The Tortoise and the Satirical Hare

The Tortoise and the Satirical Hare

I’m going to tell you “exactly” what happened in that infernal race. The one where I lost but was cheated out of a win that belonged to me! Cheated because the Turtles conspired against me. Thankfully, the kind folks over at “Reedsy” sent me this Prompt. Asked me to tell you my side of the story.

I crossed the finish line fast, fresh, and flashy. And there was that tortoise! Wearing a crown. Covered in medals. Holding a trophy. A garland of wildflowers draped around his ugly, wrinkled neck. He was practically eating the microphone held by that irritating, saccharine sideline reporter. You know her. Suzy Turtledove of SCLT—the Small Children Love Turtles network.

There’s no freaking way that turtle won. Before I took my last nap along the side of the course, I was winning. By a more than 30 meters. I’m sure he cheated. Turtles always cheat.

But, anyway, I’m a far bigger star than any stodgy tortoise. Everyone knows me. Loves me. They let me do whatever I want. Tall honey blondes seek me out. As soon as Stupid Suzy, who’s a brunette, saw me, she screamed: “Hey Volt! Great shades! Did you buy those on Amazing Hares? Got a minute? Can you explain to me and the vegetable gardeners at home watching on Truth Vision how you managed to lose a race to a turtle?”

Only falsehoods are peddled on the Mainstream Garden channels on TV. Especially SCLT. Fake news. Controlled by Del Monico, Dolomite and the other veggie and fruit growers and canners. All of whom conspire against Rabbits. To keep us from eating what’s our rightful due out of their farms and gardens. Well, I just got the hell out of there and snubbed her interview! I was sprinting so fast that flames shot out of my cottontail. Going more than twice as fast as I ever ran during that ridiculous, rigged race. Maybe my “pre-injury” speed was coming back! I flew into Hare Foods Grocers, dropped my backpack on a cozy table at Veggie Bucks near the entrance. Ordered a double spinach, carrot latte with two shots of kale juice. Booted up my laptop. Signed up for free Wi-Fi. Opened the World Blaster App so I could get my story out everywhere—Instant Turnip, Xact Lettuce, Cabbage Face, Shaded Truth Network, all the others.

The character limits, posting rules and other constraints of Sociable Animal Media were confining. I needed “professional help” so I could get my truth out to America. I smashed ”#TRUTH” on my mobile device—fabricating charges applied—and was immediately connected to Shameless Huckster of Fixed News Network.

Shameless was kind enough to agree to host me on Liar’s Hour next Friday night at 9 p.m. Eastern. 8 Central. 7 Mountain. 6 Pacific. He overnighted me a lettuce cigarette, encouraged me to take a “puff” and feel the “magic” as I blew it all out and “smoked” the audience in what he called an “Opening Shit Storm.” Which was really a “diatribe” or a “tirade” to use bigger, fancier words than “shit.” So, without further editing, here’s what I plan to use on Liar’s Hour on Friday:

I grew up at the end of a row of beets on a veggie farm in South Alabama. I came from a broken den. The entrance went up. The exit went down. The back door went forward. And the front door went backwards. All the side exits went in circles. Daddy was hardly ever around. Mommy mostly raised me on her own.

“Mommy tried to teach me better. But her preaching I denied.” Merle Haggard. Momma Tried.

So, I turned seventeen in McGregor’s garden stealing his parsnips. His last shot barely missed me. But at the end of the row…there was Timothy Tuberstill with a letter of intent to attend Central Alabama Cabbage Patch University and run track.

“You’re the greatest,” he said. “I’ve never seen a Rabbit as fast as YOU. Come on down to Cabbage Patch next weekend. Mary Lamb will show you around. I’ll send you a plane ticket and wire you $1,000.00 for incidentals and expenses.”

Mary Lamb met me at the airport. She was a tall, honey blonde cheerleader with long legs and voluptuous breasts who said I could have whatever I wanted…

Mary introduced me to Billy Fred Joe Bob of Fjord Motors. He gave me a new JackRabbit150 and signed me up as a spokes-rabbit to do their Turtle Vision advertising. I never filmed many commercials. But he paid me $1,000,000 a year to mostly do nothing.

Then Ned Nickerson of Nigh Key Shoes signed me to promote their cross-training line. I autographed three or four pairs of sneakers every fifth Friday of every sixth month and received another $1 million for doing that.

Finally, the NIL folks—Nice Income from Lettuce, a division of Lettuce Eat Greens—paid me $1 million more. With an express agreement, to do nothing, except eat more lettuce.

That first season was magical. I set record after record in the one-hundred-meter dash. My speed was electric. The media started calling me “Insane Volt!” At the end of each race, Suzy stuck a microphone in my face. Told me I was famously fast and wickedly handsome. Asked me to tell her how I did it. I gave credit to myself, God, Jesus, myself, myself, and myself for my self-given speed and self-generated good looks. I also told her audience that there were good deals on Fjords down at Billy Fred’s. And that Nigh Key sneakers made athletes faster. I urged every Rabbit to Lettuce Eat Greens.

More of the same in my second and third seasons. More wins. More interviews. More accolades. And more long-legged, honey blondes.

I hardly ever attended class. Mostly earned D’s and F’s. But Timothy Tuberville had installed malware in the registrar’s computer. It changed all my bad grades to A’s and B’s. I made the honor roll nearly every semester.

I declared for the National Flower Racing League draft early…at the end of my third season. I was drafted in the first round by the Jacksonville Jets.

I signed Millard Moneybags as an agent. He negotiated a lucrative contract with the Jets and more endorsements. Fertilizer. Roto tillers. Rabbit birth control. And Rabbit ED medications.

Every time I won a race, as a pro, I was treated to a scrumptious bed of pansies or petunias to munch.

Suzy continued to interview me after every race. And I insisted that “me, myself, and I” deserved all the credit for my success.

With such money and fame,” friends” came out of the woods and fields, slithered and crept out of their holes and dens. Foxes, badgers, wolves and snakes. Oh my! I invested in a lettuce oil mill and a carrot juice factory. Dated too many long-legged honey blondes. Took performance enhancing turnip greens. My money wouldn’t last much longer.

I skidded to a stop at the finish of the Salad Bowl Race. Felt four strong tugs and some big pops. I’d torn every ACL in my body.

I had an operation to fix my knees and then got hooked on Oxy-tail Cotton painkillers during rehab. I started drinking way too much spinach vodka. Gave away the last of my money to a TV evangelist trying to save myself.

The rehab went badly. I never regained my speed. The Jets cut me. All the endorsements cancelled me: Fjord, Nye Key, Lettuce Eat Greens. Even the new companies that Millard Moneybags helped me sign deals with…they abandoned me.

I ended up on skid row in New Orleans. The social worker who found me the rat-infested place said none of my problems were my fault and I didn’t have to take accountability for any of it. Instead, people I didn’t even know and hadn’t even considered had led me astray. It was all their fault. And then, I heard about this Fairy Tale Challenge against the Tortoise with a $5 million purse. I put my last few dollars down on black on the roulette wheel at Turnip Tower Casino. Won enough to pay the entry fee.

I cajoled Nye Key into outfitting me in new sneakers, shorts, and a tank top for the race. Promised to make one more commercial for them…sober…

I showed up at the Fairy Tale Challenge race hung over and stoned but determined to avenge every hare who’d ever lost to a tortoise. Every bad guy who’d finished last. To restore my reputation as a world class runner and honey blonde lover. And to win enough money to retire to a cabbage patch in the San Juaquin Valley and munch away the rest of my days.

150,000 spectators lined the course. Most of the fans were waving flags that read: “The Race Doesn’t Always Go to the Swiftest!” But along the way, at three strategic spots, were my three biggest supporters—Timothy Tuberstill, Mary Lamb and Ned Nickerson.

Taylor Swiftly sang the National Anthem which seemed like an omen for a hare victory. The starter’s gun cracked.

My speed was gone, but I could beat this tortoise walking. After 33 seconds, I’d covered 33% of the race and had a nearly 33-meter lead. There was Ned Nickerson on the side of the course waving a piece of paper.

“Hey Volt! Come over here and take a blow under this lemon tree. Eat a bowl of sour grapes. And sign this new contract. Look, I have some freshly made carrot wine and roasted petunia seeds.”

One wine led to another. Before long, I’d spent an hour or more with Nickerson. Got wasted. Signed a new contract to represent Nye Key in Alaska, the Yukon and Antarctica for $29.95 per year. As I put down the 24 karat Waterman after signing the contract, what did I see but that trouble-making turtle crossing the 33-meter line.

I limped back onto the course on my reconstructed knees, took off walking at a snail’s pace. Which is 70 times faster than a tortoise. Soon I crossed the 66-meter line. And there was Timothy Tuberstill. I had built another lead of more than 30 meters.

“Hey Bolt!” he screamed.

“I just won the race for U.S. Senate in Alabama. I now spend all my time saying stupid shit that nobody understands but all my supporters believe without questioning. I can get the President to name you ambassador to the Netherlands.”

“Why would I go there? It’s too far north. Dark nearly all the time in the winter.”

“Think of the tulips you can munch every spring. The tulip tequila. The tall honey blondes dancing in the windows of the Red-Light District…”

So, I sat down with Timothy under a persimmon tree and reviewed his plans for the ambassadorship. Signed an endorsement of Timothy and his program, Make America Eat Lettuce. Drank a few too many tequilas. Got even more wasted. Just as I put down the solid gold Waterman from again selling my soul, there was the tenacious turtle crossing 66 meters.

I once again limped onto the course and began walking faster than a sloth on Exlax. It didn’t take long to reach 99 meters. One more step, and I’d win. The exasperating tortoise was nearly 32 meters behind.

And there she was…Mary Lamb. Brown, long and delicious. Lounging around a beautifully landscaped swimming pool. In a luscious string bikini. Barely wearing more than a smile.

Giving me a “come hither” look and motioning me over, what else could I do?

She handed me a glass of beet prosecco. Turned to walk towards a more distant chaise lounge, out of sight of the course, covered in “bare skin.” I followed the delicious swish of her decadent bottom while tossing aside my shorts and tank top.

We fell onto the chaise lounge entangled and exploring. Fireworks flashed and thunder crackled. Prosecco flowed and the race was forgotten as I became almost too bombed to have “fun” with her. We shared a lettuce cigarette and drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms.

Hours later, I awoke with a start. Mary had taken the last train for the coast. I didn’t even look to see where the tortoise was on the course. Just struggled across the finish line with my front legs raised in a victory sign. And there was that damn turtle beaming and giving an interview to Suzy.

There had to be cheating. As you can see, I was ahead…by many meters…every time I got distracted. Nobody but the Turtles could have planted Ned along the course with an offer of a “lucrative” contract, freshly made carrot wine and roasted petunia seeds.

And only the Turtles could have put Timothy Tuberstill there to offer me the ambassadorship, entice me with visions of dancing honey blondes, and ply me with tulip tequila while the idiot turtle caught me.

And then there’s that slut Mary Lamb…a RIT if ever there was one. Rabbit in Theory. Sly and cunning. Playing up to my weakness.

I want a recount, a redo and an e-rase of that rigged competition. After I finish rehab. With only Rabbits in attendance. Peter Rabbit, Bugs Bunny and the Easter Bunny--the only race officials. I’ll take on that turtle anywhere, anytime…if everything is stacked in my favor.

There you have it, my Opening Shit Storm!

Don’t you guys at Reedsy just love it? And I still have some words left…because satirical sentences are usually short!

I know I love what I’ve said so far! I’m sure that after my upcoming appearance on Liar’s Hour, everything will get straightened out by making it more crooked. I just want a fair race, slanted in my favor, one I can’t possibly lose. No matter how distracted I get. No matter how much I goof off. No matter how much wine or tequila I drink. Even if I smoke funny lettuce cigarettes and stop to frolic with Mary Lamb.

I want my rightful endorsements restored by Nye Key, Fjord and NIL and all the others. I’m more than happy to earn my endorsement money by doing nothing. Just as I had been doing back when everything was going right! And I want my insurance payment from the NFRL for my ACL injuries. If they don’t pay, I’m going to dial “ounce law…that’s all!” And have my attorney, Sammy Shyster, sue them for every dime.

Finally, I want Jesus, Mary & Joseph to get me back all the money I gave to the crooked televangelist with 10% interest.

And oh, I almost forgot, I want Aesop to re-write The Tortoise and the Hare, tell the truth and treat me fairly. No wonder his first draft filled with falsehoods was called a “fable.” This time, it must be different. No more fake news. No more slanted stories in favor of tardy tortoises or tales designed to make me look lazy and get children to hate me. Just the truth…that I’m the greatest Rabbit who ever ran a race or went to bed with a leggy blonde, and that I was winning by a MANY METERS until the Turtles cheated.

I keep forgetting…one more thing. Could I please have a 24-karat gold Olympic Medal?

That’s all, unless I think of something else.

Oh wait…in case the Turtles want to help me. Tell them to quit encouraging me to blame everything on the Rabbits instead of on them where the blame “belongs.” Quit excusing me by saying I’m a victim of circumstances, my environment, my education, my family, my upbringing and my lack of identity. Quit recommending therapy. Quit talking down to me. Develop their own “programs” instead of just saying “we’re not Rabbits.” Just help me in a “bi-animal” way to get the reasonable things I’ve requested—from the Rabbits, the Turtles or the Independents—whoever controls giving that stuff out.

And that’s really it…maybe!

Oh, damn it. I forgot to tell you I didn’t live happily ever after. It’s about the only thing I’ve said in response to this Prompt that’s true. The other thing that’s true: this story was satire.

The end.

No, wait, the National Association of Honey Blondes has sued me for defamation, character assassination, and sexual harassment!

Shit! It’s politically motivated.

I’ll get even if it’s the last thing I do.

After I get even…Reedsy, please send me another prompt! And next time, I’ll tell my story on “Sixty Rabbits.”