In the yeah, yeah, yeah, we know who wrote the press release department...


This just in:

Rabbitville authorities—otherwise known as "Cops Who Hop"—have reported an escape from the Rabbitville jail. The escapee is described as a tall, handsome bunny, unjustly incarcerated and seeking only natural justice. He has vowed to get the "marmot who set me up nyaaah nyaaah." Any such rabbits should be on the lookout.

Film at 11.

You will be happy to know that Mr.  Bunny is rotting in jail.  HA!  For impersonating a much-loved rabbit.  He is happy as a clam there honing his stand-up.
Meanwhile Mrs. Bunny has received 182 letters asking for advice of all kinds.  She did not at first know how to tackle this but The Rabbitville Courier has asked her to do a weekly advice column.  For those of you who do not subscribe to The Rabbitville Courier, Mrs. Bunny will be posting a weekly video reading her sage response to some lucky chosen reader.
Please keep those cards and letters coming.  Mrs. Bunny has enjoyed them and now appears to be making a career of them.  And they will keep Mr. Bunny amused during his short but (let us hope) rehabilitative incarceration.
Mrs. Bunny does ask that you include your age with your letter.  Many the time she has advised someone to stay in school and for heaven's sake get a library card only to find out the writer is 42.  Not that it isn't sage advice anyhow.  Except for the school part.  If you are still in school at 42, graduate already.

Mr. Bunny is a bad bunny.  A bad, bad bunny.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZdIzqFwSplg

Mrs. Bunny is pretty sure this started out as a marmot suggestion.

Oh, how Mrs. Bunny loathes a bragging bunny.  There is nothing worse.  So Mrs. Treaclebunny has taken over this post.

This is Mrs. Treaclebunny.  No one I know has insisted that I write a short entry here to say that Mr. and Mrs. Bunny - Detectives Extraordinaire! besides being an Amazon 10 Best Books of 2012, an Indigo Best Book of 2012 and a Washington Post Best Book of 2012, has just been awarded Parent's Choice Gold Medal for 2012.
Mrs. Treaclebunny would like to commend these enterprises on their excellent taste and judgement.
Sally forth and judge again, she says to them.

Another of Mr. Bunny's Short-Lived Enthusiasms

Mr. Bunny is always complaining that Mrs. Bunny hops from short-lived enthusiasm to short-lived enthusiasm.  However, it is just as often that it is he.

Case In Point

(By the way Mrs. Bunny has decided to title her next book Case In Point.  Or perhaps all her books.  It emphasizes in a sneaky way that she is always right and everyone else is always wrong. What more does one want in a book?)

Mr. Bunny came into the kitchen this morning and said, "Guess what, Mrs. Bunny."
"Call me Tootsiewig,"  said Mrs. Bunny.
"I will not,"  said Mr. Bunny.  "Today I awoke with the idea of going into show business."
"You awake with that idea every day,"  said Mrs. Bunny.  "Remember the stand-up?  Remember that time on the stage at Stratford?"
"Yes, but this is a NEW way,"  said Mr. Bunny.  "I have an idea.  An idea loosely based, or inspired really, by the dancing waters in front of the Bellagio.  Remember that time in Vegas?"
"I remember the buffets,"  said Mrs. Bunny.  "They seem to have a LOT of food there.  And don't blink an eye when Rabbits check-in.  They could put the buffet counters lower.  I had to hop up up up every time I wanted to serve myself."
"Never mind the buffets, Mrs. Bunny."
"Call me Tootsiewig."
"I want to start a show called the Dancing Ears.  I envision a stage where bunnies are below so that you see only the ears.  A light show, the movement of the ears to music.  I have already choreographed a good bit in my head.  Some of it is thrilling.  Some of it is moving."
"Well, Mrs. Bunny is not moving.  Mrs. Bunny is not moving to Vegas; she is staying right here in her own hutch where the food is at the appropriate level,"  she said, sweeping out of the room.
Mrs. Bunny could be so deflating.

This morning on their hop, Mr. Bunny announced that he does not wish to be tethered to western ideas of time and space.
Oh dear.

And now for the story denouement!  Mrs. Bunny is very fond of denouements.  She can denoue with the best of them!  Also, she is very fond of exclamation points.  Many contemn the exclamation point.  Especially when used over-enthusiastically!  Although, one might ask, when else WOULD one use an exclamation point except when seized with enthusiasm?  And who would want a life lived without enthusiasm!  It would, indeed, be a life unlived!  Mrs. Bunny finds her own use of exclamation points to be judicious and just right.  She compares it to two bourbon biscuits with tea.  Treatlike without flying into the hysteria of eclairs.

And now for the marmots.

Mrs. Bunny drove along the road, what road that the marmots weren't hogging.  She drove for miles looking for the end of the marmot procession without finding one.  Fortunately she spied The Marmot, who was the only marmot she had had any particular dealings with.  She asked him what was up.  He said that he thought it rather obvious.  They were marching.  They were protesting.  In great numbers.  From all parts of the island.  They gathered.
"Dear me,"  said Mrs. Bunny.  "Protesting what?"
"We haven't yet decided.  In truth, we haven't decided if we are protesting or celebrating.  But I can assure you, it will be one of the two."
"And what's in the bags?"  asked Mrs. Bunny for each marmot was clasping a brown paper lunch bag in his sweaty little paw.
"None of your business,"  said The.
So Mrs. Bunny sighed and grabbed it away.  Upon opening it she smelled the distinctive smell of garlic bread.  She picked a piece up.  It was hard.  In fact, the whole bag contained little nubbins of day-old garlic bread.
"Okay,"  she said, sighing again, for marmots often gave her a headache.  "I give up."
"For throwing,"  said The.  "At the thing we decide to protest."
"Uh huh,"  said Mrs. Bunny, preparing to drive home again.
"Or in the air,"  said The.  "In celebration.  In either event we plan to go wild.  Absolutely wild!"
"Mrs. Bunny would prefer it if you left the exclamation points to those who know how to use them properly,"  was all she could think of to say.
Then she drove home.
"Don't tell me,"  said Mr. Bunny from the porch, opening his newspaper and hoping to get through it in peace.
So she didn't.
She told you.