skip to main |
skip to sidebar
I cannot believe I just missed an opportunity to pick up $50,000. Five minutes of work, fifty grand richer.
No, it’s nothing illegal, cruel, risky, untoward. All I would have had to have done* was write a different kind of post for my rabbit story (see Ruling Party post below, from earlier in the day).
Of course, it would have been parroting someone else’s gimmick, but so what. It’s not as if he’s got a patent pending on it.
A reader clued me in on my folly by providing the following link. For those who do not click, it’s quite simple:
A man rescued a cute bunny rabbit. Called him Toby. Nursed him, fed him, took many beautiful pictures of him. And now he says he will eat him by June 30th (recipe provided at the bottom of his page) unless, through donations and otherwise, he will raise $50,000. As of yesterday, horrified readers sent in to PayPal close to $25,000. With the publicity the story is generating, it is expected that he will exceed the targeted sum.
It could have been me, sharing my instant wealth with family and friends, building a beautiful little home for the bunny who brought me this bounty. But no. I had to let every Ocean reader know: I am a mere peon in the rabbit’s life – he is the one in control. Sigh. [Having written this post I am actually quite shocked that I would even suggest in jest taking my backyard rabbit to the butcher. So sorry, bunny rabbit. Blogging drove me to this. I hate your eating habits, but you're safe.]
* see, this is exactly the kind of verb tense construction that drives Poles, with their three tenses only absolutely insane when they study English.
So, you’re off and running again…
I have to Get Stuff Done! Taxes, lecture tomorrow, that sort of thing. But how are you?
In one word or less? Fine.
Oh! I’m so sorry! I swore I would not become like one of those who comes across as Too Busy for Words! I’m the one who always sighs and rolls her eyes when friends say they can’t pause because they are So Behind!
It’s okay…
No, I’m really so sorry (I am: you know who you are!!). I’m the one who suggestively passed on the cartoon from the New Yorker some while back where a guy says to his preoccupied professor friend: “you know what you are not going to say on your deathbed? 'I wish I had worked harder to get another article published'…”
Nor will they carve it onto the tombstone: here lies Martha Miserable*, who contributed so much, though we can't remember what exactly where or why…
Or: here lies Morris Murdock*, unavailable in life, unavailable in death. Did I say this already: I'm very sorry... And btw, I’ve always thought that each of us will be remembered for the small things we did that we had no idea meant a lot to someone at the time.
You know, I already decided what my tombstone inscription is going to be:
Anna Wanna* up and died
Will you miss her?
You decide.
I’m going to post that right now!
* Of course these are made up names. Of course. But the story (with some wording adjustments) is true. It happened just minutes ago.
Professor: Well, you could not counsel her to do that now, could you? She would be, what’s the American expression? About a foot or something?
[Several very helpful students shout out correct expression said foreign-born professor was searching for.]
Professor: Yes, sounds right – she would be chewing herself in the foot. I mean, think about it: she is arguing that her ex is incompetent to meet the legal standard set forth in the joint custody statute at the same time that she wants to portray herself as a cooperative player under the physical placement statute… nibbling right there at her own heel, or, as you say, chewing her feet.
[Lecture continues, professor wonders why student in front row is holding hand out in the shape of a gun and shooting at her. Professor decides to tolerate weird student behavior as it is early in the morning and he may not have had his cup of coffee yet.]
Class ends, student with weird hand gestures approaches professor and says: I was trying to tell you: not chewing. It’s shooting yourself in the foot.
I want to ask this: who’s in control of my yard, him or me? Sure, I’m still holding on to the house, but he’s certainly ahead in two branches: the front and the back yards. He’s taking it easy, waiting for the right moment before he and his pack start hackin’ away at all that I hold dear out there. It’s no use fighting him. He’s got numbers on his side. And teeth. Past terms have shown me that he moves quickly and decisively. He gets things done.
Damn rabbits. What I wouldn’t do for a couple of jackasses or a herd of elephants to chase him out. Though I’m betting he’d get the support of the Green Party and make things really difficult for me here in Madison. Basically I’m about as effective as the slow-moving lame duck that occasionally crosses my yard. The whole thing is one big farce. It’s his show and he knows it. I just wish he wouldn’t be so in-my-face obvious about it. Just look at him:
basking
