Mr. BunnyEaterMan

Some of you know me well enough to know my life has had it's cast of vividly colorful characters.

Meet Mr. BunnyEaterMan.

I cannot, for the life of me remember this man's name. No matter how many times I'm reminded, it's all overshadowed by one defining act.

The first night I met him my friend and I were partaking in some smoky treats. It's really bad form not to offer to share, so I did.

I was not prepared for what followed.

There we were, getting our little bubbly on and he begins the story of why he doesn't smoke anymore.

He said he'd had a pet rabbit. One night, while quite bubbly, he was watching the rabbit and it yawned. 

Apparently, he was so blasted, he thought the rabbit snarled at him and was ready to attack. He made elaborate hand gestures and varied rabid bunny noises during the entire retelling of the story. I pictured it looking something like this:

He freaked out and preemptively killed the rabbit. He went into detail how he grabbed it and broke its neck.

Then, faced with what he'd done, cooked the rabbit and ate it. Again, blaming the smoky treats for giving him the munchies.

He told us he woke up the next morning with a huge case of the guilts.

He said he's never touched smoky treats again.

I really hope the fuck not.

He blew my whole bubble.

The upside? It makes for great storytelling.