The king orders Yosemite Sam, bring me some hasenpfeffer. Sam gets that devilish rootin’-tootin’ grin, grows a thought balloon populated by Bugs Bunny chomping on a carrot. His firing six shooters propel him off the ground. Maybe this is the time it all comes together, he thinks, varmint makes his way into said stew. Sam hadn’t acquainted himself with the historical works, though, and their harsh inevitable truths: Wile E. never gets the Roadrunner, James Bond always escapes the evil genius trap, Sisyphus never manages to keep that boulder stationary.
Sam doesn’t know he’s an eye blink away from the real world. One day he could wake up and see that Bugs Bunny is his boss, the man who plunders his bank account, the cad who steals his love.
He could be pushed out of his cartoon into the sitcom of real life, scrubbed and cleaned and dropped into middle class life. Be forced to shave his beard. Ditch his Western gear for neutral suits and polo shirts. Shelve his raging pistols for lawnmowing and golfing foursomes. Become the face in the crowd. A tame automaton. One day, he thinks, I’ll make it back, give that rabbit his comeuppance. For now, though, everyone’ll call him plain old Sam. Buy him a diet soda.