Hippity Hop Hop Hop
“Are you getting high?!”
“Huh? What? Oh. It's for my knee. I have a prescription.”
“You have got to fucking be kidding me. We go on in three minutes! Can't you hear the Tiny Bunny Hippity Hop Overture playing?!”
“Yeah. I hear it. It's the only thing I ever hear. I can't NOT hear it. Every single day, three times a day, seven days a week. I hear the goddamned Tiny Bunny Hippity Hop Overture in my fucking dreams. I sing it in the shower while I'm soaping up the chafing on my balls from these fucking pants. Hippity hop hop hop, left ball. Hippity hop hop hop right ball. Hippity HOP HOP HOP, holy christ that is a giant piece of lint in my ass crack. So, uh, yeah, thanks for pointing it out for me.”
“You are so disgusting. Why do you even do this if you hate it so much?”
“Same reason we all do, sweetheart. It's a paycheck. So, if I can get just a little high, legally, and earn my paycheck, leave me alone and let me do it.”
“But, there are kids out there! What if someone gets hurt? What if you hurt someone?”
“We've all been doing this since our parent's fell in love with hating Russia in the 80s. Has anyone ever gotten hurt except for the completely random ice lane road kill accident?”
She didn't answer. It wasn't like one was really required. They were on week seven of an eight week tour. It was almost over and then she'd be out of here, free to find another gig. And start over. And learn another cue for another version of some other Tiny Bunny Hippity Hop Orchestra.
“Gimme that.”
He only raised an eyebrow and passed her the vaporizer.
“You have to-- Nevermind, you seem to know exactly what you're doing,” as he watched her take a hit with great authority.
“I have a prescription. It's for my back. Now, let's go.” She removed the skate guards from her skates and grabbed the Bunny King head from the floor to pass it over to him.
“That's our cue.”
