Noun: Miss Piggy. Opinion: Worship.
This is some fucking pig.
That’s what Charlotte would have had to spin on her little web had she met Miss Piggy, a force so inimitable and awe-inspiring that she doesn’t even have a first name and makes the world address her by title. “Some Fucking Pig.” I would like to have seen this meeting happen, between two exceptional ladies from the annals of my childhood’s artistic education, though it seems a foregone conclusion that Miss Piggy would have pretended to be afraid, scream, then eaten the over-articulate arachnid.
Well, Charlotte is dead, but thankfully Miss Piggy lives on. She is currently starring in a video that comes from who knows where (YouTube, birth mother to all things worth wasting life watching) but landed and splattered all over my Facebook homepage. Yes, she only shows up at the end, but steals the entire fucking show from those other pussy Muppets. They need to get their headshots in order and polish up their audition routines in the hopes of getting some work way off the Strip, since Miss Piggy is Muppet enough for five universes.
She is also the author of one of my favorite books from childhood/now, Miss Piggy’s Guide to Life. I guess it was meant to be funny-haha, but I took that shit seriously. I learned the ways of sporting feather boas and broad-brimmed hats, a habit I will reacquire as soon as I figure out where my family buried them to keep me from bringing shame upon my kin. She wrote nothing but sense—given the choice between a pastry and an artichoke, for example, she shrewdly advises to opt for the pastry. It weighs less. There is no arguing with such impenetrable logic.
Here’s the thing that is so goddamn inspiring about this talking porcine lady. Her self-assurance goes against all odds—fat (by magazine standards, not Midwestern street fair standards) with oversized nostrils, she has resisted the pressures of her show business environs to own the fuck out of what she has. As opposed to some. You know those two pink Mahna Mahna background bitches had work done. No one has lips like those without the help of a syringe filled with hyaluronic acid.
But enough about those fraudulent hos. Miss Piggy, in all her zaftig glory, snorting up pastries through her snout then karate-chopping scrawny, emotionally-unavailable frogs into next Wednesday, is a role model for women everywhere. She’s crazy affected, delusional in her self-confidence, and obliterates the French language like it’s the Parisians who have it wrong. Yet there is a serenity to her that is enviable and admirable—the zen of self-love and acceptance. Never do you see her caught up in the tangles of existential angst or driven by the need to validate her being. Get over yourself, Kermit. It’s not easy being yellow, either (just ask Scooter, diligent and near-sighted, the most Asian of all Muppets). She glides into a room like the gift to mankind that she is, tossing her flaxen weave, fluttering her fake eyelashes and pronouncing her presence in a singsong voice. Attention must be paid! Take THAT, Sam the Eagle! She has more charisma in one of her eight fingers than you do in your entire bald head! Try running for office against her and your thinly-veiled Republican ticket will be effing ANNIHILATED in swing states by the margin of the number of closeted trannies who live there!
There is no better source of wisdom than Miss Piggy. You need a guide to life? Look no further than to the only Muppet who looks like it could teach you a thing or two in bed. Bitch is fierce.
