Elmer Fudd Dies of Alcoholism

LOS ANGELES, CA – Elmer J. Fudd died yesterday at Warner Brothers Memorial Hospital of cirrhosis of the liver. He had battled alcoholism for fifty years in response to an inner demon he called “Dat cocksucking wabbit.” His long-suffering wife, Fanny Fudd, a retired postal worker who paints watercolors as a hobby (and hopes to have a showing soon), had called 911 when, as she reported, “Elmer shot the toaster, saying, ‘Bugs this, asshole!’ – and, worse, missed it and instead hit my new painting entitled Mel Blanc’s Teeth.”

Said Dr. Yosemite Sam: “OOOOOOOOH!  You down a pint of vodka a day, and sooner or later you’ll start speaking Russian – and that, my friends, is the end of your liver.”

Fudd had attended AA meetings on and off during his illness. He would open his speeches, “Hi, I’m Elmer J. Fudd, millionaire. I own a mansion and a yacht,” to which the other alchies would respond, “Hi Elmer J Fudd, millionaire, who owns a mansion and a yacht!” Then he would describe to his fellow drunks, all of whom chain-smoked like Satan over the eternal spittle, how he began everyday with these words to an imaginary audience: “Shhhhhhh, be vewwwy, vewwwy quiet. I’m hunting wabbits,” and titter, “heheheheheh,” whereupon he would don a hat big enough to envelop Foghorn Leghorn and all his frat buddies and head off into the woods gun in hand.

Then came the inevitable disaster, as ‘dat darn wabbit,” whose real name, Bug Bunny, Elmer refused to utter if only to continue objectifying the eternal source of his woe. Bugs outwitted and made a fool of Fudd at every turn. Often the hunter would end up with a blackened face from his own gun powder – and what really pissed him off was how these reversals were against the very laws of physics.

“Fuck,” he would tell the clouds of tobacco smoke, “you would think that an explosion going off right in my face would result in third degree burns and years of skin grafting experiments by the world’s best skin surgeons, but, whaddaya know, a second later my complexion was restored to its original milky hue and zitless sheen.

“And what really gets my goat till this day is that I always came off as the villain, while this sadistic psychopath wabbit was loved by all for his bonhomie and that idiotic catchphrase What’s up, Doc? Motherfucker, if I don’t hear those words in my sleep.”
Bugs Bunny is now living in an over-fifty housing development with its own golf course and bowling alley. He still excels at everything with a charm and ease that would make James Bond appear a lumbering oaf with permanent underarm stains. He issued a short comment on the death of his favorite whipping boy:

“Ah, what’s up, Doc? I am sad to hear of Elmer’s demise. He was a dear friend of mine. And if there is an afterlife, then you can assured that I will spend eternity having my own brand of mean-spirited fun with Mr. Elmer J. Fudd.”