The Prince and the Swine
It’s story-time.
My dad is sitting in bed next to me. I am 8 years old. He is telling me a story.
He says.
Once, there was a Prince, a tall, blonde Swede with wise, blue eyes, nicely-muscled physique, above average intelligence, with plenty of charm and grace and wit, who lived in a hovel.
The Prince’s degenerate mother could not afford better than a single mud-floored room, shared with a bunch of stinky swine.
Gross, I say.
Yes, gross, my dad says.
Why does the Prince sleep with swine, I ask.
To keep them warm in winter, my dad says, because they are very poor.
The pigs keep them warm, I ask.
Yes, their body heat, my dad replies, but you’re missing the important part of the story, which is the Prince, who lives in a hovel, instead of the castle he deserves.
Why does he deserve a castle, I say.
Because he’s a Prince, my dad says.
What makes him a Prince, I say.
My dad says: You’re supposed to be on the Prince’s side. He’s the hero. And look at our hero, reduced to living with swine, always smelling of shit. He does not deserve this station, that’s the point, he deserves…
