Hip to the Hop

Considering the size of their ears, I've decided rabbits are pretty weak at identifying the direction of sounds. Today, like every other day I ride the Santa Ana River trail, I had several dart out of the bushes and directly in front of my bike. They usually bounce around like a teenager in a mosh pit and then run back to where they came from, but sometimes they run straight across. I haven't hit one yet, but they're not all so lucky. A couple weeks ago I rode past a carcass with a bicycle-tire-sized gash across its neck. I wondered if it made the guy crash and I thought the cottontail probably screamed like a banshee until the lights went out. Chris has commented that the woods along the trail would be the perfect place for a person with a taste for rabbit meat. Sometimes I think about what I'd do if this country of ours got so bad I couldn't just go to the store and buy some food. I mean, what I'd do if I had to score food for myself rather than pay somebody who paid somebody who paid somebody who paid somebody to grow it or kill it. I thought maybe I'd head down to the river with a deuce-deuce and come back home a couple hours later with dinner slung over my shoulder like a Russian soldier. The thing is though, I probably wouldn't, because I've been castrated by a life filled with talking cartoon animals, cuddly teddy bears, and corporate Easters (Our profit margin has Risen!). Also, considering that Jenny called me one time, crying her face off because she'd run over a rabbit with her Suzuki, I don't think she'd eat one either. So I'd probably take my lady up the hill into the apple orchards or something, you know, depending on the season. I'd just sit there under a tree and grab some fruit whenever I got hungry until the tree was bare. Then I'd probably wander around looking for some berries until I starved to death.