I Am About To Die If I Don’t Eat The Bunny-Wabbit Pie

 

Pies. What do you think of them? Do you eat them? I NEVER eat pies and right now I’m very close to having a vomiting panic attack because little Emily will be here soon and she’s bringing me a pie. She went home this morning to bake it for me. It’s a rabbit pie. Full of rabbits. Cute furry hoppy floppy bunny-wabbits. She TRAPS them up on the moors and WRINGS THEIR NECKS and DECAPITATES and SKINS and GUTS and BONES them and then she CHOPS THE MEAT and puts it inside THE PIE SHE HAS MADE FOR ME.

Oh.

Oooh.

What do I do?

 

I ate the posset she made a few weeks ago and it made me violently sick because what I think of as a posset isn’t a pudding, it’s the term used for BABY SICK. So I was eating the pudding posset, which was white, and trying to batter away thoughts of BABY SICK, which is also white, when I was sick. Terribly sick.

 

NBI’m not apologising for the above paragraph, even if you were scranning your dinner and it put you off, because I WANT YOU TO FEEL MY PAIN AND MY PANIC AND MY QUEASY DISGUST AT THE THOUGHT OF EATING THIS WABBIT PIE that is due to arrive here very, very soon. Any complaints about being put off your dinner should be sent to David Cameron, 10 Downing Street, London, England. Tell him Dotty did it and he’ll have a word with me when we next meet up for one of our regular shin-kicking fights.

(That’s a big lie I’ve just told you because how can I go to shin-kicking fights when I CAN’T GO OUT. Fool. Just write to David and he’ll write me a formidable note telling me not to do it again).

 

If I don’t eat this wabbit pie little Emily will be offended and quite possibly angry. I don’t want to make her angry, not that I think she’d punch me to the floor or use other physical violence on me, she only does that to HELP me (she said), but there’s one important fact I can’t get out of my head and it’s that little Emily is an AUTHOR. And what do authors know about? I’ll tell you what they know about – they know about POISONING. She has a POISONER’S HANDBOOK. I’ve seen it. It’s twice the thickness of my own POISONER’S HANDBOOK (I am not an author (god forbid), I’m a COLLECTOR) and will, I presume, contain poison recipes that use PLANTS TO BE FOUND ON THE MOORS - where little Emily walks every day. And if she fails to find what she wants all she has to do is get Branwell to get it for her. And if Branwell is having one his fugue days she can just dawdle down to the Apothecary and buy it there.

 

 

IF I DON’T EAT THE WABBIT PIE I WILL DIE IN HORRENDOUS WRITHING AGONY, POISONED BY AN AUTHOR WHO KNOWS ALL ABOUT POISONS.

You should know where my will is by now.

JUDITH! GRUMPY! You both know where it is, don’t you?

I’m not exaggerating here, I WILL die if I don’t eat the wabbit pie, no doubt about it.

I need a speedy plan but I can’t think of one.

 

Oh.

 

I need my brick. Where did I put it?

 

 

 

bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang

bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang

ouch

 

 

 

Right, I can think a bit clearer now.

I need a list -

WAYS TO AVOID EATING THE POISONED WABBIT PIE

1

2

 

 

Oh.

 

I know, I could get her pissed - I’ve still got some Horehound & Wormwood Tonic Beer left from a couple of years ago when I made some to try it (Gypsy Petulengro’s recipe book p26). It was strong then, it’ll be stronger now.

But she doesn’t drink. AAAAHHHH – she’s here!

She’s here and the fucking plate is MASSIVE.

And it STINKS. It smells like — I don’t know what it smells like, I’ve never smelt anything like it before so I can’t think of an appropriate analogy to convey the FUCKING FOUL RANKNESS of it.

 

Pity poor Dotty.

Pity me, please.

 

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18 Comments

  1. Dotty, darling, I once faced a very similar situation — my mother-in-law put woast wabbit on the table. I thanked her, and try to eat some, but then I put my fork down and said, “I know you love me, but NO-FUCKING-WAY am I taking another bite of that poor bunny.” She was hurt, but she made me a peanut butter sandwich, (hopefully yours will be Cumberland sausages,) and we talked about why it was important for me to have BOUNDARIES!!!! Consider this, my dear friend — it might save you from eating Bugs, or Roger Rabbit, or Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail. Good luck, my friend — go forth and fear no poison!

    Reply
    • Dear Judith,
      I can’t not eat it. She’s brought me the poor wabbit’s FOOT – for LUCK.
      Love Dotty xxx
      P.S. She’s cutting it now. Oh my giddy guts, it’s still WARM.

      Reply
      • I’m imagining you’ve already eaten it. I know Emily is important to you, but you are important to you too. Remember that, or you’ll be eating Bambi next! On the other hand, the rabbit’s foot can’t hurt, and it might help.

      • Dear Judith,
        I don’t feel well.
        Love Dotty xxx

      • Oh, Dotty, Honey…I’m so sorry to hear that. When you are feeling better, think about having a talk with Emily about your aversion to eating Bugs Bunny, and if she is really a friend, she will learn to understand. Maybe you should talk over tea and Cumberland sausages and Chippy-Chips! Do feel better, my friend. With love, Judith

      • Dear Judith,
        I’m a bit better today, thank you, if I lie on my back and stay very, very still.
        Love Dotty xxx

      • Dear Dotty,

        I’m so glad to hear you say that you are feeling better today — lying on your back, and being very still sound like a relaxed day — try not to think too much. And no more Thumper pies!!!

        Love you,

        Judith ❁

      • Dear Judith,
        Never in my life will I eat another Thumper pie. Love you too.
        Love Dotty xxx

  2. Where is the will Dotty? Hope you’ve left everything to me and Judith. But not the wabbit pie. Haven’t had a wabbit pie since the myxomatosis viral disease decimated the poor little sods.
    Grumpy x

    Reply
  3. Poor, poor, Dotty,

    I do.

    Uncle
    xoxo

    Reply
    • Dear Uncle,
      At first I thought I must have proposed to you at some hazy, fevered point in my recovery and then I realised what you mean. So thank you for your pity, it makes me feel much better.
      Love Dotty xxx

      Reply
      • Oh, my Dearest,

        Hazy. Fevered. Indisposed. You did propose. I was honored. That’s why I invited you to run away, lilies in a field of outside. Thank you for sending Little Emily, a most gracious envoy, from your three-legged, corner table.

        Sincerely,

        Uncle

        PS- I pity you out of request and empathy.

      • Dear Uncle,
        There was fur in the wabbit pie and after that it’s all a bit of a blur. Was it yesterday I proposed or was it on Leap Year? Oh, I can’t remember.
        Love Dotty xxx

  4. I love pie. Meat pie, fruit pie, shepherds pie, all of them, except the math one… I don’t like that at all.

    Reply

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