Babe: Pig in the World Trade Center Movie Indefinitely Pulled

ollowing the wake of Sept. 11th terrorist attacks, many studios have aided in claiming additional victims of terrorism, namely films that may evoke emotional reactions from audience for their content. The latest victim: The long-awaited third film in the Babe Trilogy, Babe: Pig in the World Trade Center.

"I can't believe it," said film producer Dan Mook. "Here we tried to make a light-hearted, whimsical little film about a sweet talking pig who visits the World Trade Center. Talk about bad fucking luck. I mortgaged my house to get this thing made."

In this sequel, Babe, the optimistic and charming small pig with the can-do spirit, is pitted against vile Islamic terrorists of the mythical "Jizzbad" organization, who take visiting tourists hostage in the World Trade Center towers. Babe takes each of the terrorists out of commission, one by one, as a bomb ticks down, threatening to destroy the twin towers.

"Real bad fucking luck," Mook continued for a few more minutes.

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Seems like we spent our entire childhoods preparing for things that never happened. How many hours did we waste watching filmstrips on not accepting rides from strangers, or classics like "Don't Play with Rover Foamymouth" that taught us the virtues of staying the hell away from dogs with rabies? How many sleepless nights spent worrying about total global annihilation from a nuclear war with the Russians? By that I mean other kids staying up all night worrying about nuclear death, God knows Omar Bricks didn't lose any shuteye over foreign policy issues. I was way too wrapped up in my plans to order a money printing press from an ad I saw in the back of a Casper comic book. I schemed for a year to get that damn money-mill, and then it finally came in the mail and it turns out the friggin' thing prints toy money! I shit you not, ten-dollar bills with a picture of a walrus on them. I could have shit, I was so mad. I might have. Gone were my dreams of printing up enough currency to buy every toy in the store and to build a functioning car out of Legos, with which to drive to Sea World. I'd have to wait until Christmas (and 1995, alternately) like all of the other kids, like a shmoe.

I guess every little kid had to have some major disillusionment when they were young, like having their parents die or ordering Sea Monkeys. I'm sure you know the drill: ad in the back of your comic book looks awesome and makes you think you're getting a clan of human-sized merpeople in the mail, and that in no time you'll be frolicking in their underwater kingdom and cutting deals to have the Sea Monkeys blow up your school and stuff your Social Studies teacher into a steamer trunk headed for the Dutch East Indies. Then of course the package comes in the mail and it's an ant farm and a packet of dust. Since you're a kid and therefore gullible as a mail-order bride, you follow the instructions, add water, and hold your breath to see if this chintzy crap will somehow transform into the awesome experience you've been envisioning. Instead, it ends up looking like that Watersquirtz ring-toss game you've had since you were five, the one that got all leaky and mildewy after it spent a few years at the bottom of your toybox. It dawns on you then that the only way you could use these "Sea Monkeys" to get back at your Social Studies teacher would be if you put them in her coffee. So you get mad, and stay that way for the better part of seven minutes until you realize that you're missing the beginning of Diff'rent Strokes, and it's the one where Willis tries to grow a goatee.

That's what I hear anyway, I never ordered the Sea Monkeys myself. My dad had ordered them when he was a kid and his bitter diatribes convinced me that they probably weren't worth the eight bucks. For that same reason we never got to go to Sea World, since there was no way dad was going to shell out his hard-earned money to see a bunch of water fleas swim around in a tank.

Thank Moses I had my dad to impart these pearls of wisdom on my young mind, since school definitely wasn't doing it. They were far too concerned that we were going to get kidnapped from the school parking lot or bitten by a stray dog if we somehow managed not to get nuked while doing drugs. Of course none of it ever happened, and we all survived (except for Tommy Frink, who peed in the sink and later ended up becoming a Scientologist). What the suits didn't understand was that there were far too many Transformers to collect for any of us to blow our allowances on crack pipes. Of course I may be a bad one to ask since I flunked out of the DARE program at the tender age of eight. I passed out when the officers were showing us how to tie off and locate a vein, so during the graduation ceremony I had to sit off to the side with the kid who'd had Mono the whole time.

Seems like they could have been showing us filmstrips on something useful, like not answering cell phones in movie theaters or what to do if the guy next to you on the plane is wearing a diaper made of plastic explosives. I'm pretty sure I know the proper position to be in when you're obliterated by a mushroom cloud, but search me for how you're supposed to disarm a pimply reject in a Korn shirt with an Uzi. Or even etiquette things like the polite ways to turn down a request to join a cult. That would come in handy. And karate. They definitely should have taught us karate.

But, you know, life goes on and some things you just have to learn for yourself. For everything else, I've been thinking about correspondence colleges.

Yeah. I should definitely open one!

Bricks out.

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A Note From Emil: For all you true commune addicts out there like me, I discovered something fantastic! As you probably know, columnist Rok Finger has had a long and storied career in publishing even before he became a commune staple—so I was delighted to find a stack of old Fingers in a collection of my neighbor’s old Wah Wah Adult Men’s Magazines. Apparently he wrote there for quite some time. So sit back and satisfy yourself with old Finger. I can’t wait to read it myself… it looked surprisingly current, but I’m saving it to read once it’s in print.

Good gentlemen and ladies who read Wah Wah, I’d like you to take a break from your intense visual arousal long enough to talk politics, specifically, the Middle East. You may think everything in the Middle East is terrorists and jihads at this point, but I’d like to assure you we’re in good hands: The hands of a young man named Osama Ben Laden.

Who? You may not know that name, but you certainly should. While other young Muslims are running around strapping bombs to themselves and charging as much as $10 a barrel for oil, Osama Ben Laden and men like him are making the Middle East safe for democracy.

For ten years, Ben, as I like to call him, and other faithful Muslims have been fighting against the deadliest threat ever known to America: the communist Soviet Union. Their good soldiering and guerilla tactics have made Afghanistan a most unwelcome home for the Russkies, and finally, in February 1989, week-kneed smilin’ Red Mikhail Gorbachev pulled the last one of this commies from Afghanistan. Lesson learned: It may take you a long time, but the most earnest and well-trained army can bring down the biggest enemy!
We Americans should be extra proud, because thanks to Presidents Reagan and Carter, Operation: Cyclone helped train these proud sons of the Arab world. That’s our tax dollars bringing us safety in the Middle East for generations to come. It would have been easy to finance the less extremist groups, or even send our own troops in to stand up for our interests, but as the old adage goes, do you want it done right or do you want it done quickly? As Americans know, there’s only one answer to that.

I met up with Ben and some of his buddies after a late-night meeting of their elite gentlemen’s club, and I found him quite a surprise, even for a Middle Eastern commie-killer. For one thing, he’s not like any Joe Muhammad off the street—he’s not even from Afghanistan, but from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. That makes no never mind to Ben: "You can’t sit back and watch an infidel disgrace a fellow Islamic stronghold. Do you mind getting your feet off my Quran?"

He’s right, and I did. More than that, ol’ Ben is the son of a billionaire! That’s right, he comes from big oil money, and there’s few bigger than Mohammed Ben Laden where Ben comes from, the U.S.-friendly country of Saudi Arabia. His dad was worth $5 billion, at least before he died in 1967 in a plane piloted by an American. Just think about that: Here’s a guy who has every reason to hate Americans, but he’s fighting for our side. You gotta admire that.

Instead of wasting away his multi-million dollar inheritance on fast cars and publishing adult magazines, Ben put his talents to learning the art of justified war, and his money to training fellow soldiers. But never forget a lot more money comes from us, champs!

When I sat down to talk with Ben, he was a very imposing figure, standing at 6’4" (almost twice my height) and weighing in at a solid 102 lbs. You wouldn’t want to see that coming at you across a battlefield. He expressed his fondness for having several wives and Wah Wah magazine, particularly articles like "What Do You Get With Too Much Tit?" and their annual Vintage Anal issue.

Asked what he thinks of America, he smiled coyly. "How could you not like a country where everything is owned by the Jew and women in bikinis are made CEOs?" I couldn’t agree more. I’m not sure which Jew he’s talking about, I’ll have to ask my contact Saul Bergoweitz if he knows anything. I also wouldn’t mind finding out more about this bikini CEO.

So hear that, Saddam Hussein: Your invasion of Kuwait has no friend in Osama Ben Laden. Better watch your step, or you’ll find yourself on the wrong end of that Russian-made assault rifle.

I had to leave Ben, and thanked him for our interview with some backissues of Wah Wah and other dirty magazines I used purely for research purposes. I also helped feed his interest in American architecture by supplying the pictures he requested of the World Trade Center buildings. I was anxious to get back home to my longstanding wife, Arvelyn, and see what she looked like in a burqa.

But for those of you terrified of a war with Saddam Hussein’s boys, let me ease your minds: We have nothing to fear from Iraq as long as boys like Osama Ben Laden are in the Middle East.

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