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Wabbits, Pt. 2
I'm here to tell you a little story about a friend of mine. His name is Pokey. He is a wabbit. He used to be a pothead, now he's a goth. We used to call him Pokey the Tokin' Wabbit.

Pokey had a real trauma a couple months back. We were messing with this goofy fuck named Wilbur who fancied himself a farmer. Well, we were all drunk as shit and we played a practical joke on him. The joke went a little wrong when Wilbur blew both his hands and one eye off with a shotgun full of carrots. Pokey felt bad because Wilbur was aiming at him when he shot the carroty shotgun. I told him that was retarded because Wilbur was trying to kill him when it happened. Well, Pokey disagreed. So he started wearing eyeliner and dressing in black and listening to Marilyn Manson and Sepultura and Type O Negative all the time. Manson's OK, I guess, but Sepultura sucks, and I won't even listen to the Type O Negative record... any band that's going to give their album a fucking nasty name like "Bloody Kisses" needs to be beaten to within an inch of their lives with their own studded black combat boots.

Well, Wilbur moved back to the city and we destroyed the carrot patch, so we were really kind of at odds. The new guy who moved into Wilbur's old place didn't grow carrots, he grew squash. Wabbits don't give a fuck about squash. Most of the wabbits just moved on and found new carrot patches. But Pokey. Pokey wouldn't leave. He just sat their in his room in the superfly wabbit pad, staring at the webcam, smoking weed and cutting himself. He was messed up. He wouldn't even play Master Blaster or The Addams Family or Battle Toads or any of his favorite NES games anymore. Not even L. Ron Hubbard and his Scientologist goon squad could have helped Pokey, he was so messed up.

So I decided I had to help. Most wabbits are selfish motherfuckers, but I think I'm pretty cool. Your mom thinks so, too. So I tried to figure out what I could do to help make Pokey feel better. Boone's Farm didn't seem to help, so I bought him some ABC vodka. Not even breaking out in big pink blotches was enough to cheer him up, but I personally found it hysterical. I told you wabbits are assholes.

Anyway, Pokey wasn't coming out of his funk, and I was getting fucking sick of hearing "Dope Show" over and over at three in the moring. So I smashed his stereo.

As well thought out a plan as that was, it didn't help Pokey either. But God, did I feel better.

A couple days later, I was having dinner at Waffle House (wabbits wuuuuv Waffle House), listening to "Special Lady" [editor's note: You absolutely must listen to this song. You'll need RealPlayer to do it.] when I saw something that made my jaw drop. Pokey was leaving the post office with a four foot long, cylindrical package wrapped in brown paper. Pokey hadn't left the wabbit pad in like three months. I dropped my fork right in the middle of my hash browns (smothered, covered, diced and chunked, if you must know), threw some dubloons (wabbits pay for everything in dubloons or rupees) on the counter and started to follow him.

Pokey hopped (wabbits don't generally hop, but Pokey is kind of a sissy) back to the wabbit pad. As quietly as I could, I followed behind him, watching as he went back to his room, package in hand. Maybe I should rephrase that. He walked back to his bedroom, carrying his package... no, that won't work either. Look, you sick fuckers, he had a big, brown package that he brought back from the post office. Hey. Stop laughing. This isn't funny. [editor's note: hehe... he said "package"]

You guys are so immature.

So Pokey unwrapped the big, long, brown package he picked up earlier. How do you like that? Then, he put his lips on it and started blowing on it. That's hot, isn't it? Calm down, you dirty animals, that silly bastard just bought himself a didgeridoo. A fucking didgeridoo. I guess if he couldn't listen to Manson and all his other goth rock shit, he was going to do something even more depressing and obnoxious. So as soon as I saw what it was, I burst into the room.

"What the fuck do you think you're going to do with that?" I demanded.

Without looking at me, Pokey mumbled, "I'm going to play it. They say playing this will unite my consciousness with the invisible laws and energy patterns of nature."

"Dude, that's lame," I replied.

"You just don't get it! A man is maimed because of me!" Pokey bellowed, sounding like that kid from those "I learned it from you" anti-drug ads.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. This again. Sometimes you can retrace the same stupid steps and end up right back with the same unresolved problem. "Look, you sackless retard, he was trying to kill you. Fuck him and his hooks and his stupid eyepatch. Move on!" I wanted to just shake him until he finally wised up. "Playing that stupid thing will not make you feel better. What it will do, and I can promise you this, is guarantee that you will eventually know what it feels like to have it shoved up your ass. Perhaps even sideways."

Pokey got up from his bed and shouted, "I hate you and I'm moving to the city!"

Like I'm his fucking dad.

"Pokey, you can't move to the city. There won't be a carrot patch for miles. Hell, all we have here right now is a useless squash patch that I've been thinking about firebombing just because I've been so fucking bored lately." In truth, I'd already rigged the napalm charges to the blasting caps. "House" was a rerun that night, and I needed something to do.

"I don't give a damn about carrots!"

Without even thinking, I reached over and slapped Pokey right across the mouth. Hard. There are things a wabbit can stand, but a wabbit who hates carrots might as well be a New York Jets fan- a soulless, brainless monster who would be better off euthanized before it reaches breeding age. It actually says in the Wabbit Code that a wabbit who hates carrots can still be drawn and quartered under a full moon.

Pokey looked at me with tears welling up in his eyes, holding his face with one paw. In a moment of absolute, Lifetime-movie-of-the-week surreality, Pokey shouted, "You're not my real father!"

"No," I responded matter-of-factly, "but I am banging your mom."

I told you wabbits are assholes.

With that, Pokey hopped out of the room, carrying his didgeridoo and his backpack. What a sissy, I thought to myself as he left. But at least he was out doing something. And I wasn't going to be forced to listen to that goddamn didgeridoo. I went over to the living room table, where I had left the detonator for the napalm. I picked it up and walked out the front door. Then, I wandered to the edge of the woods, where I'd have a good view of the action.

"Hey, Glen, you silly fuck! Get out here!" I hollered towards the small farmhouse on the other side of the squash patch. Glen, the short, pudgy successor to Wilbur, trundled out the front door, beer in hand. He sneered at me.

"What the hell do you want?" he demanded. His gut jiggled when he yelled. I wanted to slap him. But this was going to be better.

"Squash sucks, you fat, smelly pig!" I couldn't think of anything more clever at the moment. So I depressed the trigger buttons on the detonator and the entire squash patch went up in a brilliant flash of fire and light, flaming napalm clinging to the fence surrounding it, to the side of the house, and to Glen's thick, meaty calves. He'd get over it, I figured. After calling 911, I returned to the wabbit pad, cranked one out to some Internet porn, and went to sleep.

The next morning, I woke up, poured myself a glass of Mad Dog, and flipped on the TV. Nothing interested me. I got up and shuffled outside. The mid-morning light was bright and painful in my eyes. Raising my paw to shield my eyes, I peered in the direction of the squash patch. It was nothing but a charred, barren, still-smoldering wasteland. That made me smile, but only briefly. It suddenly occurred to me how fucked up everything was. I had ruined a farmer's life, but he wasn't a carrot farmer. The Wabbit Code doesn't forbid the elimination of squash patches, but that's because wabbits don't give two shits for squash. But there I was, smiling.

I was a disgrace. That bastard Pokey had warped my mind. Wrecking a squash patch, when the world was full of carrot patches that needed destroying. And somewhere out there was my idiotic friend, wandering around with a didgeridoo, trying find his way back to happiness. Well, happiness was destroying a carrot patch.

I couldn't let this go on.

I had to make things right.

I had to go to the city to find Pokey.

to be continued...

hey little fella, how are you doing today?: contemplative contemplative
soundtrack: Aeon Spoke - No Answers

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