Imagination

Oh, how the fat pig wallows in his sty of self-importance, belly spilling over like unchecked gluttony, snorting with supreme satisfaction as he surveys the world from his mud puddle. There he lounges, pink, bloated, and utterly convinced of his own refinement, while those “monkeys”   the Africans, of course   swing through their savage jungles in his fevered imagination. How primitive they must be, he grunts between mouthfuls of slop, with their dark skin, their rhythmic dances, and their audacious refusal to stay neatly confined to his cartoonish stereotypes. One simply cannot tolerate such creatures sharing the same planet as superior swine.

The fat pig despises their vitality, their loud laughter, their stubborn resilience under centuries of his kind’s meddling. “Look at them,” he squeals to anyone unfortunate enough to listen, “climbing trees, drumming like beasts, living without proper cutlery or my enlightened manners.” Never mind his own filthy trough, his endless rooting in filth, or the way he tramples everything decent in pursuit of more. His laziness is “leisure,” his greed is “success,” his ignorance is “common sense.” Theirs is mere monkey business.

“Observe their strength and joy,” he scoffs, jiggling with contempt while barely able to hoist himself up for another helping. “They run and toil under that brutal sun while I wisely conserve my energy on this comfortable pile of manure.” He mocks their resourcefulness, their rich cultures, their unbreakable spirit   all while his own existence revolves around consuming without creating, judging without understanding, and squealing superiority from the safety of his manured burger belly.

In his tiny, curdled heart, the fat pig knows the truth he will never utter: he is the one built for nothing but consumption and waste, a lumbering caricature sustained by systems he pretends are merit. But admitting kinship with any other creature would puncture his fragile ego. So he denigrates louder. He calls them monkeys with greater fervor. He wallows deeper in his racist slop, as if repeating the slur often enough might finally make him appear taller, whiter, cleaner.

And the Africans? They keep living, building, dancing, innovating, and rising   often in spite of pigs like him. Which, naturally, only makes the fat pig denigrate them more furiously.

How dare they thrive without his approval?