Friday, November 12, 1993

Trix are for rabbits.

Give the fucking rabbit some Trix. For the love of God, people, he's on the fucking box.

The rabbit is a gentle soul. Trusting. Creative. For some reason -- and you could hit me in the head with a rock and I still couldn't explain it -- he isn't bitter.

The rabbit is a bright-eyed, eternal optimist. He has sunshine in his heart.

Yet, the children deprive him of Trix. Their reasoning? Identity. Apparently, the rabbit can't have Trix BECAUSE HE'S A RABBIT. That's it. "Silly rabbit. Trix are for kids!" That's their line of reasoning. Trix are for kids. The rabbit is not a kid. He can't have Trix. Well, QED. Silly rabbit! Yeah, he's silly. He's a rabbit. He wants something that IS NOT MEANT FOR HIM. He aspires beyond his station. What a fucking idiot! Clearly, stuffing "fruit-flavored frosted corn puffs" in your digestive track is a privilege reserved for human children. So they laugh at him. Like the arrogant children of white plantation owners mocking slaves. "Silly slave. Mint juleps are for white people."

The rabbit doesn't argue. He strives for Trix with subterfuge and stratagems. He doesn't pull out an AK-47 and mow the children down while screaming with rage. He wears disguises. He sends fake telegrams. It never works.

Inevitably, the little shits say, "Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids." And he takes it. He keeps on smiling.

One of these days, I promise you, the rabbit is going to snap.

Give the fucking rabbit some Trix. Please.

Before it's too late.

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