The Rabbit Incident (and Other Dubious Legends)

The Rabbit Incident (and Other Dubious Legends)

The chairs on Myrtle’s porch creaked with age—like their occupants—but nobody minded. It was Tuesday, and Tuesday was “Tall Tale Time,” a weekly gathering of Freedonia’s finest vintage citizens. There was Earl with his hearing aid permanently set to “selective,” Doris who claimed to have once dated Elvis (the real one, not the impersonator), and of course, our narrator: Roger “The Magnificent,” part-time amateur magician, full-time retired janitor.

Roger wore his magician’s cape over his Hawaiian shirt, the kind of commitment to the bit that demanded respect or at least mild concern.

“Well, I reckon it’s time I tell y’all about The Rabbit Incident,” Roger said, swirling his lemonade like it was a vintage merlot. “It was ’88, the summer I opened for a Boy Scout spaghetti dinner fundraiser.”

“That wasn’t the time you caught fire, was it?” Doris asked.

“No, that was ’92,” Roger replied. “This was rabbits. Plural. On purpose.”

They all leaned in, not because the story was riveting yet, but because Myrtle’s dog had taken one of Earl’s orthopedic shoes again and they didn’t want to get up.

“So there I was,” Roger continued, “center stage—well, cafeteria stage. The lights were flickering because of budget cuts, the spaghetti had glue-like consistency, and I had just finished my world-famous card trick where I forget the card and blame the assistant.”

“You never had an assistant,” Myrtle pointed out.

“That’s why it was so believable,” Roger said, deadpan.

“Anyway, the big finale was supposed to be the rabbit out of the hat. Classic. I’d been practicing with Houdini for weeks—my rabbit, not the ghost of the magician, though I did once feel a cold breeze and lose five dollars in Atlantic City…”

“Focus, Roger!” Doris snapped.

“Right. So I go for the reveal. I reach into the hat. I say the magic words—‘Presto Dento, Lend Me a Rabbit’—and I pull…”

He paused for dramatic effect, and also because he forgot what came next.

“…a full chicken. Live chicken. Feathers, beak, the whole poultry package. It clucked at me with the judgment of a thousand failed illusions.”

The porch erupted with laughter. Even Earl laughed, mostly because he thought someone said “bacon.”

Roger raised his hands like a preacher. “Turns out, I’d grabbed the wrong top hat! That morning, Myrtle’s niece had a 4-H poultry show and her chicken was hiding in what looked exactly like my rabbit transport hat.”

“You mean you had two hats that looked the same, one with a chicken and one with a rabbit?” Doris asked.

“Correct.”

“Why?”

“I like symmetry,” Roger said. “Also, I’m an optimist. I always carry a backup rabbit. Or bird. Depending on availability.”

“So what happened to Houdini?” Myrtle asked.

“Oh, he showed up later. Popped out of the punch bowl during the awards ceremony. Caused mild chaos, three stains, and one fainting grandmother. But let me tell you—best magic show I ever did. To this day, those kids think I can conjure poultry from thin air.”

He took a triumphant sip of lemonade. “And that, my friends, is why I’m banned from all Boy Scout events within a fifty-mile radius.”

The group howled with laughter, and Roger leaned back, smug as a cat in a sunbeam. But Doris tapped her glass with a spoon.

“Well, that was cute, Roger,” she said, “but I dated Elvis. Twice. And not impersonators, thank you very much.”

Earl rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”

Doris straightened her scarf. “1956. Shreveport. I was a backup singer for a local doo-wop group called ‘The Croonettes.’ Elvis had a show at the municipal auditorium. He walked by, looked at me, and said—and I quote—‘Darlin’, your eyes sparkle like my mama’s best rhinestones.’”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Roger muttered.

“He was poetic,” Doris shot back. “We had milkshakes. He tried to teach me how to do that hip thing, but I threw my back out. He kissed my cheek, I fainted. Woke up with a complimentary scarf and two fan club pins.”

Myrtle arched a brow. “Did he give that speech to anyone else?”

Doris sniffed. “Only 42 other women, allegedly. But I had the real connection.”

“Uh huh,” Roger said. “Was that before or after you claimed you won bingo with psychic powers?”

“That was a completely separate incident involving divine intervention and two margaritas.”

Myrtle stood up, wiping her hands on her apron. “Y’all are amateurs. Let me tell you about the time I wrestled an alligator. In church.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“…go on,” said Roger, eyes wide.

“Vacation Bible School, 1973. Somebody brought in a kiddie pool and thought it’d be fun to illustrate ‘Daniel in the Lion’s Den’ with animals. Someone’s cousin brought a baby gator. Cute little thing, until it got spooked and started chasing Sister Agnes around the altar. I tackled it with a folding chair. Broke my heel and got baptized again just from the sweat.”

The porch went silent.

“Did you win?” Doris asked.

Myrtle grinned. “The gator converted. Last I heard, he’s a deacon in Baton Rouge.”

The porch exploded into cackles again, rocking chairs bouncing like a storm-tossed ship.

And as the sun dipped low and Myrtle’s dog returned with Earl’s shoe (or part of it), the stories kept coming—each more outrageous than the last. Because in Freedonia, the truth was optional, but a good laugh was mandatory.

Story #2: The Lawn Flamingo Standoff

It started, as many wars do, with plastic birds.

Roger “The Magnificent” was sipping lukewarm coffee on Myrtle’s porch when the first salvo was spotted: a line of pink lawn flamingos silently arrayed on Doris’s front yard like a battalion of cheerful sentries.

“I count fifteen,” Earl said, adjusting his binoculars with suspicious military precision.

“I count passive aggression,” Myrtle muttered.

Roger lowered his deck of cards—he had been practicing a trick involving disappearing aces and a poorly trained ferret named Houdini II. “What’s she trying to say with that flock?”

“She’s saying war,” Myrtle replied, standing with the ominous grace of a woman who once wrestled a gator during Sunday school.

They all watched as Doris strolled outside, sunglasses gleaming, arms folded. She waved across the street.

“Morning!” she called. “Lovely day for a statement, don’t you think?”

The tension thickened like overcooked gravy.

“What statement is that, Doris?” Roger asked innocently.

Doris smiled. “Oh, you know. A cheerful reminder to some people that lawn decor is an art form. Not a place for cement garden gnomes holding beer cans and mooning passersby.”

Myrtle’s jaw twitched. “That gnome is a family heirloom.”

Roger sat back, delighted. “This is better than cable.”

What followed became known in Freedonia’s retirement community as The Lawn Flamingo Standoff.

Each morning, new decorations appeared.

Doris unveiled a rotating flock of flamingos in themed costumes: pirate flamingos, firefighter flamingos, even one in a tiny Elvis jumpsuit. (“She’s weaponizing my past!” Doris later admitted during a bingo intermission.)

In retaliation, Myrtle installed a full diorama on her lawn depicting a gnome-led revolution. One gnome was riding a squirrel.

Roger, ever the opportunist, sold tickets from his porch and performed live commentary with his magician’s wand and a borrowed megaphone.

Earl, bless his soul, tried to mediate by bringing them a fruitcake shaped like a peace treaty. Neither woman took the bait.

“Looks store-bought,” Myrtle said.

“Tastes like a truce gone stale,” Doris agreed.

Things reached critical mass when Doris unveiled The Inflatable Flamingo.

Twelve feet tall. Solar-powered. Its head moved with the wind. It honked.

The neighborhood gathered that evening as Myrtle walked out in silence, holding what looked like a garden hose and a paintball gun.

“Don’t do it,” Roger whispered. “I still haven’t gotten my deposit back on the folding chairs.”

Myrtle said nothing. She aimed. The flamingo honked one last time.

With a foomp, it deflated dramatically—like a Shakespearean actor taking a bow—and flopped to the lawn in an oddly dignified heap.

Doris didn’t flinch. She stepped out with two martinis and handed one to Myrtle.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

Myrtle grinned. “You always did have a flair for theatrics.”

They clinked glasses.

The next morning, the lawns were bare—except for a single flamingo in Doris’s yard wearing a gnome hat.

Roger turned to Earl. “You think this is peace?”

Earl nodded. “Temporary ceasefire. Until bingo night.”

Roger smiled. “I’m bringing Houdini II just in case.”

Story #3: Earl vs. the Lawn Roomba

Earl had always insisted technology was “a slippery slope straight into robot dictatorship.” So when he got the Lawn Roomba, we all assumed the slope had finally claimed him.

“I didn’t buy it,” he insisted that Tuesday afternoon at our weekly gathering on Roger’s porch. “Won it at the hardware store raffle.”

“You won a piece of autonomous lawn equipment designed to replace you,” Myrtle deadpanned.

“Sounds suspiciously like communism,” Doris added, sipping sweet tea with an umbrella in it. She wore a pink tracksuit that said Hot Stuff Since 1962.

“I’m not replacing myself,” Earl huffed. “I’m augmenting my efficiency.”

Roger leaned back, deck of cards in hand, one eyebrow arched. “Earl, last week you tried to fix a toaster with duct tape and regret. This thing’s smarter than your riding mower and your dog combined.”

Earl’s dog, Samson, barked from the yard and immediately tripped over his own tail.

We should’ve known things would go downhill when the Roomba—christened Lawnardo DiGrassio—refused to follow Earl’s programming.

Instead of methodically mowing the lawn, it zig-zagged in cryptic patterns and occasionally circled the mailbox like it was summoning something.

“I think it’s learning,” Myrtle whispered one evening, watching from behind binoculars and a camouflage throw blanket.

“Learning what?” Doris asked.

“Patterns. Weaknesses. Intent.”

Roger was thrilled. “I smell a magician’s assistant in the making. Can it juggle flaming torches yet?”

“No,” said Earl from his garage. “But it knocked over my flamingo lawn lamp and tried to eat the hose.”

The standoff escalated when Lawnardo began violating property lines.

First, it trimmed Myrtle’s prized rose bush into the shape of a question mark.

Then, it mowed “ALL HAIL THE GRASS” into Doris’s clover patch.

“I have neighbors, Earl!” she yelled across the hedges.

“They should learn to read!” Earl shouted back. “Besides, that patch was overgrown!”

“It was shaped like Elvis’s face!”

Roger had to physically restrain Myrtle from bringing out the squirrel-riding gnome battalion.

“I warned you,” she muttered. “Robot uprising starts small.”

The breaking point came when Lawnardo locked Earl out of his own shed.

We gathered to witness the showdown.

Earl approached, key in hand. Lawnardo revved softly from behind a tomato plant.

Roger whispered, “This feels like a Western.”

Earl took one step.

Lawnardo charged.

Earl screamed something about “Terminator turf!” and dove for cover behind his grill.

Myrtle tackled the rogue Roomba with a pool skimmer and duct-taped a trash can over it like a metal dome.

Doris, ever the diplomat, tossed a blanket over it and declared it “subdued.”

Earl refused to destroy Lawnardo.

“He’s... well, he’s got spirit.”

“You mean murder in his microchips,” Doris muttered.

“He’s family now,” Earl said, patting the trash can. “I’m keeping him in the garage for training. Gonna teach him manners. Maybe jazzercise.”

Roger nodded solemnly. “Let us know when he starts demanding voting rights.”

To this day, the trash can occasionally rattles ominously.

And sometimes, just after sunset, we swear we hear muffled beeping… and faint, robotic humming.