Pig Boy Learns to Write

"When I'm not working, I'm like 'Oh God, what am I supposed to do today?'"

- Hilary Duff

My journey to this point has been both miraculous and heartbreaking. My parents, bless their souls, were Jewish missionaries from Teaneck, New Jersey. In 1968, they were sent to live with a primitive pygmy tribe in a remote corner of the Amazon basin. I was born into this ancient community, and was given the name “oon-chaka” or "squirrel pants" by the village elders. My parents taught these simple natives the finer points of Yom Kippur, gefilte fish, and buying at cost. We lived in harmony with our tiny brothers until the bloody, balmy night of the “dreidel incident,” which turned the tribe against us and changed my life forever. The pygmies - who were known cannibals - became agitated during the singing of the dreidel song and attacked my parents, dicing their loins into bite-sized morsels and boiling their skulls to make soup. The pygmies, however, did not eat the flesh of children, as it was considered a bad omen and generally rude. Instead, I was marched into the rainforest and left alone to die. On my third night in the jungle, hungry and frightened, I found myself surrounded by a pack of wild, angry boars. But these giant, flesh-eating pigs did not attack me; they took me as one of their own. I would spend the next 14 years living with these magnificent beasts, feasting on frogs and grub worms, while learning the beauty and simplicity of their culture: If it wriggles, eat it. If it has a snout, make love to it.  

Shortly before my fifteenth birthday, I was discovered by a group of eco-tourists and returned to the United States. Since then, I attended college in San Francisco, earning degrees in English Literature, Film Writing, and Applied Bovine Theory. I have written for SPIN magazine, Details, and The Tacoma Weekly. I've also worked as a script reader for George Clooney's production company, and I've been a rock roadie for the Doobie Brothers, Celine Dion, and Gwar. By all accounts, I have joined the ranks of the civilized masses, and today I enjoy such luxuries as quilted toilet paper (more comfortable than banana leaves), cable television, and the electric wok. But on certain nights, if I listen closely when the air is quiet and still, I can hear the faint whisper of my heart longing for that lush Brazilian canopy, and in my dreams I am always running naked at twilight with those magnificent squealing beasts. Beneath the harsh neon glow of the city, I am Cambria. But in my soul, I will always be Oon-Chaka.