Many have pork neighbours, and are somewhat curious about these weird people who have huge, noisy BBQ parties, really big smokers in their backyards pumping out these odd U-shaped smoked sausages, and come around with a genial smile trying to get you to try the jet fuel they call wine as an aroma of moonshine wafts through the neighbourhood. Why do they do this? Welcome to the mysterious world of Porkland. Sit a while, enjoy...
I had this potato gun I made one time, and decided I’d bring it along next time I went moose hunting. For anyone who’s ever seen one, this is definitely a guy thing, and the porkers up in northern Canuckland LOVED this. Not at first though. At first they were suspicious. Being porkncheese they had never seen anything like it before but of course would never admit it (you know, keeping up with the Joneses thing), and watched me carefully as I loaded the thing with the potato, opened the back chamber, carefully sprayed in 5 shots of gasoline, closed it quickly and hit the trigger. A very satisfactory WHUMP, with the accompanying flame, shot the potato a good 300 yards.
I used to do this at work too. The guys and I turned this into an art, trying to get the greatest distance out of a potato. But we had rules though – it had to be made out of ABS plastic, although you could use any fuel you wanted. We tried regular gasoline, jet fuel, a mixture of jet fuel and oxygen and so on. Jet fuel sucks by the way. WAY too much Octane. It was a serious let down.
Spent a day rifling the ABS barrel on a lathe by hand, which was no easy trick I tell you. But us porkncheesers are masters at lathes and mills. Boss was really impressed, but was scratching his head as I explained it was to allow for quicker, controlled water movement for the drain in my kitchen sink. Wasn’t buying it till I told him all porkers do it and promised to give him some smoked sausages and a bottle of jet fuel.
Sometimes, the chamber would explode. It had to be about six inches in length and made out of 3” ABS. Anything bigger meant more gas and air, which led to a bigger explosion and more pressure. So one day we were dumping in the oxygen when we decided it was now time to use the acetylene instead of gasoline. We were worried but didn’t want to break our rules, so we ended up electrical taping the explosion chamber to strengthen it, having learned from before. Uncle Retard couldn’t feel his hands for two weeks after the other chamber blew up and he burned his crotch too, so we knew. It was best to be careful.
Went outside, dumped the fuel in, and when we hit the igniter, wow! It was amazing! A blue flame shot out about 6 feet in length, we heard a sharp crack like a rifle shot and the potato literally disappeared from sight. So we picked a target, a problem apartment building that was always in the news with gunshots and drugs and stuff, and it sat at least a thousand meters away. This time though, we sharpened the end of the potato into a bullet nosed shape and shoved it down the one and one half inch barrel, took careful aim, my partner filled in the explosion chamber, hit the trigger and CRACK! Off it went sailing, over, over and smash, broke a window in the apartment building a thousand meters away.
WE were onto something here. Spent the next fifteen minutes breaking windows, until the SWAT team showed up cus someone said shots were being fired. They knew nothing of the broken windows cus no drug dealer was so stupid as to call the po-po, and once they realized what it was that was going on – that there were no guns but only a spud shooter, the SWAT commander gave the thing a try himself. He asked about the range, and I said, “You could point it into the field over there in the direction of the building in the distance. It’ll never reach the building.” And sure enough, when his buddy hit the igniter, the solid and satisfying crack was heard, the potato sailed, and another window was broken in the building. The commander hurriedly threw it on the floor, but then he picked it up again and put it into the SWAT truck, saying that he would have to confiscate it, and they left without giving us a ticket or anything. ANYWAY,
This is about our hunting trip. The guys were really impressed, but they refused to show it, cus porkncheesers, especially the older geezers, are kind of stuck-up and proud. They take ‘Keeping up with their pork Joneses’ to a level unknown by Americans and Canucksters. And so it was with this group too. They spent the rest of the afternoon setting up camp but I could hear the whispers. I was no dummy, you know. I knew what they were up to.
Anyway, I’m not the drinking type. I like a beer now and then, but I never get drunk, unlike my Pork relatives. By mid evening they were very happy, and by midnight they were pickled, as in stumbling around blindly. I was already in bed when I heard them sneak in to get the potato gun.
Alfonso, my other uncle, was stark naked for reasons I won’t even start to fathom; Jose, the leader of the group, Avelino and Samuel rounded out the bunch on this escapade.
Why was Alfonso naked? Well, this is the weird part. Portuguese are perfectly comfortable being naked with people of their own sex. There’s nothing sexual here, it’s just the way it is. The reason why is because they would go swimming after school, and they didn’t have bathing suits and they couldn’t of course get their clothes wet, so they chucked them and dived in. HOWEVER, after they got married, they were very self-conscious with their wives for some reason. Many older couples have never seen each other naked in the 50 or so years they’ve been married. Even though they had ten kids. Weird, I know, but remember, the church said sex was sin, unless you wanted a child. Even then it was still sin, bet less of a sin - like ten hailmarys instead of twenty. And a few ourfathers too. ANYWAY,
Alfonso bumped into my cot and I tried as quietly as possible to avoid having any of his body parts touch my clothing. He had one eye and smelled really bad, aside from the fact he was naked. Aunt Vampira was still alive and somewhere else, probably sucking the blood out of some poor raccoon. I could smell the powerful odour of dead flesh and hemmaroid cream emanating from her empty cot, which she usually placed beside me so she could smack her chops as she watched me change. Think I told you about that.
So, one-eyed Alfonso got the potato gun, grabbed the fuel, pocketed a few potatoes and made a racket in the process while the other three kept on going “Shushhshsssssss” in their pickled way. Then they would start swearing at each other in Portuguese in loud whispers as they kept telling each other to shut up and stop shushing. I thought a fight was going to break out, but they eventually left with all the ingredients, somehow loaded it up, sprayed some gas inside, hit the trigger, and then
Nothing.
“Hmmm,” said Alfonso.
“(Swear word)Mabe you needa to putin more gazzuh,” Avelino said. They talk like that. They make English words into Portuguese words. Like ‘Garbage’ becomes ‘garabeeshe’ and Honest Ed’s the famous downtown Toronto emporium of the guy who wouldn’t die by the same name, it becomes ‘unerstairs’. For years I always thought of it as that, not realizing that the name had been basterdized. ANYWAY,
My other uncle Samuel, the brighter one of the group, said “No, you bota rronge. (they roll the R’s remember? Think I said that.) Da problema is dat you puta too muche gazzuh in. Puta lesse gazzuh and you see,” he said, his arms flapping for emphasis and balance.
So they wiped the inside, which really impressed me, grabbed another bottle of wine, poured the wine in, drank the wine out when they realized they goofed, wiped it again, and tried again. The satisfying thump spelled success and they patted each other in the back. Then the trouble started, as it usually does in a camp full of drunken pork men.
Samuel was a little jealous of his cousin Jorge, sleeping in the tent about a hundred yards down, because Jorge was the really good one with the rifle, and he actually had shot a moose, unlike any of the others. The bull turned on him and almost killed him but while he was being dragged under he had the smarts to pull the trigger, blowing the bull’s balls off (if you’re squeamish don’t read that last part). On a raging bull, that’s about the only thing you can do to distract it. The shot also took out his big toe. Jorge, that is, not the bull, cus bulls don’t have a big toe, as you know.
So here was Samuel, eyeing the tent with the sinister plot forming in his pickled brain. Grabbing the potato gun, he loaded, filled, aimed, smacked the igniter and the potato launched, overshooting the tent. It took three tries but he finally hit it. And then got it again, and again. The sixth shot hit home, roundly smacking the body that was touching the tent wall, which just so happened to be Jorge’s. They happily laughed as a mostly naked Jorge came fuming out of his tent rubbing his butt, wondering if someone had kicked him from outside.
“Wadda hell?” he didn’t exactly use those words but I don’t like swearing. Anyway, he soon found the answer to the mystery and came storming over. I heard some kind of fight, with Jorge finally grabbing the spud gun off of Samuel’s hands. Being much more sober, he somehow convinced Samuel that he wanted to try it out against a tree and Samuel stupidly helped load it. By this time I was already snickering from inside the prospector tent, thinking I knew full well what was about to happen, although I was very mistaken.
Jorge smiled and once everything was ready, he quickly turned to Samuel. Samuel, realizing the situation, jumped out of the way at the last second. Jorge smacked the igniter and a surprised naked Alfonso, who had bent over to puke, felt a potato go up where things were only supposed to come out of. He promptly fainted on the spot, and the exclamations of “Ay Jejooz!” told me something serious had happened.
A few seconds passed in silence as my ears propped up trying to figure out the mystery. Then someone, I think Samuel, said, “Is he dead?”
Now I was really worried.
“I dunno,” came the answer from someone else.
“Ay Jejooz!” came next from Jorge, followed by Ay Jejooz Ay Jejooz Ay Jejooz, repeated over and over again. For those who don’t speak Pork, that means oh Jesus, very common. You could tell he was crying, thinking about my now dead uncle. I was worried too, but I know that old cheezergeezers are tough, they’re like crocodiles actually. They drink, smoke, eat fried pigskin happily as desert and somehow live to see a hundred. They start dying the moment their doctor tells them to stop eating fried pigskin and drinking aguardente, usually. Anyway, everything was going crazy outside and the whole gang was getting up to find out what was going on. Samuel came in and quickly threw the potato gun in my corner, but I refused to touch it in case cops came and took prints. Jorge was now balling his eyes out, and everyone was crowded around Alfonso, trying to shake him. They eventually did revive him to Jorge’s relief when they poured some aguardente down his throat, but he quickly passed out again. I have yet to see a porkncheeser pass up a drink of aguardente.
Anyway, they threw him in the car and drove off, came right back, pulled him out, dressed him up, took him to the hospital, and two days later he joined us back at the camp. The doctors wanted to know how he had gotten a potato stuck so far up his butt, but he didn’t tell them. Luckily, the moonshine had toughened up his intestines and they hadn’t burst or anything. You know, the crocodile thing. He spent the rest of the time standing up, as his butt really hurt, though he did say that this event cured his constipation problem. He even saved the potato to show people. I am sooo glad I hadn’t shown them the whole sharpening technique.
Written by Paul K. Dayton
Chapters
1)The man with the Deadly Farts
2)The Diarrhea Chronicles – Part 1 - Cat with the red butt
3)Can I be Portuguese too?
4)The Diarrhea Chronicles - Part 2 - Uncle with the red butt
5)The Mighty Hunters - Part 1 Potato gun massacre
6) The Mighty Hunters - Part 2 – Pick the Right Target, stupid!
7) Crazy Porkncheese chickens
8)Tree Cutting Canadian porkncheese way
9)Uncle V. Bees
10)How to Drag Logs up a Hill
11) The Killer Canoe, also called Why You Shouldn’t Miss Church
12) The Dumb Doberman
13) Unfunny Diatribe
14) Uncle Shroom and Aunt Petunia
15) Uncle Superstitious
16) Coke, Mentos, Phosphorous, and where this all started...
17) Uncle With Demon Children from hell
18) The Mighty Hunters, - Part 3 – Aunt Vampire
19) Uncle Caulk
20) The Mighty Hunters - 3
The Mighty Hunters
I’m a pork, which to all you laypeople means Portuguese. Many have pork neighbours, and are somewhat curious about these weird people who have huge, noisy BBQ parties, really big smokers in their backyards pumping out these odd U-shaped smoked sausages, and come around with a genial smile trying to get you to try the jet fuel they call wine as an aroma of moonshine wafts through the neighbourhood. Why do they do this? Welcome to the mysterious world of Porkland. Sit a while, enjoy...
I had this potato gun I made one time, and decided I’d bring it along next time I went moose hunting. For anyone who’s ever seen one, this is definitely a guy thing, and the porkers up in northern Canuckland LOVED this. Not at first though. At first they were suspicious. Being porkncheese they had never seen anything like it before but of course would never admit it (you know, keeping up with the Joneses thing), and watched me carefully as I loaded the thing with the potato, opened the back chamber, carefully sprayed in 5 shots of gasoline, closed it quickly and hit the trigger. A very satisfactory WHUMP, with the accompanying flame, shot the potato a good 300 yards.
I used to do this at work too. The guys and I turned this into an art, trying to get the greatest distance out of a potato. But we had rules though – it had to be made out of ABS plastic, although you could use any fuel you wanted. We tried regular gasoline, jet fuel, a mixture of jet fuel and oxygen and so on. Jet fuel sucks by the way. WAY too much Octane. It was a serious let down.
Spent a day rifling the ABS barrel on a lathe by hand, which was no easy trick I tell you. But us porkncheesers are masters at lathes and mills. Boss was really impressed, but was scratching his head as I explained it was to allow for quicker, controlled water movement for the drain in my kitchen sink. Wasn’t buying it till I told him all porkers do it and promised to give him some smoked sausages and a bottle of jet fuel.
Sometimes, the chamber would explode. It had to be about six inches in length and made out of 3” ABS. Anything bigger meant more gas and air, which led to a bigger explosion and more pressure. So one day we were dumping in the oxygen when we decided it was now time to use the acetylene instead of gasoline. We were worried but didn’t want to break our rules, so we ended up electrical taping the explosion chamber to strengthen it, having learned from before. Uncle Retard couldn’t feel his hands for two weeks after the other chamber blew up and he burned his crotch too, so we knew. It was best to be careful.
Went outside, dumped the fuel in, and when we hit the igniter, wow! It was amazing! A blue flame shot out about 6 feet in length, we heard a sharp crack like a rifle shot and the potato literally disappeared from sight. So we picked a target, a problem apartment building that was always in the news with gunshots and drugs and stuff, and it sat at least a thousand meters away. This time though, we sharpened the end of the potato into a bullet nosed shape and shoved it down the one and one half inch barrel, took careful aim, my partner filled in the explosion chamber, hit the trigger and CRACK! Off it went sailing, over, over and smash, broke a window in the apartment building a thousand meters away.
WE were onto something here. Spent the next fifteen minutes breaking windows, until the SWAT team showed up cus someone said shots were being fired. They knew nothing of the broken windows cus no drug dealer was so stupid as to call the po-po, and once they realized what it was that was going on – that there were no guns but only a spud shooter, the SWAT commander gave the thing a try himself. He asked about the range, and I said, “You could point it into the field over there in the direction of the building in the distance. It’ll never reach the building.” And sure enough, when his buddy hit the igniter, the solid and satisfying crack was heard, the potato sailed, and another window was broken in the building. The commander hurriedly threw it on the floor, but then he picked it up again and put it into the SWAT truck, saying that he would have to confiscate it, and they left without giving us a ticket or anything. ANYWAY,
This is about our hunting trip. The guys were really impressed, but they refused to show it, cus porkncheesers, especially the older geezers, are kind of stuck-up and proud. They take ‘Keeping up with their pork Joneses’ to a level unknown by Americans and Canucksters. And so it was with this group too. They spent the rest of the afternoon setting up camp but I could hear the whispers. I was no dummy, you know. I knew what they were up to.
Anyway, I’m not the drinking type. I like a beer now and then, but I never get drunk, unlike my Pork relatives. By mid evening they were very happy, and by midnight they were pickled, as in stumbling around blindly. I was already in bed when I heard them sneak in to get the potato gun.
Alfonso, my other uncle, was stark naked for reasons I won’t even start to fathom; Jose, the leader of the group, Avelino and Samuel rounded out the bunch on this escapade.
Why was Alfonso naked? Well, this is the weird part. Portuguese are perfectly comfortable being naked with people of their own sex. There’s nothing sexual here, it’s just the way it is. The reason why is because they would go swimming after school, and they didn’t have bathing suits and they couldn’t of course get their clothes wet, so they chucked them and dived in. HOWEVER, after they got married, they were very self-conscious with their wives for some reason. Many older couples have never seen each other naked in the 50 or so years they’ve been married. Even though they had ten kids. Weird, I know, but remember, the church said sex was sin, unless you wanted a child. Even then it was still sin, bet less of a sin - like ten hailmarys instead of twenty. And a few ourfathers too. ANYWAY,
Alfonso bumped into my cot and I tried as quietly as possible to avoid having any of his body parts touch my clothing. He had one eye and smelled really bad, aside from the fact he was naked. Aunt Vampira was still alive and somewhere else, probably sucking the blood out of some poor raccoon. I could smell the powerful odour of dead flesh and hemmaroid cream emanating from her empty cot, which she usually placed beside me so she could smack her chops as she watched me change. Think I told you about that.
So, one-eyed Alfonso got the potato gun, grabbed the fuel, pocketed a few potatoes and made a racket in the process while the other three kept on going “Shushhshsssssss” in their pickled way. Then they would start swearing at each other in Portuguese in loud whispers as they kept telling each other to shut up and stop shushing. I thought a fight was going to break out, but they eventually left with all the ingredients, somehow loaded it up, sprayed some gas inside, hit the trigger, and then
Nothing.
“Hmmm,” said Alfonso.
“(Swear word)Mabe you needa to putin more gazzuh,” Avelino said. They talk like that. They make English words into Portuguese words. Like ‘Garbage’ becomes ‘garabeeshe’ and Honest Ed’s the famous downtown Toronto emporium of the guy who wouldn’t die by the same name, it becomes ‘unerstairs’. For years I always thought of it as that, not realizing that the name had been basterdized. ANYWAY,
My other uncle Samuel, the brighter one of the group, said “No, you bota rronge. (they roll the R’s remember? Think I said that.) Da problema is dat you puta too muche gazzuh in. Puta lesse gazzuh and you see,” he said, his arms flapping for emphasis and balance.
So they wiped the inside, which really impressed me, grabbed another bottle of wine, poured the wine in, drank the wine out when they realized they goofed, wiped it again, and tried again. The satisfying thump spelled success and they patted each other in the back. Then the trouble started, as it usually does in a camp full of drunken pork men.
Samuel was a little jealous of his cousin Jorge, sleeping in the tent about a hundred yards down, because Jorge was the really good one with the rifle, and he actually had shot a moose, unlike any of the others. The bull turned on him and almost killed him but while he was being dragged under he had the smarts to pull the trigger, blowing the bull’s balls off (if you’re squeamish don’t read that last part). On a raging bull, that’s about the only thing you can do to distract it. The shot also took out his big toe. Jorge, that is, not the bull, cus bulls don’t have a big toe, as you know.
So here was Samuel, eyeing the tent with the sinister plot forming in his pickled brain. Grabbing the potato gun, he loaded, filled, aimed, smacked the igniter and the potato launched, overshooting the tent. It took three tries but he finally hit it. And then got it again, and again. The sixth shot hit home, roundly smacking the body that was touching the tent wall, which just so happened to be Jorge’s. They happily laughed as a mostly naked Jorge came fuming out of his tent rubbing his butt, wondering if someone had kicked him from outside.
“Wadda hell?” he didn’t exactly use those words but I don’t like swearing. Anyway, he soon found the answer to the mystery and came storming over. I heard some kind of fight, with Jorge finally grabbing the spud gun off of Samuel’s hands. Being much more sober, he somehow convinced Samuel that he wanted to try it out against a tree and Samuel stupidly helped load it. By this time I was already snickering from inside the prospector tent, thinking I knew full well what was about to happen, although I was very mistaken.
Jorge smiled and once everything was ready, he quickly turned to Samuel. Samuel, realizing the situation, jumped out of the way at the last second. Jorge smacked the igniter and a surprised naked Alfonso, who had bent over to puke, felt a potato go up where things were only supposed to come out of. He promptly fainted on the spot, and the exclamations of “Ay Jejooz!” told me something serious had happened.
A few seconds passed in silence as my ears propped up trying to figure out the mystery. Then someone, I think Samuel, said, “Is he dead?”
Now I was really worried.
“I dunno,” came the answer from someone else.
“Ay Jejooz!” came next from Jorge, followed by Ay Jejooz Ay Jejooz Ay Jejooz, repeated over and over again. For those who don’t speak Pork, that means oh Jesus, very common. You could tell he was crying, thinking about my now dead uncle. I was worried too, but I know that old cheezergeezers are tough, they’re like crocodiles actually. They drink, smoke, eat fried pigskin happily as desert and somehow live to see a hundred. They start dying the moment their doctor tells them to stop eating fried pigskin and drinking aguardente, usually. Anyway, everything was going crazy outside and the whole gang was getting up to find out what was going on. Samuel came in and quickly threw the potato gun in my corner, but I refused to touch it in case cops came and took prints. Jorge was now balling his eyes out, and everyone was crowded around Alfonso, trying to shake him. They eventually did revive him to Jorge’s relief when they poured some aguardente down his throat, but he quickly passed out again. I have yet to see a porkncheeser pass up a drink of aguardente.
Anyway, they threw him in the car and drove off, came right back, pulled him out, dressed him up, took him to the hospital, and two days later he joined us back at the camp. The doctors wanted to know how he had gotten a potato stuck so far up his butt, but he didn’t tell them. Luckily, the moonshine had toughened up his intestines and they hadn’t burst or anything. You know, the crocodile thing. He spent the rest of the time standing up, as his butt really hurt, though he did say that this event cured his constipation problem. He even saved the potato to show people. I am sooo glad I hadn’t shown them the whole sharpening technique.
