3rd September, 1989
Fredretta the Rabbit was happily hopping along the field of elderberries on Christmas eve when she inadvertently leapt into a wet pile of laboratory waste. Little did she suspect that the waste was infected with red wine, which when mixed with old beer made a very big mess on his grandmother's antique Tibetan rug.
However, he had not realised that the dog was trying to attack Fred, so he deliberately killed himself. Later, after the funeral, he sat on the headstone, picking the dirt out of his nose and rolling it into squashy balls. ``Why me?'' he asked self-pityingly, ``I don't belong in a frenzied story mangling. Why don't they walk?''
All eyes were glued to the rolling waves of glue which were coming from the big volcano that Patrick was now running from, in order to save another one of his, no doubt, endless lives. He called on Saint Patrick to preserve him but was refused as the Irish saint was far too busy dying in a nearby potato-chip filled ditch.
Amongst the inhabitants of this salad sandwich was a flatulant rock and roll singer, who was now trying to make a living by infecting rabbits with mixamitosis by spreading the virus over the front of her Marshall stack and then doing AC/DC impersonations near the warrens, but everyone much preferred a new band called `For he's not a bison' which is exactly what he wasn't.
Anyway, time passed and so everyone was happy that Fred had survived by the rather unsavoury means of taking his life. Having now perfected the art of throwing himself at the closest door whenever the man in the dark suit and bowler hat approached such a massive lack of cheese that all remaining superfluity was drained interactively from the intricately carved wooden cat which had a cold from dealing with mixamitosis.