Bunny Book Quotes

Reality doesn’t always give us the life that we desire, but we can always find what we desire between the pages of books.

Finn always called it Enna's Stream. He tended to refer to most anything as belonging to her--Enna's Meadow, Enna's Mountain. When he referred to Yasid as Enna's Kingdom, she said, "Isn't that your heart?" Finn smiled and kissed her hand. Isi rolled her eyes. "Oh you two are impossible." Enna laughed. "This coming from the girl who calls her husband 'sweet little bunny boy'?" Isi blushed. "That was just once.

I read library books as fast as I could go, rushing them home in the basket of my bicycle. From the minute I reached our house, I started to read. Every book I seized on, from “Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue at Camp Rest-a-While” to “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea,” stood for the devouring wish to read being instantly granted. I knew this was bliss, knew it at the time. Taste isn’t nearly so important; it comes in its own time.

Don’t be afraid,” the fox said, “I would never hurt you.” She smiled sweetly but the bunny was still a little scared.

The bunny was thrilled that her ears no longer dragged on the ground. They would stay nice and clean.

Finally, the fox gently pulled both ear loops outward at the same time to make a pretty bow on top of the bunny’s head. The tips of her ears, hung just at her cheek bones.

Here’s a story that helps her tie the “bunny ear bow” exactly the same way every time.

Don’t give up. Let’s try again,” cheered on the bunny’s very best friend.

We read a lot of books. Children's books mostly, because they're always much more truthful than adult books. And much more entertaining," said Mrs. Bunny.

When I feel angry, I want to say something mean, or yell, or hit. But feeling like I want to is not the same as doing it. Feeling can't hurt anyone or get me into trouble, but doing can." (Bunny from picture book)

Every voracious reader knows that there is no Dewey system for the Babel of the mind. You walk amid the labyrinthine stacks and ideas leap at you like dust bunnies drawn from the motes that cover a great many different books ready long ago.

Good call, Bob.

I get it, Samantha. Books, they’re like old friends. When I was here this summer, I carried four or five with me all the time.

Because books are dead, Smackey, didn't you know?

I used to go to bookstores but I can’t go in them anymore because I buy too many books.

When a whisper seems like a shout, I know I need to get some sleep. But I can’t lay down without first taking off my bunny ears.

You were born rich and influential. You can do rich and influential in jammies and bunny slippers.

Nestled in the cabbage leaves, bunny's snuggly and sound asleep

I was over in Australia during Easter, which was really interesting. You know, they celebrate Easter the exact same way we do, commemorating the death and resurrection of Jesus by telling our children that a giant bunny rabbit … left chocolate eggs in the night. Now … I wonder why we're fucked up as a race. I've read the Bible. I can't find the word "bunny" or "chocolate" anywhere in the fucking book.

Inside every woman is a merciless bunny, and inside every man a virtuous tanuki who’s forever floundering as he tries to keep his head above water.

Gabi’s face fell as if I’d just told her Santa and the Easter bunny got together and ate Nemo and the dog from Up. I

Strange as it may seem, the association of eggs and bunnies at Easter time are actually connected and, to discover more, we must once again turn our attention to the Saxon fertility Goddess, Eostre.

Among the daisies, one day in March, a little girl goes on a path where she stops a little while to see the bunny who makes her smile ...

I will demand a puppy if I am forced to move to Fiji. But I will settle for a bunny.

Inspire someone today. Your action can change that person’s life forever.

Daniel would have to settle for “Elementary, my dear pink bunny!” When

I wrote my first poem about a bunny. ‘Bunny, bunny, hop hop hop. White and soft like a little mop.

two living things. Two entities.

A chubby little snowman Had a carrot nose Along came a bunny And what do you suppose? That hungry little bunny Looking for his lunch Ate that snowman's carrot nose Nibble, nibble, crunch!

She inhaled deeply—and sneezed. Stupid allergies. “Gods bless you,” Rishi said. Dimple arched an eyebrow. “Gods?” He nodded sagely. “As a Hindu, I’m a polytheist, as you well know.” Dimple laughed. “Yes, and I also know we still only say ‘God,’ not ‘gods.’ We still believe Brahma is the supreme creator.” Rishi smiled, a sneaky little thing that darted out before he could stop it. “You got me. It’s my version of microaggressing back on people.” “Explain.” “So, okay. This is how it works in the US: In the spring we’re constantly subjected to bunnies and eggs wherever we go, signifying Christ’s resurrection. Then right around October we begin to see pine trees and nativity scenes and laughing fat white men everywhere. Christian iconography is all over the place, constantly in our faces, even in casual conversation. This is the bible of comic book artists . . . He had a come to Jesus moment, all of that stuff. So this is my way of saying, Hey, maybe I believe something a little different. And every time someone asks me why ‘gods,’ I get to explain Hinduism.” Dimple chewed on this, impressed in spite of herself. He actually had a valid point. Why was Christianity always the default? “Ah.” She nodded, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “So what you’re saying is, you’re like a Jehovah’s Witness for our people.” Rishi’s mouth twitched, but he nodded seriously. “Yes. I’m Ganesha’s Witness. Has a bit of a ring to it, don’t you think?

It took hours, but all of a sudden as she was drawing the plug-in for a vacuum pump that felt as if it was radiating cold, although she didn't know how, Claire saw . . . something. It was like a flash of intuition, one of those moments that came to her sometimes when she thoughtabout higher-order physics problems. Not calculation, exactly, not logic. Instinct.She saw what he was doing, and for that one second, it was beautiful.Crazy, but in a beautiful kind of way. Like everything Myrnin did, it twisted the basicrules of physics, bent them and reshaped them until they became . . . something else. He's agenius, she thought. She'd always known that, but this . . . this was something else. Something beyond all his usual tinkering and weirdness. "It's going to work," she said. Her voice sounded odd. She carefully set the vacuum pumpin its place on the meticulously labeled canvas sheet. Myrnin, who was sitting in his armchair with his feet comfortably on a hassock, looked up. He was reading a book through tiny little square spectacles that might have once belonged to Benjamin Franklin. "Well, of course it's going to work," he said. "What did you expect? I do know what I'm doing." This from a man wearing clothing from the OMG No store, and his battered vampire-bunny slippers. He'd crossed his feet at the ankles on top of a footstool, and both the bunnies' red mouths were flapping open to reveal their sharp, pointy teeth. Claire grinned, suddenly full of enthusiasm for what she was doing. "I didn't expectanything else," she said. "When's lunch?

Hef holds the Guinness Book of World Records title for largest scrapbook collection at over 2,000 volumes.

A person steals off a company, person goes to jail. Company steals off a person – hey, that’s just business.

Chek chek chek chek chek, Chek chek chek chek chek chek chek, Chek chek chek chek chek. —Classic squirrel haiku

What do you get when you cross a bumble bee with a rabbit? A: A honey bunny!

According to Dr. Henner, the hospital’s sleep expert, that particular REM pattern indicates nightmares … horrific nightmares.

nightmares.

Look what he married. Would you want to be her? She’s a nice woman, but her greatest accomplishment is making three-dimensional snowflakes and Easter bunnies from Martha Stewart’s book. Come on, Fiona, you don’t want to be that.

Mostly reading - that's how I muddled through time, the last page of one book opening onto the first page of the next, so that I lived in a kind of amended super-book, alongside Anne Shirley and Hermione and Bunny and Heathcliff.

A few years back, they jacked David Copperfield in West Palm Beach, for Chrissake. Yes, it's funny: "Yo, empty your pockets," and he pulls out a bunny rabbit. But it's also depressing. If someone who can make himself disappear isn't safe, who is?

Tonight, I want to curl up with a good book and visit my fictional boyfriends. Now let me tell you, my list is long. I am the equivalent to Hugh Hefner, but instead of bunnies I have this ever-growing list of male characters that have stolen my heart. I

And Mrs. Treaclebunny has promised to speak English from now on as well. In fact, she said when she goes to England, that's all she speaks anyway because the animals speak English there. She says anyone who has read children's books with animals in them set in England would know that. Is The Wind in the Willows written in Mole with a little Ratty thrown in? Is Winnie-the-Pooh written in Bear? No, it's English, because that's what the animals there speak. I didn't know that before. Travel is so broadening.

I stare up at my cracked ceiling. The water stains that look like jaw-baring beasts seem to have spread since the last time I was here. The yellow light fixture has filled with more moth carcasses, so now there is more moth than light. The towers of books stacked against the walls are all in various stages of collapse, and the walls themselves, thin and piss colored, which are all that separate me from a perverted giant on one side and a sallow-faced girl on the other, appear to have crept even closer together.

But I had never really got it, never understood history, how things fit together, because I needed someone to tell me the stories not of politics and dictators, but of berries and bunnies and books. Of how things are lost, and what it means and how it hurts.

No doubt this works well enough for The Tale of Benjamin Bunny or The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, but I can readily see that ‘The Selfish Gene’ on its own, without the large footnote of the book itself, might give an inadequate impression of its contents.

Dumb-bunnies think that if they don’t understand the dharma or memorize it, then there’s no benefit to even hearing it. They think that the best thing is to pursue knowledge and that if they forget what they’ve learned they might as well not have learned it at all.

Sometimes I’ll just drive around for hours. I won’t have a destination or anything. I used to go to bookstores but I can’t go in them anymore because I buy too many books. Last time I went into Ada books, I spent almost a hundred bucks. More than a hundred probably.

she’ll draw her Christopher Robin cardigan closer, clutch her books tightly to her chest as though, tut, tut! Looks like rain. Oh, hi, Samantha, she’ll say, looking around at anything like it might be a buoy that will save her from the fact of me standing right in front of her.

Wakizarashi Shibari because of the exposure of the armpits. In Japanese culture, showing them is considered shameful.” He ran his forefinger up to my elbow then planted a soft kiss there. “In English, it’s just called a simple bunny tie because your elbows make it look like you have bunny ears.

The roots of the slasher movie stretch back to Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960), based on Robert Bloch’s book of the same name. While Bloch stated many times that his book was based on the real-life crimes of Ed Gein, far more clippings were found in his files regarding Wisconsin’s infamous children’s entertainer and serial poisoner, Floyd Scriltch. When Hitchcock purchased the rights to Bloch’s book, he also optioned the life rights from the sole survivor of Scriltch’s infamous “Easter Bunny Massacre,” Amanda Cohen. Cohen was instrumental in the detection and capture of Scriltch and paid a heavy price for her bravery. This book is dedicated to her memory.

Bunny crawls on hands and feet into the bathroom. Her limbs bend at acute angles as her writhing jaw juts forward […] Bunny crawls closer. Rose can just make out her form in the near-darkness. Bunny’s jaw snaps as if dislocating. Rose’s eyes trace the prominent bumps on Bunny’s back – vertebrae, which look disturbingly close to slicing her anorexic back.

All last fall in Workshop, they’d side-eye each other if he praised my stories. Because surely they’d seen me leave class with him, walked past us chatting together in the hall, observed us exchanging books and vinyl. Caught us sitting together in cafés or in the basement of the Irish pub, having a drink, another drink, one more for the road, why not? They’d noticed him walk over and talk to me at department functions, sit beside me at readings. Then, in the winter semester, they might have observed how quite suddenly all of this stopped—that he no longer sat next to me at readings or talked to me at parties or met me off campus. And then, of course, in spring, on the night of the end-of-year party, they definitely observed me drunk in the passenger seat of his Subaru.

Dell pulled out his cell phone, speed-dialed a number, and put the phone on speaker. A woman answered with a professionally irritated tone: “What do you need now?” “Jade,” Dell said. “Nope, it’s the Easter Bunny. And your keys are on your desk.” Dell shook his head. “Now darlin’, I don’t always call you just because I’ve lost my keys.” “I’m sorry, you’re right. You wallet’s on your desk, too. As for your little black book, you’re on your own with that one, Dr. Flirt. I’m at lunch.” Dell sighed. “What did we say about you and the whole power-play thing?” “That it’s good for your ego to have at least one woman in your life that you can’t flash a smile at and have them drop their panties?” Dell grinned. “I really like it when you say ‘panties.’ And for the record, I knew where my keys and wallet were.” “No you didn’t.” “Okay, I didn’t, but that’s not why I’m calling. Can you bring burgers and fries for me and Brady? Oh, and Adam, too, or he’ll bitch like a little girl.” “You mean ‘Jade, will you pretty please bring us burgers and fries?’” “Yes,” Dell said, nodding. “That. And Cokes.” He looked at Brady, who nodded. “And don’t forget the ketchup.” “You forgot the nice words.” “Oh, I’m sorry,” Dell said. “You look fantastic today, I especially love the attitude and sarcasm you’re wearing.” Jade’s voice went saccharine sweet. “So some low-fat chicken salads, no dressing, and ice water to go, then?” “Fine,” Dell said, and sighed. “Can we please have burgers and fries?" “You forgot the ‘Thank you, Goddess Jade,’ but we’ll work on that. Later, boss.

Simon puts the book down. He does not wait for her to say anything. He cannot wait, he is too afraid that she will vanish again and never reappear. He closes the distance between them as quickly as he can and then he kisses her desperately, hungrily, and after a moment she kisses him back in equal measure. Kissing, Eleanor thinks, is not done any justice in books. They peel off each other’s clothes in layers. He curses at the strange clasps and fasteners on her garments while she laughs at the sheer number of buttons on his. He leaves her bunny ears on. It is easier to be in love in a room with closed doors. To have the whole world in one room. In one person. The universe condensed and intensified and burning, bright and alive and electric. But doors cannot stay closed forever.

Get off! Get off me, ‘Felix sobbed, sounding like a little kid. Marco kicked at the sickos, slashing with his knife. It was no good, though— there were just too many of them — and he himself toppled over, landing on his friend and smothering him. ‘It’s all right Felix, ‘he said. ‘I’m with you. It’s all right. You’re not alone. ‘He felt for Felix’s hand held it tight, as more gym bunnies blocked out the light, swamping them.

Like she’s my therapist, and I’m trying to pull a fast one on her, which she’d expected, but come on, Samantha, let’s get, you know, serious here. Like she knows I think I’m better than everyone else. Like my stammering shyness, my headphones, my dark, unassuming clothes, my politeness are all well and good but she can see through it, yes, Samantha, and what she sees, what it’s masking, is a very deep hate, a very deep rage, a very deep social bruise, what happened there, Samantha? Like she knows that I have nicknamed them all and, well, how sad, really. But being a moon goddess, a more highly evolved artist, a being full of nothing but love and tropical shore (though she is Upper West Side via Charleston), she’s going to tolerate it, love me from a distance all the same, wish me well on my stunted little path where I clutch my rage close like a book or a pet rat. We are all on our own paths after all, aren’t we?

I took the bucket off my head. I looked at the carriage. The baby was NOT sitting in the carriage watching me. The baby was GONE. I looked under all the bushes, and up the tree, but I couldn’t find the baby. I’d lost the baby. Losing a baby is bad. I panicked. I ran inside and took a potato from the kitchen. From under my bed I scooped up lots of fluff and dust bunnies and stuck them to the top of the potato with my glue stick. I drew a face on the potato. I ran outside and put the potato-baby in the carriage. Maybe Mrs Whitman wouldn’t notice that it wasn’t her baby.

wonder why I keep writing these chapter introductions. I spend a lot of time in these stories not actually writing these stories. There must be something to it. Something I don’t want to admit. These are another delay. To keep myself from writing the inevitable. As long as I’m waxing fanciful about bunnies and bazookas, I don’t have to make progress toward the ending. I don’t want to get there. Despite claiming I’m writing these autobiographies to set the story straight, I don’t actually want to do it. Deep down, I’d rather think of myself as a hero. Of course, I’m probably too much of a coward to include this section in the book.

I was, like everyone else who wrote books or read them, against the criminal and for the innocent victim. There was one exception in the popular hero Raffles, a sporting cricketer and successful cracksman, with his rabbit-like associate Bunny. I think I always felt slightly shocked by Raffles, and in looking back now I feel much more shocked than I did then, though it was certainly in the tradition of the past–he was the Robin Hood type. But Raffles was a light-hearted exception. No one could have dreamt then that there would come a time when crime books would be read for their love of violence, the taking of sadistic pleasure in brutality for its own sake.

Bunny was the first to leave. For three weeks he had been in a panic over a paper he had to write for his fourth course, something called Masterworks of English Literature. The assignment was twenty-five pages on John Donne. We’d all wondered how he was going to do it, because he was not much of a writer; though his dyslexia was the convenient culprit the real problem was not that but his attention span, which was as short as a child’s. He seldom read the required texts or supplemental books for any course. Instead, his knowledge of any given subject tended to be a hodgepodge of confused facts, often strikingly irrelevant or out of context, that he happened to remember from classroom discussions or believed himself to have read somewhere. When it was time to write a paper he would supplement these dubious fragments by cross-examination of Henry (whom he was in the habit of consulting, like an atlas) or with information from either The World Book Encyclopedia or a reference work entitled Men of Thought and Deed, a six-volume work by E. Tipton Chatsford, Rev., dating from the 1890s, consisting of thumbnail sketches of great men through the ages, written for children, full of dramatic engravings.

It didn’t take me very much reading and skimming to discover that Tess had serious problems – much worse than mine. The most important thing in her life happened to her in the very first part of the book. She got taken advantage of, at night, in the woods, because she’d stupidly accepted a drive home with a jerk, and after that it was all downhill, one awful thing after another, turnips, dead babies, getting dumped by the man she loved, and then her tragic death at the end. (I peeked at the last three chapters.) Tess was evidently another of those unlucky pushovers, like the Last Duchess, and like Ophelia – we’d studied Hamlet earlier. These girls were all similar. They were too trusting, they found themselves in the hands of the wrong men, they weren’t up to things, they let themselves drift. They smiled too much. They were too eager to please. Then they got bumped off, one way or another. Nobody gave them any help. Why did we have to study these hapless, annoying, dumb-bunny girls? I wondered. Who chose the books and poems that would be on the curriculum? What use would they be in our future lives? What exactly were we supposed to be learning from them? Maybe Bill was right. Maybe the whole thing was a waste of time

The Earth slipped from its axis and we are hurtling toward cosmic doom!?” Ravi screamed, looking terrified and covering his ears with his hands. “Worse—I lost a bunny!” Jessie answered, ripping a pillow from the couch and accidentally throwing it at him. “Hey, watch it!” Ravi yelped. “I am the only small adorable creature you have not lost yet!

You mean there’s a bloodthirsty, savage rodent running around the apartment?” he asked, alarmed. “No. I mean there’s a cute, snuggly bunny running around the apartment!” Jessie said, correcting him. “Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe. It’s all fun and games until someone gets nuzzled to death in their sleep!

axe,

Sometimes you feel like crying before you feel like trying.

I'd strutted past his ground-floor grotto a gazillion times, but one day, my nosy nature nudged me to take a peek. Holy hoarders. The place was stuffed to the rafters with ancient artifacts and dust-bunny colonies, all carefully curated over eons. A skinny pathway, barely lit, snaked through the clutter, kind of like Dorothy's obstacle course to Oz. Except here, not even a desperate Dorothy would be clicking her ruby slippers, chanting, "There's no place like home." -Kim Lee ‘The Big Apple Took a Bite Off Me’ Now on Amazon Books and Kindle

Crown me, my little bunny queen

The truth is that I am a mean, tired, furious bunny - a little supplicant turned apostate and unbeliever - and I'm not hiding because I am scared. I'm running from him because if he catches me I will kill him. I will scratch out his eyes while reciting passages from the Egyptian Book of the Dead, I will hum Latin hyms while I bite his heart out. I don't care what kind of god he is, he is a dead god to me, and I will build a temple to bitterness out of his bones. He will be my burnt offering and I will send that smoke all the way to heaven. I will char the world with the pride he stole from me.

Father Gabriel knew better than anyone how human lives were products of circumstance. All that separated Pocket from any of the kids sitting in a classroom at NYU was the hand dealt and cruel chance.

Rachel Renée Russell is an attorney who prefers writing tween books to legal briefs. (Mainly because books are a lot more fun and pajamas and bunny slippers aren’t allowed in court.) She has raised two daughters and lived to tell about it. Her hobbies include growing purple flowers and doing totally useless crafts (like, for example, making a microwave oven out of lolly sticks, glue and glitter). Rachel lives in northern Virginia with a spoiled pet Yorkie who terrorizes her daily by climbing on top of a computer cabinet and pelting her with stuffed animals while she writes. And, yes, Rachel considers herself a total Dork.

Alright there, Judgey McJudgeface, wind your neck in.

All those dumb spooky movies like Friday the 13th, they all start in a house or a forest, or an abandoned cabin, or whatever, so you end up thinking you have to be scared of them. But you don’t. Not really. That whispering voice is never in the woods.

talking to me?” someone said. Arthur turned around to find a young woman in a rain slicker, her blonde hair pulled into a taut ponytail, juggling a pink backpack, an orange tote bag, and a red umbrella. She had a square face and a wide mouth that were spared from looking masculine by her lively blue eyes and the bright makeup she wore. She smiled at Arthur tentatively. “Hello, young lady,” Arthur said. He gave her a half bow. Arthur had turned just forty-seven the previous spring, but he looked older because his hair had turned mostly gray a decade before, and deep emotions had carved lines on his face. Recently, he’d decided he was now old enough to refer to younger women as “young lady.” When he was a young man himself, he was always befuddled by what to call women. “Miss” and “Ma’am” seemed to offend more often than not, for reasons that confused Arthur. “Hey you” was always inappropriate. “Hi,” the young woman said. Arthur held out a hand. “I’m Father Blythe.” Inwardly, he cringed at the formality. He preferred being called by his first

Copper sent a twirling trio of water jets at Voltacraft, scoring a hit, but its tough body and the fact that it was a water type as well caused the attack to only do minor damage. Stuttle sat on the ground, stunned from the electrical attack, and Voltacraft charged another when a rapid-fire stream of flaming bunny feet slammed into its head, knocking the golem down and sending the ball of electricity off course, flying into the air. Copper arrived just in time and immediately created a water block on top of the sprawling golem. Being submerged in water was a weakness that lightning types had.

lay around like well-preserved corpses,

We had special moves like Pretty Poisons, Sleepy Eyes, Shark Attacks, and Biggie Fries; Bottle Caps, Bus Stops, Double Touches, and Bunny Hops; Death Rallies, Dot-to-dots, Best Friendsies, and Mystery Spots; Lumberjacks, Passbacks, Blackjacks, and Hackysacks. It sounds more like something out of a Dr. Seuss book rather than a sport.

She had the sexy librarian look on lock, and God help me, even feeling used, I was very interested in signing up for a library card so I would have an excuse to return day after day to check out a new book when my real motive was just to see her.

The damage we do while trying to help.

bunny quotes.

This is exactly what happened with Tom and me. We just stayed where we were, gathering dust. Not comfortable, just… compliant. Like human-shaped dust bunnies afraid of the vacuum cleaner of change.

attack penned livestock. There are plenty wild sheep

ditch

Killer Bunny? Apparently

Rachel Renée Russell is an attorney who prefers writing tween books to legal briefs. (Mainly because books are a lot more fun and pajamas and bunny slippers aren’t allowed in court.) She has raised two daughters and lived to tell about it. Her hobbies include growing purple flowers and doing totally useless crafts (like, for example, making a microwave oven out of Popsicle sticks, glue, and glitter). Rachel lives in northern Virginia with a spoiled pet Yorkie who terrorizes her daily by climbing on top of a computer cabinet and pelting her with stuffed animals while she writes. And, yes, Rachel considers herself a total Dork. Visit

Q: Why did you buy me a pair of bunny ears? A: I wanted you to have a hoppy birthday!

gets in the way. You've gotta choose justice over jobs. "Angel, first, her name's Libby, not SHE!" I marched over to Angel, so tempted to pull her hair, but it wasn't worth it. "Second, she can't just get over it, but she will beat it with our help! We've all got fears. Hers is speaking. Mine is spiders. Angel, yours is--" "Don't say it!" She sank under the table. "I trusted you!" "Bunnies." Everyone, even Libby, burst out laughing.

His tiny toes wiggled as they were ready to go.

The inventions of writers and artists are forged through dissatisfaction. That discrepancy between the world we walk through and the world inside of us encourages some to try to build a bridge (in the shape of a book about talking bunnies or an impressionistic painting).

bunny!

. . . And when the big shark came, Millie the Mermaid found her courage and saved the school of fishes.” Ella Rose made a ta-da motion with her hands. “That’s a very good story, darling.” Ella Rose nodded. “Julia’s going to give me a copy of my very own when it gets published. She’s really smart, you know. She writes books. George said she wrote one about you, Daddy. But we can’t read it be—” Aidan didn’t think this would be a good time for his ex to hear about Julia’s sexy books. “Okay, so who wants to grab a bite to eat before I have to leave?” Harper frowned at Aidan and then said to their daughter, “I hope Julia told Derek to apologize to you.” “Yes, she did. And she said that just because someone doesn’t believe what you do doesn’t make you right and them wrong. We have to respect each others differences.” Harper gave Aidan an apologetic, I-guess-I-overreacted look. “I appreciate that Julia doesn’t talk down to you because you’re children. That’s why Mommy told you that Santa isn’t real and neither are the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy. I respect you too much to lie to you, darling. And now, you see, I’m not the only one. Julia doesn’t believe in—” “Oh, yes, she does, Mommy,” Ella Rose said, her eyes shining “Julia believes in Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny, and fairies too. She believes in everything magical, and I do too!” Aidan covered his laugh with a cough. “Don’t you dare. This is your fault for getting involved with a woman who is delusional. Who in their right mind believes in fairytales and—” “It’s okay, Mommy. Julia says not everyone can see the magic.” “All right, Ella Rose, I think I’ve heard just about enough about Julia for—” “She says why be ordinary when you can be extraordinary?” Ella Rose jumped off the bed and did a pirouette. “I’m going to be extraordinary just like Julia when I grow up.

1968 F. F. F.   Bunny’s black, white and gold invitation read:   You and a companion are cordially invited to:

My feet had never been so bare. Those little naked toes.That spider thing probably looks at those like the ears on a chocolate bunny.

Quite a few close-knit covens in the area now. Go there, ask for Bunny.” “Bunny?” “Don’t let looks—or her name—fool you,

You mean there’s a bloodthirsty, savage rodent running around the apartment?” he asked, alarmed. “No. I mean there’s a cute, snuggly bunny running around the apartment!

Simply select your story and upload your child's photo. theCartoonBunny will make your child the hero of his or her own story. Don't forget to pre-order your custom children's book.

Q: What do you get when you cross a bumble bee with a rabbit? A: A honey bunny!

People who hate gays aren't prejudiced because of some obscure passage in the BOok of Leviticus. This prejudice, like every other prejudice, is based on the fact that we are different from them. They don't care that mankind was made in God's image; they want the world to be mad in their image. Bottom line, they get uptight because I'm not just like them. And that scares them. And scared bunnies do crazy things. - Tony Barovick

Decades after little Colleen’s death, my sister Kathy still loves her daughter dearly. Colleen was born with cerebral palsy. She died in Kath’s arms in a rocking chair at the age of six. They were listening to a music box that looked very much like a smiling pink bunny. The opening quote in this book, “I will love you forever, but I’ll only miss you for the rest of my life,” is from Kath’s nightly prayers to her child. Colleen couldn’t really talk or walk very well, but loved untying my mother’s tennis shoes and then laughing. When Mom died decades later we sent her off in tennis shoes so Colleen would have something to untie in Heaven. In the meantime, Dad had probably been taking really good care of her up there. He must have been aching to hug her for all of her six years on earth. Mom’s spirit comes back to play with great grandchildren she’d never met or had a chance to love while she was still – I almost said “among the living.” In my family, though, the dead don’t always stay that way. You can be among the living without technically being alive. Mom comes back to play, but Dad shows up only in emergencies. They are both watching over their loved ones. “The Mourning After” is dedicated to all those we have had the joy of loving before they’ve slipped away to the other side. It then celebrates the joy of re-unions.

Honey, bunny! Doesn’t your Mommy get a kiss goodbye?

Q: What do you call a bunny with a crooked penis? A: Fucks funny.