Who P-p-p-plugged Roger Rabbit?

04

4

I slept in my jalopy and showered in the morning mist that blows off the ocean. My chenille seat cover toweled me dry. I finished my toilette by lathering on enough Ben Gay to parboil a yam, then dressed standing on the curb.

My mood brightened right along with the landscape as Big Sol punched in for work right on schedule and threw the master switch that drapes this town with tinsel.

A Toon mockingbird flew by, littering the landscape with a bad impression of a canary. I brushed its ersatz warbles off my car before they cracked open and blistered the paint.

I cranked up my engine and headed on down the yellow brick freeway.

Breakfast consisted of auto exhaust and two Almond Joys nutty side up chased with the dynamic duo, a shot of gargle and a gasper.

I paid a quick visit and twenty bucks to Arnie Johnson, Doctor of Veterinary Medicine. I didn't have an appointment, but Arnie squeezed me in, between a mangy dog and a bloated goldfish. He taped my cracked ribs, stuck three stitches in my head, advised me to find a safer line of work, and agreed, as usual, not to report my assorted bumps, cuts, and bruises to the proper authorities.

He updated my chart, informing me that my head now bore only three less stitches than a regulation Spalding baseball, and was only ten shy of a world's record. He told me to hurry up and take a few more lumps so he could secure his place in medical history. I promised to do my best.

I found Professor Ring Wordhollow in his office, surrounded by piles and piles of Toon balloons.

With his slender, rounded appendages and limber joints, Wordhollow resembled a stick doll manufactured out of LifeSavers and rubber bands. He wore a shapeless pair of nubbly blue wool trousers, a white shirt, an ink-spotted green tie tucked into his waistband, and a belted shooting jacket with half a dozen pens and pencils filling the loops designed to hold shotgun shells.

As head of UCLA's Visual Linguistics Department, Wordhollow devoted his life to the study of Toon conversation. He pored over balloons the way touts read the racing form. He could point out subtle-and to him, thrilling-differences in texture, thickness, circumference, lettering style. As a human, he had a major handicap in the exercise of his chosen academic specialty. A scholar of American history could easily learn to speak English. Wordhollow could hold his nose and blow until his face turned blue. He'd never produce a balloon.

I gave him the one my attacker left behind. He promised to take a look.

A revolving circle of Toons picketed the entrance to Schwab's. Seems Hollywood's most famous drugstore discriminated. It refused to serve Toons their daily dose of tutti-frutti.

I say throw open the door and invite them inside. They want to spend five bits for a two-bit soda, let them. They want to sit next to humans and gobble overpriced French fries, who cares? Eddie Valiant's definition of civil rights. Their money's as good as anybody else's. I ought to know. I'm the one working for a rabbit.

I ducked my head, stiffened my arm, and plowed into the tightly packed bubble clusters of protest which blocked the front door. It was like swimming through the sting and pop in a bottle of beer.

Once you got past the turmoil, it was a typical day at Schwab's. Out-of-work actors and actresses hogged the counter stools nursing cheeseburgers, lime rickeys, and the hope of being discovered. The only stars I saw sparkled in the eyes of the rubbernecked tourists lined up for booths.

On my way to the fountain, I checked out the counter dollies. I tallied four pairs of pretty good legs, one set of blue eyes so fiery they could melt the Tin Man, and enough angora sweaters to wrap King Kong's high school ring. My purely unofficial opinion was good quality, but not great. Nobody likely to replace Jean Harlow this year. Or any year, for that matter.