Imagine a guy, the kind of guy who wears plain cut jeans and plaid flannel shirts. Maybe he wears his hair a little long, with an unkempt, “I just rolled out of bed, or maybe I just don’t care” look. His shoes are just shoes, probably sneakers, but he really doesn’t care. Really. And he rarely wears socks.
He works construction, probably, or maybe he puts in his hours in a warehouse somewhere, driving the forklift. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, that’s for sure. In the winter, he watches hockey, in the summer, he watches baseball, and he probably plays a little pick-up soccer from time to time. His car is a truck, but he keeps a surprising assortment of CDs in the glove compartment. Music-wise, he’s all over the place, so long as it’s not stupid teeny-pop.
He’s single, because he’s still young, and he likes to play the field a bit. But he’s still gentleman enough that he won’t sleep with just anyone, and he usually goes home for dinner on Sundays. He loves his Mom, and he loves his Mom’s roast pork with homemade applesauce. He and his Dad both drink Canadian, and talk about politics and sports.
Now, imagine, one day, this guy’s at work. A crate gets dropped off the end of a truck, and a bunch of steel cannisters tumble out. Most are just dented, but one has a small crack, which he doesn’t notice until after he’s picked it up and got some kind of grey goo dripped down his sleeve. A strip of duct tape takes care of the leak, and he forgets about it. Crap gets busted all the time at work.
On the way home from work, though, he has to swerve to avoid a rabbit that scoots out into the road in front of him. The truck leaves black streaks on the asphalt, and ends up on the soft shoulder in a cloud of dust. Our guy’s about to drive off as the dust clears, but a glance in his mirror shows the poor bunny, which he though he’d missed, squirming and bleeding on the edge of the road. Something twinges inside him, and he gets out to at least see if he can do anything to save it.
Back in the truck, he wraps it in an old rag to try to staunch the bleeding, but he still ends up with bloodstains on his jeans, and it’s all over his hands too. By the time he gets to the animal shelter, though, the bloody ball of fur has stopped twitching. The vet tech who takes the bundle from him takes one look and shakes her head gently. Her smile is nice, but he still feels bad about the whole thing. That night, he has an extra Canadian with his Hungry Man dinner, and stays up late to watch Letterman for the laughs.
The big stretch here is to imagine this guy the next morning. He rolls out of bed, and the ratty sweats he wears as pyjamas feel tight in weird ways. He trips over his own feet, and stumbles into the bathroom, trying to remember how many he’d had the night before. Leaning on the sink, squinting against the morning sunlight, he comes to the conclusion that, no, he’d only had the two beers. At about the same time, he forces his eyes open and looks in the mirror.
Every one of his neighbours in the building hears him swear and yell, like he’d just seen a ghost, and it was trying to steal the beer out of his fridge. In the mirror, instead of his usual tousled head and day-old stubble, he sees floppy white ears, pink-red eyes in a fuzzy white face, and six-inch whiskers sticking straight out on either side of his pink nose.
So now you know the origin of Jackrabbit. Just goes to show that not all things that are cute and fluffy on the outside are the same way on the inside.
It also explains the jeans and the plaid shirts.