Wilbur woke up one morning in his flat in the city and decided that it wasn't the place for him. His building was old and creaky, the plumbing made awful noises, and his neighbors always fought. He didn't have a girlfriend or a view of a woman who forgot to close her curtains when she was undressing. When it was cold out he froze, because his radiator was broken. Besides, the city is no place for a guy named Wilbur, anyway.

So, Wilbur moved out of his shitty city and into a nice little plot in the middle of the country. He had a little land, and he grew some carrots. He sold his carrots at the farmers' market, and figured that by all rights, that should make him a farmer too. He lived in peace, and didn't even have to worry about watching a woman undress anymore because he was out in the country and his neighbors couldn't hear it even if he turned his porno movies up really loud.

Wilbur the porno-freak wannabe farmer was happy. But he had a problem. Wabbits. The wabbits were always after his carrots. Wilbur hated wabbits. One day he bought a shotgun at Wal-Mart and he sat out on his front porch and watched his carrot patch, waiting for the wabbits to show. He even put a piece of straw in his mouth, so it would look authentic. No one had the heart to tell Wilbur that real farmers don't wear sweatpants or sit on white plastic patio furniture bought at K-Mart for $24.95 during their Swing Into Spring Sale.

Wilbur sat on that porch, drinking lemonade, because he was pretty sure real farmers wouldn't drink Diet Coke with lime. He stared intently at his carrot patch for hours and hours. But the wabbits wouldn't come. The wabbits knew he was watching, so they stayed at home and ordered in. They played old-school Nintendo and got drunk on Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill wine.

But the wabbits were smart. They had set up a webcam so they could watch Wilbur's carrot patch, because they were wabbits and a wabbit's job is to destroy the carrot patch. So, after his second pitcher of lemonade, Wilbur was forced to take his eyes off the carrot patch, so he could go inside and use the bathroom. The wabbits, drunk as they were, resolved to do something really nasty to Wilbur while he was inside. So, while Wilbur was inside peeing and rubbing one out, the wabbits jammed carrots down the barrell of Wilbur's shotgun.

They giggled and rushed down off the porch as they heard Wilbur returning from the bathroom. But something went wrong. Pokey, the pot-smoking wabbit, tripped when he was hopping down the porch steps and planted himself face-first in the dirt path in front of Wilbur's house. He got up and began to run, but because he was drunk and stoned and had bad eyesight from spending too many hours playing Master Blaster, Pokey zigged and zagged across the yard back towards the tree stand where the wabbits and their webcam lived.

Wilbur, refreshed and relaxed, stepped out onto the porch and spied Pokey the toking wabbit stumbling back to the trees. Wilbur was suddenly awash in adrenalin and he swept up his shotgun, taking aim at poor Pokey. In his excitement, he failed to notice the green carrot stalk dangling from the barrel of his gun. With what he was sure was a true Dukes of Hazzard-style rebel yell, Wilbur jerked the trigger on his carrot-filled shotgun.

The blast was tremendous. You see, a funny thing happens when you pull the trigger on a shotgun full of carrots.

After the doctor fitted Wilbur with his glass eye and taught him to tie his shoelaces with his new hooks, Wilbur returned to his carrot patch. He was sad. Without his hands, he couldn't tend his carrots, he couldn't work the remote on his TV, and the one time he tried to masturbate he ended up with a cock piercing. The wabbits, whose sole duty is destroying the carrot patch, felt guilty about their dirty trick and had left the carrot patch alone. It was a breakthrough in interspecies relations, or so they thought. Wilbur wanted none of it.

Even though Wilbur couldn't masturbate, he could drive a backhoe. So he rented a backhoe from the local U-Haul and power tool rental shop, which shared space with a Seven-Eleven and a tattoo parlor, and he went back to his little plot of land with his carrot patch. Wilbur didn't care about carrots or being a farmer or cranking his porno movies really loud anymore.

Wilbur began to plow his carrot patch under. When the wabbits saw what was happening on their webcam, they came rushing out of their superfly wabbit pad, all except for Pokey, who had given up pot smoking and spent a lot of time in his room listening to Marilyn Manson and cutting himself. The wabbits came up to the backhoe and shouted, "Wilbur, why? We left your carrot patch alone. We're awful sorry about blowing your hands and your eye off. We didn't mean nothin' by it. Come play Nintendo with us."

Wilbur stared at the wabbits for a moment, and then started the backhoe up again. "Why? Because fuck you, that's why. I can't play Nintendo. I'm going back to the city and I'm going to get myself a hooker. You wabbits can just bite my no-farming, no-wanking ass."

And then Wilbur moved back to the city and eventually got a job working as a villan in a James Bond movie. You see, the city, with its hookers and porno movies and its Diet Coke with lime, is the place for a guy named Wilbur after all.

Tags: fiction, humor
hey little fella, how are you doing today?: contemplative
soundtrack: Bob Dylan - Blowin' In The Wind