In the course of this deliberation, one farmer advanced a theory—novel, certainly, and not entirely consonant with accepted husbandry—that if the pig were prevented from relieving itself, it might increase in size to a most impressive degree. After some reflection, and with an optimism characteristic of practical men, they elected to test this hypothesis.
They inserted a cork into the pig’s posterior.
The outcome exceeded all expectations. By fair day, the pig had achieved a magnitude quite without precedent, and the farmers were awarded first prize to universal astonishment.
Upon returning home, however, one of the party observed—rather delicately—that the prior arrangement could not reasonably be allowed to continue. This sensible remark was greeted with unanimous agreement, followed immediately by unanimous refusal to personally address the matter.
After further consideration, they determined that the wisest course would be to train a monkey to perform the necessary task. Namely, removing the cork ablation.
Several days were spent in training, until the animal appeared adequately prepared.
On the chosen morning, the farmers stationed themselves at prudent intervals: one a few paces away, another at a more judicious distance, and the third—being a man of foresight—somewhat farther still.
At the signal, the monkey acted.
What followed was a release of such suddenness and enthusiasm that it might fairly be described as overwhelming. The nearest farmer was entirely engulfed, the second found himself unpleasantly compromised to the midsection, and the third was affected only about the boots.
They hastened to assist their nearest companion, fearing the worst. Instead, they discovered him quite overcome—but with laughter rather than injury.
When pressed to explain his unseemly amusement, he managed, between breaths, to reply:
“You should have seen the monkey trying to put the cork back in!!.”
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