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by

Elvis Bojangles

~~~

I get to the office early.  I’m anxious to get started on the report assigned to me late yesterday by ~ Rawclyde!  He’s already here ~ sitting on top of his desk munching select shrub-leaf from a bowl.  Our editor is a jackrabbit, you know.  Without one word of greeting he peers suspiciously at me as I slouch into the Old Timer Chronicle newspaper office.  He hops over his bowl of rabbit ration, turns around, continues chewing.   Just like a jackrabbit.

After I get settled at my desk, one of the editor’s ears, a very long & alert antenna, points obnoxiously at the coffee pot, cold & empty, in the corner.  His staring at me becomes ferocious.

“Okay, Rawclyde!”  I grin because he’s so damn funny looking ~ one of several reasons why I took this job.  I get up and tend to the pot.

Rawclyde wasn’t always a rabbit.  He had, or he thought he had, a girl-friend once ~ who kept telling him that she hated people, but loved animals.  So he became a jackrabbit, which didn’t do him any good.  She still told him he had to leave.  Then she stopped e-mailing him.

I empty yesterday’s coffee grains, buff the pot…

~~~

~~~

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by Elvis Bojangles

~~~

A few minutes later this sprite morn, Cloyd Campfire, the assistant editor, pasty & red-eyed, comes in singing:

~

Play on the blog

Play with yourself

Play on the blog

Stay on the shelf

~

Get on the road

Get her hand in yer hand

pack a light load

travelin’ man

~

He sits down like one big ache behind a book-piled paper-cluttered desk and, like a corpse with one last breath, groans, “Coffee.  Please.  Coffee.”

Campfire has timed it perfectly.   I’m already standing in front of the fresh-brewed pot, so I pore him a cup, traipse around, place it in front of his nose.

“Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you everybody.”  Whenever he gets a chance he says this.  He’s been saying it about 10 to 20 times a day lately, as if he’s President Obama finishing one speech after another all day long.

I go sit behind my own desk that has nothing on it.  The top of it is polished and shiny.  My cup of coffee placed there all by itself looks real good.  A little swirl of steam floats above the cup like a top hat.  I take a sip of coffee.  It tastes real good too.  Now I am open for suggestions ~ but not from the assistant editor.  “Fuck you, Cloyd,” says I.

He says again, “Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you everybody…”

~~~

~~~

by Elvis Bojangles

~~~

The editor, Rawclyde, is sitting on top of his desk thumping himself in the head with his hind foot.  I’ve never seen a jackrabbit do such a thing ’til now.  It’s kind of scary.  He keeps saying over & over again,  “Oh God I’m an idiot!”  Then that hind foot thumps him in the head about 20 or 30 times.  Hard.  After awhile it’s hurting me as much as it is him.  I can’t stand it much longer.

“Oh God I’m an idiot!”  Thump thump thump thump…

“Cut it out, Rawclyde!”

“Oh God I’m an idiot!”  Thump thump thump thump…

“Cut it out!”

He grabs his foot with both paws, sticks it in his mouth and trembles all over.  He sticks his foot further & further in ’til his whole leg is disappearing down his throat.  I can’t believe what I’m seeing!

Finally I holler, “Cloyd!  What’s wrong with Rawclyde!”

Cloyd Campfire, the assistant editor, peeks shyly around the pile of books, papers, and about two-weeks worth of moldy half-eaten sandwiches piled about two-feet high a top his desk on the other side of the Old Timer Chronicle Newspaper Office.  After about 30-seconds of observation he says, “Well, Elvis, I believe he is punishing himself for being an idiot.  I further believe we both should not get involved.”

Rawclyde spits an entire rabbit leg out of his mouth.  The sopping wet leg swings around & hits him on the other side of his head.  Jackrabbit saliva splashes all over me at my desk.  Rawclyde hollers at the top of his lungs, “Oh God I’m an idiot!”

~~~