Grease the pig for slaughter
It has been nearly a year since I last wrote, but I dare ask: How much does it cost to feed one’s bloody dog? Would a NT$3,600 handout cover the costs for a year or is it better to invest in enemas? I ask this because I want to know what motivates the downtrodden jerk in the building next to mine who can’t afford gas money to drive his mutt out of town and abandon him there?
Yes, my newly adopted dog, which I’ve named Rescue (he’s already acquired a taste for beer — I’m very proud) was abandoned outside his gated and guarded front door barely six months into Emperor Ma’s reign. I guess pets weren’t factored into the 6 percent growth, 3 percent unemployment and US$30,000 household. But as political promises go, who was?
There is, however, an arrest warrant already out on poor Rescue’s head for urinating on public property, and we’ve already spoken (I being his attorney) about his refusal to accept any dog food whilst incarcerated. That’ll teach all those rotten individuals using the economic cycle as an excuse to abandon their dogs!
He’ll howl out his poetry in the cell next to former president “A-bian” and reminisce about the days when persecution was persecution and the economic situation was sublime. Both are gone, in a way, but we can’t get hold of the idea for some reason. Perhaps it has more to do with logic and reason.
It’s like when “President of Taiwan,” as a title, meant something, to someone, whether he served Taiwan autocratically or not. But that matters not. We’re a “Chinese Taipei” here, “Province of Taiwan” there, “Republic of Something” sometimes — and a “Taiwan” nowhere. Well, we are here existentially and all, but we’re slipperier than a greased pig at a UN Security Council meeting, aren’t we?
I imagine the scenario thus: “Gentlemen, as per directive 6-755 we’ve greased a pig, tattooed “ROC” on it for symbolic yet practical reasons and let it loose in the General Assembly chamber. First to catch it gets to decide what to do with it.”
France, if so nimble and lucky to be the first, would sodomize it and let it go; England might chop off its hooves and throw them in the slow cooker; China would slaughter the carcass on the podium; Russia would torture it, split it in two and sell it; and the US would hawk it to the restaurant across the street.
But I harp on trivial matters. Taiwan is what it is: an economy without explanation that was once an “economic miracle.” The rest, meaning the people, can be appeased here and prodded there. Just work and shut the hell up. Take a four-day weekend but expect to work the next Saturday.
I know … having lived here long enough I’m not actually complaining — just moaning. That’s still allowed, isn’t it?
Ma “false promises” Ing-joe and Chen “rescue me” Shui-bian, not to mention a slew of other slogans, rule the day.
At least the ING marathon is approaching, during which I might cleanse the sociopolitical gunk out of my gizzard.
It influenced my letter 11 months ago. I don’t expect Ma to run this year, though: The national bodyguard budget must nearly be spent after our illustrious red carpet mainland visitor graced our shores.
So this year I’m running with 1,000 four-legged, abandoned guards representing the minions of ill-gotten, unidentified and heedless Taiwanese souls. Our slogan: “Subsidized dog food from Carrefour for all.” I will run wrapped only in a Taiwanese flag (I’m patriotic — Taiwan has been good to me). That I’ll be dripping — underneath — in grease hoping that the police don’t catch on to my seditious sarcasm and extradite my Canadian ass is another matter.