It’s Wabbit Season

Something has been eating the flowers in my wife’s garden, and it’s making her very sad. I finally got out the Yellow Pages and made a phone call. A voice on the other end of the line said. “E.J.F. Pest Control Company, E.J. speaking. May I help you?”

“Yes, something is eating my wife’s flowers,” I said.

“Do you think it’s insects?” he asked.

“No I don’t think so,” I replied.

“How about deer?”

“Probably not,” I said. “I think it might be a rabbit.”

“Did you say a wabbit?!” he shouted.

“Um, no. I said ‘rabbit’.”

“Exactwy!” he exclaimed. “I’ll be wight over!”

Five minutes later a van pulled into my driveway, and an odd little man climbed out. He was only about four feet tall, but his head was the size of a pumpkin. A big hat was perched on his bald head, and he carried a shotgun with a barrel large enough to shoot golf balls. Oh, and one other thing: he was animated. Literally.

 

“Hi, I’m E.J.,” he said as he shook my hand. “So, where is he? Where’s the wabbit?!”

“Well, this is my wife’s flower garden,” I said, as I walked toward the stone wall by the side of the driveway. “As you can see, all the flowers and buds have been chewed right off.”

“Did you see the wabbit eat the fwowers?” he asked.

“No, I didn’t catch him in the act,” I said, “but I did see a rabbit on the lawn a couple times near the flowers.”

“Just as I suspected,” E.J. said. “He’s a wascally one.”

“He’s a what?” I asked.

“A wascal,” he said. “You know, a diwty, wotten, stinkin’ wascal. Ooooh, I hate wabbits!”

“Hey, don’t I know you?” I said. “You look familiar.”

“Not wikewy,” he replied. “I just moved here fwom Cawifownia.”

“Oh, I must be thinking of somebody else. Anyway,” I continued, “I’m late for work, so I have to get going. Is there something you can do about the wab, er, I mean, the rabbit?”

“Absowutewy!” he shouted. “You weave evweything to me.” Then he proceeded to unload items from his van, including a case of dynamite, a flame-thrower, and a small cannon.

When I came home from work that evening, I was shocked. Half of my lawn had huge craters in it, and the other half was scorched black. One maple tree had lost all its leaves, and small flames flickered on the branch tips. The other maple tree was lying on its side, the trunk splintered just above the ground. The stone wall by the driveway was crumbling, and my house was pock-marked with bullet holes. My wife’s flower garden was now just a churned up pile of dirt. Not a single plant was in sight.

“What the hell happened?!” I shrieked.

“Oh, he was wascally, all wight,” E.J. said. “But I got him!” Then I noticed his clothing was torn and singed, and black gunpowder smudged much of his face and head.

“But, but what happened?!” I asked again.

“It was aww-out war,” he said. “That was the onwy way to get him.”

“So where’s the rabbit,” I said.

“Weww, I don’t actuawy have his mangy carcass,” E.J. said as he loaded a Gatling gun and crossbow into his van. “But I’m sure he’s dead.” He climbed into the driver’s seat and said, “I’ww send you a biww. Just wemembew, the wabbit is dead!” 

As he drove away, I thought I heard a high-pitched voice in the bushes say, “He don’t know me very well, do he?”