Mama and Papa Rabbit had busy lives; it was hectic taking care of 73 kids (or was it 77?). Papa had his career down at the hatchery, and Mama was a dental hygienist. They each had their comings and their goings. Papa was passionate about civil service, and spent his free time down at the prison in a rabbit re-education program for non-violent rabbits. Mama was passionate about governmental fiscal oversight, and was a Chairrabbit for a non-profit that did such activities.
Mama and Papa Rabbit loved each other more than ever. Mama Rabbit adored Papa Rabbit because he cleaned her car every Sunday…even replacing the scent tree, whether it needed it or not, cutting a perfect little slit in the top, so the a) the scent wouldn’t be overpowering; and b) it wouldn’t dry out too quickly, and last all week (he had a stash of different scented scent trees, and would replace the used scent tree with a new scent every week, and Mama Rabbit would feel like she was getting into someone else’s car (and for a moment she would feel like she was on vacation on an exotic island in Tahiti))…and waxed it twice per year so that it kept that beautiful, fresh off the lot luster. This made Mama Rabbit feel loved and appreciated (it also made her yearn to pleasure Papa Rabbit by making him roast beef sandwiches, pressing his clothes, and gargling his rabbit nuts).
Papa Rabbit was a no good, waste of a bunny. He drank too much, went cruising with his buddies every night, and generally only cared about building his biceps and whaling on his pecs; he was a charming bastard, too. He wore his hair long on top, slicked back, with a taper on the sides. He met Mama Rabbit on a drunken night out at the local discotheque “Dig a Pony” (named after a Beatles song). He was mesmerized by her thick hair, glowing skin, and luscious breasts that seemed to defy gravity. After just one drink, Papa leaned in for a kiss, and Mama thought to herself “who does this son of bitch think he is?!” and promptly laughed in his dumb face. He kindly slinked away with his cute little bunny tail right between his little bunny legs.
Nope. It was actually two years later: Papa was still a rascal of some repute, but he did some growing up those two years. Mama and Papa Rabbit ran into each other…again…at “Dig a Pony.” This time, Papa cooled his jets, and decided to get to know Mama Rabbit. They met up at The Roxy after the bar closed, the only 24 hour breakfast spot in town. They talked for hours. After, Papa Rabbit walked Mame Rabbit to her car, he leaned in for a kiss, and again…Mama thought to herself “who does this son of a bitch think he is?!” and laughed in his dumb face.
Papa could have gotten angry and bitter about this…like a little boy throwing a tantrum for not getting his way (like he *deserved* some rabbit tail because he played by all the rules)…instead, he decided to become a better person, and went back to school and got his degree. (How did they finally get together? That’s a story for another day.)
Where were we? Oh yes: Papa never felt unappreciated, and Mama never felt neglected. But sometimes…life got in the way, and they couldn’t make time for each other; Mama’s birthday was in three days, and Papa had sex on his rabbit brain. Papa texted the sitter, made dinner reservations, and ordered flowers.
Three days had finally come and gone, and for three straight days (4320 minutes, but who was counting?) Papa wore three pairs of underwear to keep his erection under control. He couldn’t stop thinking about Mama, and Mama’s…everything. He had been so distracted down at the hatchery that he accidentally fed salmon food to the bass, and bass food to the salmon.
Mama and Papa Rabbit had an absolute sublime meal of one leaflet of iceberg lettuce folded into the shape of a swan, one carrot carved into the shape of an octopus, and the most delicate rabbit pellets for dessert (Papa ordered his “candied”, and Mama had hers Chicago style). It was a quiet night at “The Rabbit’s Foot”, and Papa slipped the violin guy an extra sawbuck to play Mama’s favorite song, “Fly Me To The Moon” by Frank Sinatra.
Bellies full, Papa sped across town, generally breaking every traffic law known to rabbitkind; the house smelled of fresh flowers and vanilla scented candles. Mama sprang into bed quicker than Papa did; Papa loved performing cunnilingus on Mama, and stayed down for a good 15-18 minutes, even occasionally wandering down to the trash chute. Mama was a bit of a pervert, and liked staring right into Papa’s eyes, repeatedly saying “eat that rabbit pussy”. It kind of made Papa feel like a little bitch, but he liked it. Papa had a Phd. in cunnilingus, and repeatedly brought Mama to the “edge”, until she literally begged for the “main course”. Papa promptly mounted Mama, and within plus or minus 33 seconds, they both exploded in transcendent delight.
As if cosmically connected, they both exclaimed “best…birthday…EVER!!!”.