Where the hell are you, Pig?
“Not America! Can’t make hair nor hide o’ one word these people saying!”
Do they sound angry or hoity-toity?
You’re in France.
“The Pig don’t like it! I’m a damn California boy. How can a man sing the blues when he’s turnin’ blue? It ain’t natural!”
I agree. How you feeling?
“Not so hot.”
“Yeah, I made a li’l joke. Nah, I ain’t so great. S’okay, though. Touring Europe’s just what the doctor ordered.”
“Hell, no, peabrain! Fact, the doc said to me the exact opposite thing! Was specific ’bout it, too! ‘Pig, whatever you do: don’t let no one drag you ’round Europe on a bus, and then make you stand out in the cold all afternoon.’ Wrote it all down on his pad!”
Well, what do doctors know?
“That’s right. The Pig’s schedule ain’t made by no sawbones!”
Seriously, though: you look cold. Do you want some cocoa?
“Aw, you know they don’t make it right over here. Probably all fancy.”
I’ll find you some Nesquik.
“And if you could rustle up some of them itty-bitty marshmallows, then I wouldn’t mind.”