I am constantly being criticized by friends and even strangers for breastfeeding my son in public. They all try to tell me he’s too old. I think it is up to the mother when she stops breastfeeding her kids. Besides, he just won’t take the formula. I’ve tried and he doesn’t like it. If it helps, my little one turned thirty-six last month.
–Momma Manning the Milk Pumps
Traditionally when the child can open up the mother’s shirt and help himself to a snack, it is time to cut them off. And it is quite possible that your behavior is keeping him from meeting women his own age to play and procreate with. If you are interested in grandchildren, I suggest stopping the feeding immediately. But look at it this way. You have kept your mammaries going for almost four decades. Maintain that with a breast pump for a while longer and you may be able to feed your grandchildren as well. I would suggest not mentioning it to your future daughter-inlaw or your son’s baby’s momma because she would probably not understand and would likely ban you from babysitting.
I’m an avid gardener and I had been having trouble with vermin. I set traps, sprayed and put up those little sonic things to drive them off, and it didn’t do a bit of good. Something kept stealing my carrots so I waited patiently in my garden with a shovel in my right hand and a bottle of bourbon in my left. Finally after three hours, a rabbit showed up and I caught him nibbling on my cucumbers, so I clocked him over the head. The memory of that horrible clang has stayed with me ever since. That and the sloshing sound my bourbon made as it poured out onto the ground. I’m not sure which haunts me more.
The poor critter’s head was caved in and blood turned his white coat red. The worst part was his tiny little eyes stayed open and seemed to be staring at me, accusing me of murder. That or the voices in my head were messing with me again.
I’ve never killed anything before, not even a spider. Unless you count with my car and I don’t. I mean it can’t really count since they took my license away, right? Besides I’d been having a stressful week, finding out my girlfriend was cheating on me with her Clydesdale. If I had to be honest, I probably took out my jealousy on the rabbit, not that that excuses the bunnicide. Or the Clydesdale back-kicking me when I tried to make it a eunuch. My fault on both counts. I should have brought something sharper and bigger than the file on my nail clippers for the operation, but my probation doesn’t allow me to get caught carrying sharp weapons.
I buried the dead fuzzy thing near the tomatoes. Can’t waste good fertilizer, right? Since it was technically a memorial service, I tried to say a few words, but I got too choked up. Plus I didn’t really know Fuzzy, so I switched themes and poured some booze on the rabbit and lit him up. Technically Fuzzy died in battle so I figured he deserved a Viking funeral. I even jammed a couple of twigs in the side of his head to made it look like he was wearing one of those helmets. I’m a little fuzzy on what happened to Fuzzy, but he may have gotten up and ran around while he was still on fire. I told him to stop, drop and roll, but he didn’t listen. I guess he couldn’t hear me over all the noise. I never knew a rabbit could scream. Of course that’s assuming it wasn’t alcohol-induced hallucinations, but I usually enjoy those.
Now Fuzzy is haunting me. First in nightmares, then I saw a rabbit running through my garden and I knew it had to be Fuzzy back from the dead. One time I saw three of him. Double I’m used to, but triple? And one of him was even different colors. All of them were still eating my veggies, but I figured I owed him so I only chased him around with the shovel for an hour or so before I passed out and decided to let him go.
I figured I’d best move his body somewhere else so both of us could rest in peace. The problem is I didn’t exactly mark off where I buried Fuzzy and I was rather drunk at the time. And it’s also possible his flaming ghost may have risen from the grave to burn down my neighbor’s house. Witnesses said they saw a flaming rabbit running around the building right before it went up in smoke. Truth be told, it could have been the same night as the Viking funeral. Time sort of runs together when I drink. And I’m not really sure if I hooked up with a hot Playmate Bunny around that time or if something else happened that I’d rather not talk about. Of course it would explain some rather embarrassing burn marks.
How do I exorcise the spirit of this crazed rabbit and get my life and garden back?
–Killed The Rabbit In Kalamazoo
Haunted by the dead and angry spirit of a murdered bunny rabbit. Certainly not something for the faint of heart. There is indeed a way to rid yourself of this horrible specter, but it will not be easy. In fact I suggest you make sure you are halfway to inebriation before even trying it. It does not sound like it will be a long trip.
First you must strip off all your clothes and tie a single carrot around the front of your waist, as well as one to each wrist and another pair to your head that are pointed upward over each ear. Next, you must start doing the bunny hop in your garden and make your way down the street to your neighbor’s burnt home, all the while chanting “Bunny, bunny go away, don’t come back to haunt me another day.” The more people who see you the better. Cthulhu will be sending a film crew as well. I need an entry for a home video show.
Have A Dark Day.
Dear Cthulhu welcomes letters and questions at DearCthulhu@dearcthulhu.com. All letters become the property of Dear Cthulhu and may be used in future columns. Dear Cthulhu is a work of fiction and satire and is © and ™ Patrick Thomas. All rights reserved. Anyone foolish enough to follow the advice does so at their own peril.