Ah the joy of butter tarts. A purely Canadian delicacy that I came to love, as a child. They are also the reason I put on my first pair of evilpants. You see, when I was but a wee jackalope, my family visited Ontario often. We lived in the Detroit area, and it was not a long journey.

They loved butter tarts, and stocked up every time they visited. The problem was, they didn't like to share. Each of us kids would get one or two tarts, and the rest went under lock and key! At first, I just accepted this as the way things were. But as I grew older and wiser, the truth became clear. It was a conspiracy! A butter tart conspiracy the likes of which had never been seen before.

While the grown-ups were getting all fat and happy on butter tarts, us kids were forced to subsist on fruits and vegetables. Oh, the humanity! One night, while my parents slept, I got into their tart cache. I decimated it. And, just for good measure, I ate all of their cookies, too! I showed them just who was the boss. I then disappeared into the night.

As I got older, things quickly spiralled out of control. I found myself in Windsor more, and more. Walking the streets, late at night. Hoping to find an all night bakery, or a butter tart pusher. It became an expensive habit.

I started knitting my own fur into toques, to sell on the corner. Sales were slow at first, but I made enough to support my habit. I even learned the language, to better fit in. I would find a kind looking person, and make my pitch: Please, sir? My mum has sent me into the streets to sell these toques, so that she can buy us all poutine for the week. She said that if I can't sell enough, she would have to sell me for stew. They are only three dollars.....eh?

Oh, it was almost too easy. I had tarts coming out of my ears. Then I hit bottom. I was eating four boxes a day. Walking around with butter tart filling clumped in my fur. I had quit bathing. Nobody would buy my hats, anymore. Every time I ate a tart I fell asleep. I had to detox. I had to get to a veterinarian soon.

I made my way to the bridge, but they wouldn't let me cross. They said I looked dangerous. Matted fur, crazy darting eyes all buzzed on sugar. I had no choice, but to swim for it. The Detroit river is no place for an adolescent jackalope, but I was a bunny on the edge.

Many people don't know this (you know who you are), but Jackalopes are strong swimmers. I made it across easily, even in my poor condition. At one point, though, I had to dive quickly, to avoid a freighter. When I emerged on shore, I had a catfish stuck to one of my antlers, and an old Reebok stuck to the other.

Normally, I prefer butter tarts, but I was so hungry I had to eat what I could get. That old shoe wasn't half bad (what? you thought I would eat the fish?).

By now, you're probably thinking that I'm a troubled Jackalope, but nothing evil, right? Up to this point, the story has been a simple explanation of the depth of my addiction. It was when I finally made it to the vet, that I put on my first pair of evilpants. He poked, and prodded (and probed. YUCK!). He extracted all manner of bodily fluids. When he returned, he told me I was diabetic. Not sure what that meant, I asked if that meant I was a low calorie Jackalope.

When he was done laughing at my ignorance, he explained the difference between dietetic, and diabetic. I was appalled!

It was a lengthy explanation, but I got the gist of it. I had to give up butter tarts! Not likely!!!

Here comes the evil part. It's kind of a blur, but I remember jumping up on his shoulder, and biting his ear. Then I kicked him in the nose, and sprinted out the door, without paying the bill.

I had to get back to Windsor. Back to the butter tarts. They were calling to me. Mocking me. I could hear them.

I cleaned myself up, so as to gain access to the Windsor tunnel ( they already knew me on the bridge). I made my way to the nearest Dominion. I don't know if they're still around, but the Dominion supermarket was my salvation, back in the day.

The last thing I remember is buying, and gorging on, several dozen boxes of butter tarts. When I awoke, about a week later, I realized the vet had been right all along. I had to give up the one true love of my life. I was consumed with bitterness.

I walked the streets, suffering withdrawal. I would ask passers-by if they enjoyed butter tarts. If they said yes, I would kick the unsuspecting soul in the shins. I began to raid grocery stores and bakeries, throwing their tarts into the trash bins. If I couldn't have these golden gems, nobody would have them!!!

It took the OPP (Ontario Provincial Police), and a brief incarceration, to straighten me out. Recently, I have been happily living out my days with a kind hubber. Some of you know him, but I shall not mention his name, as he may be embarrassed by my recent relapse. I will also take this opportunity to apologize to any of his Canadian friends whom I may have terrorized, in my blind butter tart rage.

rmr..I mean, the anonymous hubber in question, has set me back on the right path, and I hope to make restitution to you all. So please let me know if there's anything i can do (short of jumping into your stewpot) to make it up to you. Thank you so much for your understanding (I hope).