Pickle, the family rabbit, has died. I found out because Mama emailed me about it. We're going to bury him in the garden tonight, next to Eric, she said. ERIC DIED TOO? I replied. Eric is my auntie's rabbit. She lives across the road from Mama and they used to have rabbit play-dates. Eric died last month, I was told. And then the gravity of Mama's words hit me. They were going to bury my beautiful little lion-haired baby in the ground with Verbose Auntie's overweight, smelly, and not to mention AMOROUS beast of a pet. They were going to be together for all eternity. Mama , I implored back, those rabbits cannot spend the rest of forever together.... Eric was a rapist. And it's true. We'd all been in the garden when, as Verbose Auntie put it, Eric's lipstick came out of the tube. Poor Pickle didn't stand a chance. There was rabbit-on-rabbit penetration, and we all sat by and watched it happen on that sunny afternoon. Hell. We might even have enjoyed it. G...
Ya think?
ReplyDeletestretchers = bad smells. If you love them, love the smell. x
ReplyDeleteI want to hire you to walk around beside me and say that sort of stuff because it makes the stuff *I* say look relatively harmless in comparison and that is a pretty amazing feat. And I want to meet you even more now! And that's all.
ReplyDeleteIan- it's just a suggestion.
ReplyDeleteJess- There's a joke in there somewhere...
P- I want to meet you too! I totally have no social filter, though. It might get us into trouble.
x
Laura & P - I would love to join you guys, as I DON'T say any sort of thing, in hopes of a bit rubbing off. brilliant.
ReplyDeleteCamille- LET'S DO IT!
ReplyDelete