Animal activist wants to 'live like a pig'
A South Australian animal rights activist has challenged the pork industry to let him live like a pig and allow the media to film the results.
Animal Liberation spokesman Ralph Hahnheuser has written to numerous major piggeries, seeking permission to confine himself to a sow stall for three weeks.
He says such a pen is just two metres long by 60 centimetres wide, with a concrete floor and no bedding.
I just couldn't stop laughing. Then I heard a tiny voice piping up at me from - from
"Free the chickens!" it squeaked. "Free the chickens today!"
I pulled the desk drawer open. An animal activist had taken up residence and he was marching back and forth, chanting something about chickens and freedom and human rights for animals.
"What are YOU doing in there?" I asked.
"Free the chickens!" he chanted again. "I'm here to protest against the dreadful conditions battery hens have to endure on a day-by-day basis! Do you know that battery hens hav"
I rammed the door shut, hoping he'd be gone by tomorrow.
He wasn't. When I sat down to work, he was still there. I could hear his voice wafting up out of the corners of the drawer. "I'm here to stay!" he chanted. "Chickens rights today! I'm here to stay!..."
When I opened the drawer to check in on him, I noticed that he'd started growing some type of fungus in one corner of the drawer from which he obtained nourishment.
That wasn't all, either. I went into my room later that day to get dressed, and discovered a man lying down amongst the shoes.
"Who the hell are YOU?"
"I'm ... a Heterosexual!" he said, rather loudly, looking as if he actually knew what he meant.
"Yeah?" I said.
"I've retreated to the closet - as a protest!" he said. "A protest against the disgraceful treatment of gay, lesbian and bisexual people by fascists like YOU!"
"By - me?"
"Yes, YOU! Admit it. You're a Heterosexual, aren't you? But you just can't find the nerve to go back into the closet where you belong!"
"What are you talking about?"
"If you had any courage, you FASCIST, you'd be joining me NOW, and helping to overcome years o"
SLAM. I'd get dressed some other time.
The hippy in my desktop drawer was getting louder the day after. "Think of the chickens!" he shouted. "Think of the CHICKENS! Won't somebody PLEASE THINK OF THE CHICKENS?"
Jerking the drawer open, I scowled down at him.
"Shut up!" I shouted. "You'll wake the neighbours up with all that racket!"
"I WANT to wake them up!" he chirped. "I want the whole world to know of the Disgraceful Conditions Battery Hens are Forced to Endure! I'm sure any day now the media will notice my actions, and then ..."
Bloody hell. Maybe if I bought some earphones then...
There were several more Heterosexuals who had retreated to my cupboard by that evening. They sprawled about amongst my underwear reading copies of Germaine Greer's The Female Eunuch.
One looked up at me.
"Fascist!" he snarled. "You're a disgrace to all Heterosexuals!"
And that wasn't all. Underneath my bed I discovered a tent-embassy of Bob Brown clones. They all sat about, peering at one another through glasses, mouthing the words "Peace", "Love", "Sustainability" and "Tofu", mantra-like, for hours on end. One of them had chained himself to my bed-post. When I spoke to him, he told me he was they were concerned that I was importing Genetically Modified foods into my house. Or something.
That night they'd started up a doof and the music went on for hours and hours and amongst the reek of the pot, I couldn't get up to sleep and "THAT'S IT!" I cried. "IN THE MORNING, YOU GUYS ARE GONE! YOU'RE OUT OF HERE!"
First thing in the morning, I called in the pest exterminators. Best thing I'd ever done in my life. I went to the pub across the road while they fumigated the place. When the screams started, I was sipping on my beer contentedly. By the evening, I was picking my way amongst the carcasses of the dead hippies. The head of one actually detached from the light-covering hanging from the ceiling and drifted to the ground. I kicked it to the corner of the room.
Then there was a knock at the door.
When I opened it, there was a reporter standing there beside a cameraman, with a microphone stuck in my face.
"Mr. Train," she said, smile smeared over her plastic features, "We've been hearing that somebody has taken up residence in your deskto... oooeeer..."
She was looking over my shoulder at the head in the corner of the room. The camera swung to follow her gaze...