A pet rabbit, a spaz
dog, and a cleavage-loving baby chick create mayhem. Guarantee: no animals were
injured during the penning of this story.




First of all, thank you for being interested in just what it
is I’d think about anything. That in and of itself is much more attention than
I ever thought I’d get.


On the topic of the most fucked up think I’ve ever seen, 1)
There is not just one singular most fucked up thing I have ever seen. There are
hundreds, and really, if I tell you about them directly, I think that would be
one less song I could write, and I don’t want that. I really don’t even think I
have it in me to share these stories with a large audience without getting
cryptic in an effort to protect myself from rocking back and forth in a chair
and lets face it folks, I’m three days off smokes and I don’t’ need that kind
of pressure.


What I can do is share a little anecdote about a really
silly sitcom like type thing.


When I was ten years old, I lived on a mountain in a hunting
community in a hunting cabin with my parents, my three year old sister, and two
pets. The pets were a lop eared rabbit with one bum leg with the ever prolific
name of “Baby Bunny,” and a golden retriever pup in Olympically
trained condition named “Alex,” that I ripped from Punky Brewster. While I loved Alex he
was an unmanageable spaz, and the rabbit was my pet that I was all about. Keep
in mind, I was ten. We kept my rabbit outside in a hutch on top of a four foot
tree stump and one day, it got out. Who knows how? We assumed it got eaten by a
snake or flew away on a magic rabbit carpet, but all we knew is that the thing
wasn’t there. It was either dead or out in the woods. In the deep creepy ass
woods with snakes and critters and creepy crawlies. This metropolitan rabbit,
from Detroit originally, who usually had nothing to fear but my little sister
and who had known nothing better than cages and carpets and chewing through
chords and pooping on paper, was now loose in the woods with a bum leg. I lost
my kid mind, but kind of accepted she was a goner.


At school, one of our school projects was to incubate an egg
to bring about the life of a little motherless chick and watch the process of
hatching the chickie and then pass the thing around on weekends to make sure it
didn’t die. I offered up my family for this because well, my rabbit was gone,
and I was a mess. Now, this seemed like a good idea at the time, but when we
got the lil bugger home, it would not
peeping, and I am talking the long sort of distressful panicked sound
of precious Chickie peeping equivalent to that only of  cat in heat or screaming colicky baby. This
thing would not can it! After some time and many scientifically approved
tactics, we found that the only thing that made that Chickie shut up was to
stash it in my mom’s cleavage. The thing was only contented hanging out in my mother’s
tube top. Nestled happily between her boobs. My mom didn’t care for this so
much, but it was a better alternative than listening to the thing peep the
whole weekend. She’s got a good sense of humor, so she went nearly a whole
weekend with a Chickie in her bra.


What do these things have to do with one another you ask?
Well, I will attempt to tie them in together to bring about the climax. Let me
explain one more thing first. In this strange little hunting community, some
people just lived there. Generally older folks retired there or what have you
and some had these lovely little cottages, and at the same time some of them
had penchants for keeping exotic birds. (This bizarre hobby is the premise for
my song The Birdcage) So while we had this little Chickie in distress, my
mother took myself, my sister, the dog on a leash, and the Chickie in her
cleavage down to the nice neighbors’ house to see if they had any sage advice
for Chickie manageability. They did not, we left disheartened.


On the walk back, I was walking the dog, and my mom was
holding my little sisters hand and the Chickie. All of a sudden, my dog gets an
idea and rips the leash out of my hand and goes completely tearing into the
woods all bat out of hell style. We’re freaked out cuz “Oh, great, another
ridiculous metropolitan born and raised pet lost into the wild.” But then
all of a sudden the dog pops back out of the woods in hot wild pursuit of MY
RABBIT. The thing had somehow lived 4 days in the wilderness only to be outed
by my spastic golden retrieved who didn’t necessarily recognize it as a buddy,
but probably more as food. I see the rabbit, and start screaming and crying, my
sister freaks out and starts screaming and we’re all running around trying to
get the dog not to kill the rabbit, my mom trips and falls and almost crushes
the Chickie, but no. Pandemonium breaks loose, I am chasing the dog who is
chasing the rabbit, who is running for dear life. Now I am chasing the rabbit,
and my mom is chasing my sister and the dog and whoa! The Chickie falls out of its cleavage home, and now the dog
is after the Chickie, my sister is after the Chickie, my mom is after them all,
I am still after the rabbit, END SCENE.


Where are Laverne and Shirley for more antics right now I
ask you!


Unlike a lot of my stories, yeah. This one has a happy
ending. Dog, mom, sister, Chickie, and rabbit, all return home safely. The
Chickie, gets returned to school with some wild stories to tell, my rabbit goes
on to live another 4 off years to the great old rabbit age of eight, and we
eventually had to leave Alex on top of the hill in the great escape of ’89.


Alls well that ends well I suppose. I like to keep things
light when I talk and dark when I sing. Listen to “Birdcage” for more details on the mountain. Every
word in it is true.



Kelly Irene Corson
sings and plays guitar for THE ART OF SHOOTING, who released their debut
Traveling Show last
month. Check out the group at their official website and their MySpace page.



[Photo Credit: Jen McManus]



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