RABBIT RABBIT! RABBIT RABBIT! RABBIT .....

Rabbit rabbit. Positive vibes, little bunny, there is thumping. The ancient tradition brought down from Olympus by Hobbits after landing the Ark is alive an well. All across this vast land, from Topeka to Timbuctoo, old-fashioned Anglos are uttering the sacred phrase "rabbit rabbit" in hopes that will bring luck and abundant sacrifices.

Then they don their lucky team sweatshirt to watch the ballgame.

In order to be one with my people, I shall do likewise.

Far be it from me to blaze a trail unknown.

We are all red-blooded.


Some of us are rabbits.

A sweathsirt for an Orthodox rabbinic school. Which does not have a football team. Despite the football gaily emblazoned thereon. It's a garment I bought years ago when I was made aware of its existence, as an ironic statement encapsulating my complete disinterest and impartiality. I am consequently a fair witness to the stupid game.
And its loyal dumb-ass fans.

Especially when the Forty Niners are playing (the game begins at one-ish), and the retired member of the judicial branch is in backroom soiling his extra-baggy incontinence panties in his enthusiasm. A loyal fan. Let out of the house by his wife. So that he can whoop it up with boys. Cheering for the team that represents his kind, his class, his failure of intellect, diminished capacities, and everything he ever hoped to achieve.
He is the team. All of them are the team.


Rabbit rabbit.



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