Note: This is my piece of writing that won a place on the Showcase Bookcase in my school – enjoy!
Let’s have a little chat about ‘The Three Little Pigs’. Classic fairy tale: trio of porkers, big bad wolf, he blows to houses down, third pig gets revenge and everyone lives happily ever after. Almost everyone seems to believe this sugar-coated porky pie and nobody has heard me speak up before. I’m the wolf: Wolfy dé Wolfa alá Carté Costa Ice Cream Martinéz Belle Pepper Rodriguez Gogo Pasha délá I-Have-Very-Nice-Fur Growl Wolf. You can call me Wolf. My friends (yes, I have friends) call me that, but my nickname is Mozart (Wolfgang Amedeus Mozart…you get the idea). People hate wolves. It could be because of our appearance – hey, I’m not the one who decides we’re born big and ugly. You’ve just got to learn to love us! The fairytale you’ve heard is totally wrong – yes, your parents have been telling you fibbies! I’m going to present to you the TRUE story, which is all about an asthmatic wolf and a missing inhaler…
Way back yonder, in a time when fairy tales were the bee’s knees, I used to live in Far Far Away – you know, the place where a little ogre named ‘Shrek’ lived. Now, back in the day, I had a terrible case of asthma, and on this particular day, my inhaler was missing! I checked my house:
- Top to bottom
- Left to right
- Back to front
I scoured every nook and cranny, but my inhaler was nowhere to be seen.
Then, it hit me! I could just trot along to my neighbour’s house and inquire there – genius! So I sauntered down Fairy Avenue until I reached my neighbour. Now, you see, pigs are probably the dumbest animals in the universe (after humans – no offence) and my neighbour was, sadly, a pig. God couldn’t be that cruel to him! This pig must have lost his marbles, though: his house was made completely out of cotton wool – it ruins the quality of the pig juices, you know. So it’s no mystery why I accidentally ripped out the door when I tried to knock on it. The cotton wool got stuck to my fur and there were several clouds of the stringy white stuff floating in the air. What a shock to the ecosystem. It’s bad manners to barge into somebody else’s house demanding a missing inhaler, and I didn’t want to make a downright rude first impression by doing that, so I gave him a little yodel:
“Little Pig, have you gone to market and are you still at home?”
To my disappointment, he didn’t yodel back. I had nearly agreed on the decision of wasting my money on another stupid inhaler when a tingling sensation took hold of my chest: my asthma was kicking in. I spluttered; I coughed; I ‘poofed’ down the house – unbelievable, huh? My asthma must have been stronger than I thought! Then do you know what happened next? When the dust cleared, I caught sight of the first little porker: lifeless as a hamburger. He hadn’t gone to market after all! Now, I knew that when somebody dies, they bury the body, but I couldn’t let them do it to this perfect meal, so I did the only thing I could to help him: I ate him up. Imagine it was the question ‘Do you want to eat me?’ and the options were ‘yes’ and ‘yes’. No choice, right?
My asthma had calmed down, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t come back! So, I set off to the next closest house in search of my pesky inhaler. This next house was the abode of the first little pig’s brother: Pigsby The Second. Yeah, he was a pig, but he was even more crazy than normal: he suffered from a mental condition. He would just change personalities this way and that. You would never know what he was going to say next! This was a genuine mental pig on the loose! Poor Pigsby’s condition also affected his common sense – his house was constructed of sticks. When I knocked on the door, I heard a slight cracking noise, but it remained stable. I decided to call out, “Little Pig, have you gone to market or are you still at home?”
And guess what he said? “Take a hike, Wolf, you’re trespassing; leave me to rest and stop fussing!”
Then he said, “Oh wait, you can.”
“But he can’t!”
“Maybe he can.”
“He’s a wolf!”
“He’ll eat us!”
“So? I like being eaten!”
“You total ninny! You’ve gone nuts!”
“No, you’re nuts!”
“Wait, we’re both nuts! Hahaha!”
As the lunatic waffled on, I felt yet another weird sensation rising inside of me: I spluttered; I coughed; I ‘poofed’ down the house! You’ll never guess what happened next – that whole stick house fell flat to the ground! In the sea of debris was the second hog: ready for basting. He’d have done better to go to market. Now, the authorities would bury this guy too, so obviously, I had to help him: I ate him up. Think of it as a double deed for a good cause.
My stomach was now terribly full (there went my diet) and still, I hadn’t uncovered the secret location of my inhaler! So, the only choice I had was to walk up to the house right in front of me: the home of Pigsby Sr. I gave this pig just a little ounce of respect because of his brains: his house was made completely out of brick-hard bricks – well, the point was that it was bricks. I rang the doorbell (modern!) but nobody responded. I called, “Little Pig, have you gone to market, or are you still at home?”
And you won’t believe what he jabbered back:
“Get outta here, Wolf – don’t you dare touch my house ever again!”
I was just going to give him a piece of my mind when I felt another asthmatic reaction coming on: I spluttered; I wheezed; I ‘poofed’ down…a flower. Then old Senior yelled, “Missing inhaler, my foot!” Now that set me off, and at the perfect time, too. The police drove up just when I was making a scene, pounding on his door. I was locked up and shut up…until now…