Hippity Hoppity my fluffy white ass. The trail is a bitch.
I’m down at the Pinewood, sipping on a short, dirty glass of cheap Canadian. My beer back-up is looking a little flat. This place is a long way from the Ritz, but you’d still think they’d wash the glasses a little more often.
The Round Man is sitting next to me. Got himself swiveled on the stool while he’s chatting up some bimbo. He’s jolly alright, but for all the hype about his taste in behaviors, he definitely leans more toward the naughty girls than the nice ones. Next to him are three of the wee ones – two of Round Man’s best workers plus Irish. That little dude is a mean SOB when he’s gettin’ his drink on. I’m glad he’s four seats away from me. You never know when some drunk college kid will come in and call him Chuckie or Lucky Charms or something and next thing you know, the cops are comin’ in and somebody’s gonna need stitches. Still, I gotta admit, the three of ‘em look cute sitting up there on barstools with their little feet so far off the floor.
We don’t always hang out like this, but sometimes I like to chill out with a few of my buddies who understand life on the trail. There used to be better attendance at these get-togethers, but some of the usual crew’s drifted apart. The T-Fairy prefers a different kind of bar, and that’s fine by me – to each his own right? Jackie Frost, may he rest in peace, is gone but not forgotten. Freakin’ global warming pretty much did him in.
Let’s not get it twisted, I aint no retiree in a Bunny suit down at the mall gettin’ my pic snapped with your brat for five bucks a throw. I’m talking the real deal here – these ears aint clip-ons.
Like I said at the start, life on the trail’s a bitch. I smell like freakin’ Hershey, Pee-Ay 6 months out of the year from all the crap I’m delivering. Don’t think it isn’t a little weird to be spending a large part of my life carrying around giant, hollow chocolate replicas of myself. Then droppin’ em off only to have the parents of these kids eat the ears off a day or two later. It’s a heavy load knowing I’m guiding the youth of the world down the path toward obesity and diabetes.
I had to get therapy for that crap. I finally gave up on talking to the shrink. He blamed my issues on my father. That was the last straw for me. My father!? How much of a presence in your life can your father be when you have 237 brothers and sisters? Besides, the mental health waiver on my insurance sucked. I’d rather spend that co-pay money on shots and beers and get my counseling from the Round Man and maybe one of his naughty girls if she has a friend. You know what I mean?
Don’t get me wrong, the trail isn’t all sore paws and nightmares about waking up with my ears bit off. I’ve had some good times too. Some wild crap goes on out there. This one time, outside of Dubuque, Iowa, this chick walks in on me when I’m hiding eggs and filling baskets. She’s half in the bag and reeks of Malibu rum. Anyway, she must be on her way to the head when she sees me standin’ there with a handful of Marshmallow Peeps, and she just goes nuts. You know the whole “I can’t believe you’re really really real!” song and dance. She goes on to tell me how she always hoped I was real, but findin’ out -well that’s somethin’ special. Then a little light goes on in her drunken head and she realizes that she aint wearing much more than her hubby’s Drake University T-shirt and a pair of fuzzy socks. Well…one thing leads to another and let’s just say I didn’t do nothin’ to hurt the stereotypes about the bunny nation, if you follow my drift.
Stories like that, they happen, but it aint the usual. The usual is more like people with hi-tech security systems and Rottweilers. Bratty kids whose parents have convinced them that Easter aint nothin’ but Christmas in the Spring. Chocolate and malted milk candy eggs can weigh a rabbit down, but they don’t compare to Nintendo Wii’s and bikes. I got a couple dentists I play golf with in the off season and they aint too happy with that trend – believe you me. My chiropractor – he’s happy as crap.
So in a few days we’ll close up shop and I can try to relax and enjoy the off-season. Me and the Round Man are gonna hit the links and maybe do some fishing. The trail aint no easy time, but fishin’ for wahoo and throwing back a few frosties can help me forget my tender paws and aching back for a while.
Uh oh. Looks like a couple of frat boys are startin to bust on Irish a little. It might be time to hit the bathroom until the smoke clears. I’ll see you kids next year, okay?