by: Molly Steadman

Everyone thinks of Porky Pig as just a friendly member of the Looney Tunes gang, joining in on their jolly adventures, helping to save Bugs Bunny and company from those guys who are trying to kidnap them so they don’t have to play basketball against Michael Jackson or whatever. What was the plot of Space Jam again? Who cares.

Taking a closer look at Porky Pig will reveal the chilling truth. Apparently no one in the goddamn world has noticed this motherfucker is literally out here wearing a hat, a suit jacket with NO SHIRT UNDERNEATH, a bow tie, NO PANTS WHATSOEVER, and little shoes that on second thought might be his hooves or something. Sure, different variations of this little ensemble appear throughout the Looney Tunes universe. Sometimes the giant-headed little dude will throw on a vest if he’s being fancy or like, a sailor’s hat or something. Sometimes he wears a baseball cap, sometimes a top hat. But not one goddamn time did he put on a pair of pants.

It’s a pretty reasonable assumption to make that this is the reason why I grew up to be a gay alcoholic. It is a definite fact that the Warner Brothers themselves are at fault for my problems with addiction. I mean, the fucking pig has no pants on, and no one seems to address this at any point during the series.

You’d think Bugs Bunny would maybe just, as a friend, ask his weirdly shiny little pink pal why he decided to go commando for what the internet tells me is one hundred and fifty-three full episodes of the show. Or that whatever monster was responsible for animating this filth would have thought to himself, maybe this sinister little pig should have an ounce of decency to avoid absolutely ruining the lives of our viewers, and drawn just a little pair of shorts on there.

But no. No one considered the lasting impact of Porky Pig’s absolute nudity from chest to ankles, and now I am a gay alcoholic. This little pig even puts on a pair of white gloves from time to time, but doesn’t, apparently, even own a pair of boxer briefs. He just walks around in the Looney Tunes universe, putting his bare ass on whatever furniture he pleases without a care in the world.

And so I started drinking, trying to quiet my mind from the relentless questions haunting me since childhood, like Where the fuck are his pants? and How come that little fucker can wear a vest, and seemingly even an undershirt, and gloves, and a top hat, but no fucking pants? With the first sip, my mind became quiet. The searing image of Porky Pig’s pink, humanlike, completely naked body, in an “outfit” suitable for a Chippendales dancer, receded gently from my thoughts. Finally, I was at peace.

I dated only women because of the Warner Brothers’ depiction of this monstrous little piglet. Porky Pig is depicted as basically a human, adult man, and if human, adult men were anything like Porky Pig, I wanted nothing to do with them. All the female characters on Looney Tunes managed to at least have feathers or fur to make them decent enough to appear in public (or on television, for Christ’s sake), and thus women are safe. Men cannot be trusted. Even male friends could at any time appear in public with a bow tie, a suit jacket, and absolutely nothing else on, and no one would say a word. No one would detect an issue but me. I am the only one who knows.

And so I drank. I drank to forget. Eventually I quit drinking, but only on the condition that I remind everyone around me at all times that Porky Pig had absolutely no fucking pants on, and we all just sat and endured it. Is it a comfort to at least know the root of my struggles with addiction? In a way. I know fully and completely that I have no personal responsibility for my addiction, and that the television show Looney Tunes bears the entire brunt of all of my personal problems.

I can sit in as many AA meetings as I want, and share as much as I can about my cartoon pig-related trauma (at least until they throw me out for “not being on topic”, as if anything could be more relevant), but I know I will not rest until I receive a formal apology from the Warner Brothers themselves, whoever they may be, for not just putting a goddamn pair of pants on a character they blasted all over TV and the popular blockbuster movie Space Jam, and for deliberately animating scenes in which Porky Pig is seated, pantless, on an upholstered chair in someone else’s home, completely free of repercussion.

When I receive that apology, I will no longer be an addict, and will be free to be a totally normal human being, and no one in my universe will be placing their bare ass on any upholstery without my explicit consent. I’ll definitely still be gay, though, because it’s fun and I like it.


This post is a submission from Molly Steadman, whom you can find on Twitter. Email or contact a staffer if you are interested in contributing.

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