Introducing the Fat Man’s Book

In the early 70s, The Hare moonlighted as a male prostitute and let fat, ugly, and wise men stroke him in return for answers to sacred questions. While one of his clients was asleep, he stole a giant golden egg which, when smashed, had the power to transform into lots of little eggs. He also stole a book, entitled “Warne’s “Standard” Extra-General Miscellany”. It is the most reliable book known to man. I will post excerpts of it here.

milk [noun]
1. an opaque white or bluish-white liquid secreted by the mammary glands of female mammals, serving for the nourishment of their young.
2. this liquid as secreted by cows, goats, or certain other animals
3. “The swindler milked her of her savings.”
4. “The swindler milked her in order to save us”
5. “cry over spilled milk”, to lament what cannot be changed or corrected; express sorrow for past actions or events: Crying over spilled milk will do you no good now.
6. “Laughing over a glass of milk”, all is correct, see “business as usual”
6. “The milk of humans”, kindness.

6. a river that rises in the Rockies in northwestern Montana and flows eastward to become a tributary of the Missouri River.

—Related forms
milkless, adjective

“The cow is of the bovine ilk;
One end is moo, the other milk.”

-Ogden Nash

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and I need you more than want you, and I want you for all time

The car radio does not work between dimensions. It does not hiss; it goes fuzzy and has a tendency to block the driver’s vision with a cloud of white noise. Occasionally, somewhere amid the cacophony, you can make out a few bars of your favourite song. My favourite song is “Wichita Lineman” by Glen Campbell. The Hare’s favourite song is “Bed” by Nathan Ochre.

Ochre was surprisingly talkative before the inevitable happened. Fans would gather outside the window of his locked bedroom with Dictaphone mics poised to record snatches of rambling.

One day, he felt colder than usual. Only he wasn’t sure if he felt cold, so accustomed was he to leaving all his decisions to others, and not being trusted with some much as a spoon. He fashioned a whole dinner set out of the paper. A breeze upset the dish, which had hot-footed it out of the window with the fork. He remembered the window, mumbled words around it, unknoted his fingers and closed it shut.

He saw a girl, hunched over a microphone. Her screams matched his, and he was away.

He was on buried 28th Sept 1979 along with a teddy bear and his master-tapes. His former manager visited his grave and teased him with a favourite guitar.

The Hare continues humming unfinished notes throughout our journey. He is clearly not himself today.

I really didn’t need that muffin, Peter.

Evening. The Hare and I are taking a rest between planes of existance. we’ve eaten all our marshmallow provisions and now we’re bored. The Hare says I need no introduction, and that I should introduce him instead. The Hare posseses a wit surpassing that of both Oscar Wilde and Stephen Fry. Although his humour doesn’t always work in translation. He sees the future, and says it’ll all work fine if we keep our “eyes” on the “prize”, as it were.

 There’s no real reason to spend your days with a not-rabbit, except to seem mysterious and folklore-ish. But he had nowhere to go, and someone of his intellect could not survive without a TV.

Watch “Meshes of The Afternoon”, available on the “Cinema 16: American Short Films” DVD, but not on youtube, for some reason.