Estimated reading time: 5 minutes
When the Pig Rolls Off the Bed
At 3:30 AM, Trouble McFussbucket—our Juliana pig, named after both her temperament and her uncanny ability to find creative new ways to validate that name—rolled off her bed. Again.
This happens approximately once a week. She tries to move a bit, experiences two glorious inches of freefall, then lands on her back, where, due to her commitment to body positivity and snack consumption, she becomes as helpless as an overturned tortoise. Unable to right herself, she begins to moan. Not a polite moan. Not an “excuse me, minor inconvenience here” moan. This is an escalating aria of porcine distress that builds until our dogs feel compelled to join in sympathetic harmony.
My wife Karie stirred. “I’ll get her,” she said.
“No, no,” I insisted with the false chivalry of a man who absolutely did not want to get up. “I should go.”
“Stay,” she commanded, already halfway out of bed. “I’ve been awake since 2:30 anyway.”
“Me too,” I countered, establishing crucial parity in the Misery Olympics.
“What’s keeping you up?” I asked, causing her to pause at the door.
The PhD Candidate vs. The Celebrity Acronym Enthusiast
“My dissertation,” she said. “I’m not sure ‘Trauma Sensitivity in Rural Education’ is sharp enough. Maybe I need a subtitle. Something like ‘A Teacher-Centric Analysis Grounded in Bronfenbrenner’s Ecological Systems Theory.'”
Even the pig stopped moaning to consider the academic implications.
“What about you?” Karie asked. “What’s keeping you awake?”
“Brian Austin Green’s initials,” I replied. “They spell BAG.”
She stared at me with the look of a woman reconsidering major life choices.
“And the worst part is,” I continued, “I’m not entirely sure who Brian Austin Green is. Was he on 21 Jump Street?”
“Beverly Hills, 90210,” she corrected, then left, closing the door with what I can only describe as deliberate finality.
Through the door, I could hear the symphony of her competence: Trouble being righted, dogs being soothed, the distant clicking of a laptop keyboard as a PhD candidate returned to work while I pondered the lexical implications of celebrity acronyms. This is what married life at 3:30 AM looks like when one partner has legitimate academic concerns and the other has discovered that Brian Austin Green’s name is an anagram waiting to happen.
Whale Songs, Zero Gravity, and the Limits of Marine Biology
An hour later, she returned, opening the door with renewed purpose. “I changed the theoretical angle on the third chapter and managed to use ‘pedagogy’ in a way that actually…”
“What?” I said, removing my headphones.
“Were you talking to yourself?”
“No. Making whale sounds.”
I demonstrated: “Maaawoooorahhh mwaaahhh.”
“Why are you making whale sounds?”
“I’m listening to bi-urinal recordings of humpback whales. Nature sounds. Supposed to help you sleep.”
“Binaural,” she corrected.
“Sure. Yeah. That’s what I said.” I cleared my throat. “So, serious question: do you think this sounds like a whale?” I demonstrated again, with feeling. “Maaawoooorahhh mwaaahhh.”
“I… guess?”
“But is it a Right Whale or a Sperm Whale?”
“With you, I’m pretty sure it’s Sperm.”
“Wait—do you think Sperm Whales are all males? Are there Egg Whales? Ovary Whales? Is that how marine biology works?”
“Anyway,” she said, deploying that word with the precision of someone steering a conversation away from cetacean reproductive nomenclature, “Bronfenbrenner’s ecological systems theory posits that human development is influenced by different environmental systems, ranging from immediate surroundings like family to broader societal structures like…” She flipped on the light. “…what have you done to our adjustable bed?”
“Zero-G position,” I explained. “To relax. Though I’m kinda bummed. I thought I’d float around the room. You know, weightlessness.”
She put her face in her hands.
“I guess the ceiling fan would be problematic,” I conceded. “Probably chop me up. Make me into people confetti.”
She retreated to the bathroom to prepare for the rational world that awaited her beyond our bedroom door.
Shea Butter, Questionable Epiphanies, and the Defense of a Dissertation
When she emerged, ready to face a day of shaping young minds, she appeared prepared to share more insights about Bronfenbrenner’s circly-diagram thingy. Instead, she stopped mid-stride and sniffed the air.
“What’s that smell?”
“That holiday shea butter body cream you got from your Secret Santa. Thought it might help me relax. Do I smell like blueberries or pine trees?”
She just stared.
“Can you eat shea butter?” I mused. “Like, on toast? Shea Butter. Shhhheeea But-ter. That sounds like a pornstar name. Speaking of which, why do our memory foam pillows have a hole in the middle? Makes me wonder if my penis would fit…”
“Please don’t.”
“…in it.”
“I defend my dissertation in March,” she said, as if this were somehow relevant to pillow architecture.
“No defending necessary for me. I’m probably not gonna share any of my thoughts with anyone today.”
“Good idea.” She grabbed her bag. “Think you can put on pants before I get home?”
And my superintelligent wife was off to do important academic work while I, a man who’d spent the depths of married life at 3:30 AM contemplating Brian Austin Green’s initials and cetacean gender politics, finally dozed off.
And drooled.
Because that’s what happens when you achieve enlightenment in the small hours of the morning.
The pig slept through the whole thing.
Epilogue: The Burden of Knowledge
Later that morning, I googled Brian Austin Green. Turns out he was also in the Terminator TV show. His initials still spell BAG. This information has brought me no peace.
Key Takeaways
- The article humorously recounts a night involving Trouble McFussbucket, the pig, and the chaos of a couple’s late-night conversations.
- Karie, the author’s wife, struggles with her dissertation while the author ponders the significance of celebrity initials.
- The author attempts to use whale sounds to aid sleep, leading to comedic exchanges about marine biology.
- Karie prepares for her day, while the author reflects on random thoughts and the absurdity of his own musings.
- In the epilogue, the author discovers more about Brian Austin Green, realizing it brings him no peace yet adds to his chaos.
Related Links
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His first manuscript was composed entirely of punctuation marks and confused sketches. He's since published "Not Bukowski" (poems that don't rhyme) and "Slop and Swell from a Festering Mind" (essays so concerning that bookstores check on his wellbeing). He once spent three hours photographing a rare bird that turned out to be a plastic bag, and he's the only person banned from church bake sales for "weaponized brownies." Inheriting absurdism from Vonnegut and Adams, sprawling narratives from Irving, and weaponized failure from Moore, he writes about conflicted everymen struggling through supernatural chaos. He remains unconvinced that birds aren't surveillance drones.
More biographic lies...err...info.
- When God Closes a Door, He Needs to Go Get Some Paprika - March 5, 2026
- Monkey Testicles, Missing Documents, and the Eternal Quest to Stay on Top - March 3, 2026
- Under the Blood Worm Moon, Nobody Has to Learn Anything - March 3, 2026
