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Posted by Realist on December 26, 2008 – 8:31 am

Isn’t it time for ridiculous?

our dear Second Life friend, Witchy sends along this song, and it’s disturbing translation.

Het was kerstochtend 1961, ik weet het nog zo goed
It was christmasmorning 1961, i remember it so well

Mijn konijnehok was leeg
The bunny cage was empty

En moeder zei dat ik niet in de schuur mocht komen
My mother told me i couldn’t go in the barn

En als ik lief ging spelen
And if i was sweet and going to play

Dat ik dan wat lekkers kreeg
I get candy

Zij wist ook niet waar Flappie uit kon hangen
She didnt know eigter where Flappie was

Ze zou het papa vragen, maar omdat hij bezig was
She would ask daddy, but because he was busy

In het fietsenschuurtje, moest ik maar een uurtje
In the bikebarn, i had to try to look

Goed naar Flappie zoeken, hij liep vast wel ergens op het gras
Good for Flappie, he nust be walking on the grass

Maar ik had het hok toch goed dichtgedaan
But I closed the cage very good

Zoals ik dat elke avond deed
Like i did everynight

Ik was de vorige avond zelfs nog teruggegaan
I went go back last night to see

Ik weet ook niet waarom ik dat deed
I dont know why i did

Ik had heel lang voor het hok gestaan
I stood a long time before the cage

Alsof ik wist wat ik nu weet
If I knew what i knew now

Het was eerste kerstdag 1961, wij naar Flappie zoekn
It was christmasday 1961, we all went to search for flappie

Vader, die zocht gewoon mee
Dad was searching too

Bij de bomen en het water, maar niet in dat fietsenschuurtje
WiTh the trees and the water, but not in the barn

Want daar kon ‘ie toch niet zitten en ik schudde nee
He coulnt go there

We zochten samen, samen tot de koffie, de familie aan de koffie
We looked togheter, then the family drank coffee

Maar ik hoefde niet
But i didnt wanted too

Ik dacht aan Flappie en dat het ‘s nachts heel koud kon vriezen
I thougth about Flappie and that it was freezing at night

Mijn hoofdje stil gebogen, dikke tranen van verdriet
My head bowed, and cried

Het was eerste kerstdag 1961, er werd luidruchtig gegeten
It was christmasday 1961, and they started toe at

Maar dat deed me niet zoveel
It didnt much to me

Ik dacht aan Flappie, mijn eigen kleine Flappie
I thought about flappie, my own sweet flappie

Waar zou ‘ie lopen, geen hap ging door mijn keel
Where could heb e, i couldnt eat

Toen na de soep het hoofdgerecht zou komen
After soup the got the second food JJ

Sprak mij vader uiterst grappig: “kijk Youp daar is Flappie dan”
My father said if he was funny, Look kid there is Flappie

Ik zie de zilveren schaal nog en daar lag hij in drie stukken
I still see the silver plate and there he was in 3 pieces

Voor het eerst zag ik mijn vader als een vreselijke man
For the first time i saw my father as a terrible man

Ik ben gillend en stampend naar bed gegaan
I went yelling to my bed

Heb eerst een uur liggen huilen op de sprei
I cried fora n our on my bed

Nog een keer scheldend boven aan de trap gestaan
Ten went above the stairs and screamed

En geschreeuwd “Flappie was van mij”
Flappy was mine

Ik heb heel lang voor het raam gestaan
I stood for a long time behind the window

Maar het hok stond er maar verlaten bij
And the cage looked very empty

Het was tweede kerstdag 1961, moeder weet dat nog zo goed
Itwas christmasday1961. my mother knows so well

Vaders bed was leeg
Vaders bed was empty

En ik zei dat zij niet in de schuur mocht komen
I said she couldn’t go in the barn

En als ze lief ging spelen
And if shesweet and going to play

Dat ze dan wat lekkers kreeg
She got candy


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7 Responds so far- Add one»

  1. 1. Terrible Said:

    That is pretty twisted. Any time I hear Germany and rabbits in the same story I think of when I was stationed there and we had rabbit in the mess hall frequently. Sometimes they’d try to pass it off as chicken. I guess they had a bit of a rabbit over-population then and that was why the US military had some in the mess hall.

  2. 2. mirele Said:


    I figured that’s what happened to the rabbit when I started reading. But I read it to the bitter end.

  3. 3. SeattleTammy Said:

    Witchy is Dutch, and I’ve found her to have a wicked sick sense of humor! If you want to see a picture of her, she’s sitting next to the General on his xmas card.

  4. 4. Anntichrist S. Coulter Said:

    I don’t eat the bundy wabbits, neither. But damn if this song isn’t long-winded!

    Besides, I can’t see the point, unless you’re HAVING to hunt yer own food, of eating rodents. They tried to convince people in south Louisiana to think of NUTRIA RATS as “game” and to hunt the nasty orange-toothed mutants for the flesh and fur. A meat that is not unlike that of, say, the rats they ate that first season of Survivor. In other words, not so much “exotic” (though nutria ARE a foreign species, let loose upon the delta through the sheer stupidity of one particularly-clusterfucked Chalmatian) as GROSS. Greasy, stinky, nasty gross.

    Didn’t get real far with that PR campaign. So the Jefferson Parish deputies still go spotlighting in the canals at night, trying to off the vicious motherfuckers and keep them from destroying the drainage systems.

    I know that most people don’t think of rabbits as rodents, but I’d no sooner eat rabbit than I would eat a hamster. I’d have to be DAMNED HUNGRY and completely bereft of options and ramen noodles before I went there. I’m not generally a food snob, but I am damned picky. Wouldn’t eat cat or dog or horse, either, even though other people do.

  5. 5. Gen. JC Christian, Patriot Said:

    [21:55] Witchy Whitfield: I will try to Explain
    The guy who sings this is a Dutch comedian.
    I think its funny and if it was real what he sang i would go after him:)
    I love rabbits and I understand what a child is going true when he find out his rabbit is on the christmastable:)


    …and the General

  6. 6. Anntichrist S. Coulter Said:

    Sir, we got the jokes, that’s what we appreciated about the “Fried Green Tomatoes” aspect.

    It’s just SO MUCH, is all I was saying.

    Well that, and I just love bundy wabbits too much to think of them as FOOD. I know, I know, billions and trillions the world over enjoy the hare and have survived on it in the worst of times. If it suits the palate and is readily accessible to those who hunt, more power to ’em. But I ain’t eatin’ no bundy wabbits.

    And if somebody ate my bundy wabbit, I’d probably wanna make ’em “the secret’s in the sauce” BBQ, too! Kinda like how I felt about those thugs behind the P.O. who wanted to throw the feral cats I was trapping INTO THE BONFIRE. DeRidder white trash bullies/knuckle-dragging neanderthals who think of cats as VERMIN, when it’s really the reverse.

    Always good to see you come by, Sir! If I have to get the spine/neck/cervical-disc surgery that I’ve been trying to avoid for the past year (still hoping that the traction treatments can pull it out right, rather than having my trachea ripped-out to get to the front of my spine!!!), I might re-invite you to help carry the M.O.B. standard whilst I'm laid-up and weighed-down by a big metal halo brace. Just cross yer fingers & toes that I can weasel outta the surgery and still regain use of my hands!

    After all that, how M.O.B. became a group blog, my bestest buds and most-respected bloggers stepping in to keep her up & running whilst I was felled by the WORLD'S WORST SPINAL FUSION EVER. I dunno what I'd do without y'all.

    BTW, one of my so-called parents WANTED children raised a beautiful, gentle, intelligent, amazing polled Hereford steer for 4-H/FFA on year, and we all LOVED George. Was like walking a dog, he was so well-behaved and mannerly, so laid-back and even affectionate.

    But y'all know how 4-H & FFA critters end. Somebody buys half, the family keeps half, and you live off of that steer all fall & winter.

    We all bawled like babies when we ate that first batch of hamburger, but DAMN if George didn't eat well. Most tender, well-fed bovine flesh we'd ever tasted. But with every fucking bite, we all remembered IT WAS GEORGE. Talk about your bittersweet gastronomic adventures… *sigh* At least George wasn't a "real pet," but he was way too damned close. They really shouldn't name the ones we're gonna EAT, it makes it that much harder to not fall in love with your future side of beef.

    But that's agriculture. Sucks to be the grass-eater in that equation. Knew a boy from Buffalo who, as the baby of the family, was assigned the task of having to KILL all of the bunnies he raised for his family. His bunnies, and they made HIM kill them. "Character-building," they said. Sociopath, is what it made him. But hey, at least he never tortured them or made it "fun." He put them out of their misery as quickly as possible, and he never enjoyed it. But it definitely dented his prospective personality for life. Who does that to a kid?!?!!? He fucking LOVED those bunny rabbits. His douchebag dad could've killed & cleaned 'em, dammit. That's just fucking sadism.

  7. 7. RenB Said:

    I once knew a woman, Monica…. If you wanted her company, all you had to do was ask her to go out and eat chicken. And she would be very amusing, and all, and loved to relate one horrific thing from her childhood.

    Her parents had a chicken farm in northern Vermont, and she had one special one that was a favorite pet. As in the song, it landed on the dinner plate one Sunday, and she was devastated.

    How she got to where she was then I never found out….

    Wabbits taste nice, if you do them right. It took me years to even dare, and at the market, they have to leave the heads on so you know it IS one… Like little foetuses-…

    But at least I figured, it wasn’t someone#s PET… And yes, it makes no sense…

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