I grew up on a little farm in the middle of rural South Australia, with my three older brothers and my mum and my dad. It was a pig farm, and it was one of those pig farms where the pigs are in these tiny pens.
When I was six years old, I woke up in the middle of the night, and I snuck up to the pig shed, and I set free all of the pigs. I ran back to my bedroom, and I jumped into bed.
This wasn’t some sort of animal-liberation thing. I was only six years old. I wanted to wake up and look out the window and see pigs on the tractor, pigs walking into the kitchen where a pig was doing the dishes.
I wanted to see pigs everywhere.
But instead I awoke to my dad shaking me, and he took me out to the pig shed.
And none of the pigs had moved.
Dad said, “See? They want to be here. I hope you’ve learned something.”
That’s the sort of thing that my dad would say all the time: “I hope you’ve learned something.”
My dad was this very dominant man, a very serious, stern, proud, and impatient man.
When my brothers and I grew up, we had to work on the pig farm with him, and my dad was the kind of man who had to have a hand in everything we did.
You know that kind of man: you’re doing the dishes, and Dad pushes you out of the way and starts doing the dishes to show you the proper way to do it.
And he was everything in my life in this tiny little community where we grew up in South Australia.
But Dad wasn’t just a pig farmer, he was also my schoolteacher. And I don’t mean a teacher at my school, I mean my teacher. So I saw him every single day at school.
But Dad wasn’t just a schoolteacher either. He was also my bus driver. So he’d pick us up from our house, drop me off at school, teach me all day, and then I’d work with him on the pig farm after he dropped me off at home.
So I saw him every single day, from the morning until the nighttime.
On Sundays my family and I would go to church.
Dad was the minister at the local church.
So all I had were Saturdays. And when you grow up on the farm in rural South Australia, all you do on Saturdays is play sports.
Dad was my football coach, my basketball coach, and my tennis coach.
He was everything in my life, this very serious, stern, proud, and impatient man.
My dad was also a man who had never said a swear word in his entire life.
And even as little kids, we’d say, “How is this possible, Dad? How is this possible you’ve never said a swear word?”
He had the same answer every time: “There are other words you can use, and there’s no need for that language.”
I’m not kidding. I’ve seen him walk around the back of the car at nighttime and hit his shin so hard on the tow bar of the car that he dropped to his knees, looked up at the moon, raised his fists, and yelled, “CURSES!”
Like a Scooby-Doo villain, he yells, “Curses!” This is the only word that my dad uses.
The other thing he did instead of swearing is just yell out his feelings.
So he’d be out working on the farm, and we’d hear this scream of “I’m ANGRY!”
“I’m annoyed! I’m UPSET!”
That’s what he does instead of swearing.
When I turned eighteen years old, I decided that farm life wasn’t for me, and I moved to the city and started going to university. I was studying the arts, and I became a vegetarian.
Around this time my second-oldest brother moved to a place called Kangaroo Island. Kangaroo Island is off the coast of South Australia. It’s this beautiful, natural wonderland.
My dad loves Kangaroo Island. He’s never been anywhere else in the world, never even gotten on a plane. And he’s got the same excuse for not traveling anywhere, and that’s “Why do I need to go anywhere? Kangaroo Island is right there.”
I would say to him, “Look, you know, Dad, I’ve been to Japan and places like that.”
He said, “I’ve seen Japanese people on Kangaroo Island. Why do I need to go anywhere else?”
He loves Kangaroo Island so much that he goes to visit my brother every single weekend. He visits him so much that he managed to get a job on Kangaroo Island as the minister at the local church on Sundays. He takes another job after church on Sunday going hunting with farmers, hunting these wild pigs, which are one of the only introduced species on Kangaroo Island.
I go to visit my brother when I’m eighteen years old, and we go to church in the morning.
My dad does the service, and then after church my dad says to me, “Do you want to come hunting with me?”
I say, “Uh, no, I don’t. I don’t need to do that.”
He says, “Do you just want to come and check it out? It’s in this beautiful national park.”
And I say, “Okay, that’s sounds fun,” and so Dad and I drive to this national park.
There’s a big shed out in the front. I walk into the shed, and there are all these hunters and farmers loading up trucks with guns and then driving off through this national park, hunting these wild pigs.
Dad says again, “Are you sure you don’t want to come hunting with me?”
I say, “Oh, no, no, no, I don’t need to do that.”
He says, “Okay, I’ll organize for a ride back for you, but before we do, can you help me load up this truck with guns?” and Dad hands me a gun.
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever held a gun before.
(We’re in America, you’re probably all packing right now.)
But I feel the weight of this gun, and I feel a sense of power, and this weird feeling, like Oh, yeah, I want to shoot something. Let’s shoot something. I want to go hunting.
So I tell my Dad I’ll go, and Dad says, “Great.”
We load up this truck with guns, and then Dad and I drive off through this national park. We park the truck, and it’s just Dad and me hunting the wild pigs. After about three hours, Dad shoots six wild pigs.
I shoot none. I enjoy looking through the scope at things far away. I like jumping out from bushes and pretending to shoot things and going “Pow, pow, pow!” I’m having a really good time.
Dad keeps thinking I’m going to shoot something, when I’m not, I’m just looking through my scope.
He’s getting very annoyed, and I know this because he’s screaming, “I’m annoyed!”
He says, “Look, do you want to shoot something?”
I say, “No, Dad, I’m having a really good time. I feel like I’m in Predator or something like that!”
By this time I’ve put mud under my eyes like a soldier.
He says, “No, I’m going to find you something to shoot.”
He disappears off through these trees, and he comes back about ten minutes later, and he whispers, “I found you something.”
I follow him, and he tells me to look through my scope, and I look, and I see a pig, and it is a big pig. As it lies down, I see a bunch of little babies come up and start suckling at its teats.
I’m looking at this mother pig through my scope, and Dad whispers in my ear, “It’s easy.”
I say, “I know it’s easy, Dad, but this is a bit fucked, don’t you think?”
And he says, “There’s no need for that language.”
Dad whispers again, “It’s easy. You’re helping. This pig is a nuisance. They ruin the local flora and fauna. They ruin the environment for the local animals. You’re helping. You can do this.”
I look at this pig, and I say to Dad, “Do I have to shoot the babies as well?”
He goes, “No, just shoot the mum. They’ll die on their own.”
And again he says, “You’re helping, these are pests. You’re helping, you can do this.”
I sit looking at this pig for what feels like forever, and I think, I can do this.
I get the pig’s head in my sights, I close my eyes and pull the trigger.
When I open my eyes, I see Dad’s back in front of me, and I see him drop to the right.
And I have just shot Dad in the back.
He swings around as he grabs himself by the shoulder. Blood starts coming out from between his fingers. He looks at me.
His eyes are wide, and he just says, “YOU FUCKING SHOT ME!”
That’s the first time he’s ever said a swear word. He just unleashes this tirade of abuses.
“You effing shot me! I am effing dead! Do you know where we are? We are in the middle of nowhere. I am effing dead. You have effing killed me!”
And as he’s doing this, I sit in shock, and I drop the gun to the ground. I stare at Dad, and secretly, in the back of my brain, I want to go, There’s no need for that language.
But I don’t. I don’t say anything.
And Dad just continues, “I can’t believe it’s you. Out of all of my sons, you’re the one who kills me. The vegetarian, the city boy.”
He pulls out his phone, and he throws it at me and says, “Call Mum. Call Mum. Tell her you’ve killed me and I’m dead.”
I get his phone, and I dial emergency (I’m not an idiot).
I say, “Uh, I’ve just shot my dad.”
And they say, “Where are you?”
“Kangaroo Island.”
And they say, “We need you to be a bit more specific than that.”
“I don’t know where, there’s a national park. There are trees here. People go hunting here.”
And they say, “We think we know where you are. There’s a property about a kilometer away. Do you think you can get him to this property?”
I say, “Yeah, he seems okay.”
I hang up from them, and I tell Dad, “We’ve got to get to this property.”
He says, “Give me your jumper, your sweater.”
I take off my sweater, and he uses the sleeve to stuff into the bullet hole. I put my arm around him and hold the jumper into his chest as I carry him back to where we’ve parked the truck. I put him in the passenger side. I run around to the driver’s side.
I start the truck up, but I can’t drive a stick shift. And this is a big old truck with one these gearshifts on the steering wheel. I grind it into gear, and we bounce forward and stop.
Dad screams in pain. I start it up again, I grind it into a different gear, and we bounce forward and stop again.
Dad screams again, and says, “Get out!”
I get out of the truck, and I walk around to the passenger side as Dad slides along the seat (leaving a trail of blood across the back of the seat) and drives himself to this property.
Now, on the emergency line all they’ve told me is to make sure that Dad stays awake, which is good, now that he’s driving.
And finally we get to the property. By the time we get there, Dad’s gone this bluey-gray color.
The helicopter is there to pick us up, and Dad gets loaded by the ambulance people out of the truck and into the back of the helicopter. I get on the helicopter with Dad, and we get flown to the hospital for free (thanks to Australia’s health system).
Dad is in surgery for quite a while, and all I remember next is my mum walking out.
She says, “He’s going to be okay. He’s lost his collarbone, and he had very little blood left in his body when he got here, but he’s going to be okay. Do you want to go and visit him?”
I say, “No,” because I just can’t.
Mum says, “It’s okay,” as she counsels me through what has happened.
Eventually I go into my dad’s hospital room. He’s lying in the bed, sort of strapped up.
We lock eyes, and he says…“I hope you’ve learned something.”
And I did learn something.
I’ve never touched another gun.
Years later I’ll learn that Dad has almost been shot about twelve times from different mates because he gets so impatient that he often jumps in front of people as they’re about to shoot.
And you know what? I think my dad learned something that day.
Sometimes there is a need for that kind of language.
JON BENNETT’s comedy career began in his homeland of Australia, and after fourteen years in the business, he is now known as one of the most prolific storyteller/comedians touring the world. With a total of eight hourlong individual comedy shows, Jon is constantly performing across the globe, making people laugh through exceptional comedic storytelling. He has received multiple five-star reviews in reputable publications worldwide and won awards such as Funniest Show Award in the London Fringe, Critics Choice Award for Best Solo Show at the Orlando Fringe, and a Golden Gibbo Award nomination at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. He has performed at a number of prestigious festivals such as the Edinburgh Fringe, the Melbourne International Comedy Festival, and Just for Laughs in Montreal. You can find out more about Jon at jonbennettcomedy.com.
This story was told on June 22, 2017, at the Wilbur Theatre in Boston. The theme of the evening was Great Escapes. Director: Jenifer Hixson.
