Dead bunnies aren't much fun

There's a dead bunny in my yard. It's not just like sleeping dead, it's like fucked up dead. I don't think I mowed it, I think it was already like that. If you have never read Stephen King's Pet Cemetery, don't. I have locked myself inside my house for fear that the dead bunny will come to life later tonight. I'm pretty sure it will, in fact. And I'm not sure the harm a bunny is capable of, but it can't be good. Something involving teeth. Or flinging its little pellets of poo at me until one of the nuggets gets lodged in my eye.

My mail lady is gay. She leaves little notes in my mailbox telling me that I'll "get the gay" if I touch the mail she has delivered. She said, unlike powders or poisons, the Federal Government cannot detect "the gay" therefore she can spread it all over town like a homosexual crop duster. I wish she had told me that after my federal tax refund came in the mail.