This post is a long time coming and if you know me in real life, you've probably already heard it, so just bear with me. What it really comes down to is this: two great tastes that taste great together. But it starts with some good ol' Elmer-Fudd-style WABBIT HUNTING.
I'm just going to start right off the bat with admission that my husband is a strange man. I mean, he's MY man, so how could he be anything else. But still. Last night he pitched me an idea for repopulating the missing bunnies in our neighborhood. This plan involves eight-inch pipes, holes under the fence, carrots and I dunno, the Pope or something. My husband LOVES bunny rabbits. He literally yanks my ass off the couch every time he sees one in the backyard, which is pretty much daily. He's just concerned that it used to be MULTIPLE times a day, that the population of cotton tails on our street has diminished. And he's a man with a PLAN. He wants to bring them back. He leaves them carrots, steals them from my vegetable drawer even. He wants to BUY wild bunnies for our back yard this summer. If I have to hear one more word about the poor perishing bunnies, I swear, I don't know what I'll do.
But strange, right? So none of that jives well with the fact that every time the sun comes out for more than three days at a time, the man goes RABBIT HUNTING. I mean, am I missing something here? The man who wants to build a fricking RABBIT HUTCH in our backyard is perfectly happy to waste away his Wednesday morning stalking rabbits on government land.
Because apparently rabbits are not only cute neighborhood friends, but they're particularly DELICIOUS.
Of course he hasn't actually shot one yet, so I remain unconvinced.
About a month ago, he came home really early from his usual rabbit hunt. He raced into the bathroom and locked the door for a good ten minutes.
I was at the stove cooking bacon when he came out.
"Oh, my god," he said. "Remind me not to drink two cups of coffee before the next time I go hunting."
I quirked my eyebrow at him and went back to my bacon. Mmmmmm. BACON.
Bacony, bacony, BACON.
"Seriously," he said. "I was standing in the middle of the field, alone, paralyzed, with butt cheeks frozen shut, unable to move. Even though I was armed with a shotgun, I had never felt so vulnerable in my life. I was like, KHAAAN!"
And my husband, while a hunter and generally a man at one with nature, doesn't necessarily enjoy that PARTICULAR communion with nature, if you get my drift. He's a poop-at-home man in the same way that I'm a stay-at-home mom.
So yeah. NOT in a field. Not gonna happen. Bunny or not, he had to race home as fast as his ass would allow.
And after telling me his poop story (stories which as far as I'm concerned never get old), he turned his attention to me and what I was cooking up on the stove.
"BACON." He was drooling. "That smells SO. EFFING. GOOD. How many calories are in bacon?" Dave's been watching his diet lately, so he had to look it up before he could eat any.
"I can have some." He reached around me, bracketed me against the counter and stole a piece from the stack cooling on a paper towel.
He took a bite.
"Holy crap," he moaned. "This is so good. The only thing that would make this better is if I was actually laying it into you right now."
I shot him a look that said, not now or at least, not before I get to eat me some bacon. Did I mention the bacon yet? Mmmmm. BA. CON.
"OH MY GOD. I have the best idea!" he said, still crunching his bacon and trying to cop a feel. "Imagine a whorehouse where you can have sex while eating bacon. You would totally put the competition out of business. It's a million dollar idea!"
Indeed, Old Man. You get right on that one. I'll be here eating me some bacon and pretending I'm not married to George Costanza.