The following interview with Mr. Elmer Fudd, patient #56778, was conducted by Dr. Marvin Seligman, senior staff psychiatrist at Acme Psychiatric Hospital.
* * *
Patient Fudd was found wandering in a forest, disoriented and in a state of mental and physical exhaustion. He carried a shotgun whose barrel had been tied into a large bow, like that on top of a gift. He said that a “cwazy wabbit” had done this, and that this act was the “wast stwaw.” The troop of Boy Scouts who discovered the sportsman brought him to Acme, where he was admitted earlier today.
Mr. Fudd told the admitting nurse that he was uncertain how many days he had been in the woods, though he said he is accustomed to spending the entirety of hunting season there.
Mr. Fudd is middle-aged, short, bald, and somewhat overweight, with a disproportionately large head. He presented as generally despondent and morose, though sudden bursts of rage and “thin-skinned” hypersensitivity suggest underlying mood lability. Below are the transcribed notes of his entrance interview.
Dr.: Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself, Mr. Fudd.
EF: I’m a huntuh. I hunt wabbits. One wabbit.
Dr.: Do you enjoy your work?
EF: Not weawwy.
Dr.: And why is that, do you think?
EF: Because the wabbit always outwits me.
Dr.: “Outrits” you?
EF: Oh, you awe howwible! You’we a meanie! I got a gun, you know! It may be tied into a bow, but I could still smack you wight on the head with it!
Dr.: Forgive me, I just wasn’t sure—never mind. He outwits you. Please continue.
EF: He’s a twickster. Vewy cwever, vewy devious. Sometimes, when I have my gun wight in his face, he just takes out a big cawwot and chews on it, as welaxed and nonchawant as you pwease. This gets me all distwacted, and I forget that I’m supposed to be hunting him—especiawwy when he asks me if I’ve seen any wabbits awound, and if he can help me hunt for them. Sometimes he fools me by dwessing up as a ballewina or Mae West and kissing me on the wips, which I hate. Then he sticks his stupid cawwot wight into the end of my gun, and when I pull the twigguh, all the buckshot expwodes in my face. And he just waughs and waughs.
Dr.: May I ask how long you have been hunting this particular rabbit?
EF: Evuh since I can wemembuh. My whole wife.
Dr.: And yet you continue to pursue him.
EF: My motto is, “If at fuwst you don’t succeed, twy, twy again.”
Dr.: Mr. Fudd, do the words “perseverating” and “perseverance” have any significance for you?
EF: They both have two awes I can’t pwonounce?
Dr.: True, but I’m thinking about the meanings of the words. In perseverating, we practice a kind of repetition compulsion, an obsessive need to repeat, over and over, an action that is futile, while in persevering we attempt to attain a realistic and healthy goal. I must say to you, difficult as it may be to hear, that I feel it is extremely unlikely you will ever catch this rabbit.
EF: Who asked you, anyway, Mistuh Smawtypants?
Dr.: But perhaps—just perhaps—you don’t want to catch him. Perhaps you have picked a rabbit who is uncatchable, at least by you.
EF: That’s cwazy! Why would anyone do that?
Dr.: Perhaps that is what you have come here to Acme to work through. Let me ask you this: How do you think you’d feel if you did catch this rabbit?
EF: Oh, many times I think I have caught him, and he seems to be dying in my awms. He says, “I can’t see, evewything’s tuwning bwack, bwack…”
Dr.: And how does that feel?
EF: Twuthfuwwy? Tewwible. These feewings of gweat shame wush over me, and I say, “I killed a poouh wittle gway fuzzy wabbit!” And then I cwy and cwy.
Dr.: In other words, as soon as you think you have slain your adversary—the very goal you have been struggling so mightily to achieve—you are overwhelmed with feelings of remorse.
EF: Pwetty much.
Dr.: Why is that, do you think?
EF: How should I know! But I always get mad wight away again, because he jumps up and calls me a big dope or turns his wong ears into pwopewwuhs and fwies away.
Dr.: And the whole cycle begins anew.
EF: What the heck am I supposed to do? Take up another wine of wuhk? At this wate stage?
Dr.: Change can certainly be a scary prospect, Mr. Fudd. But what I’m hearing is that you don’t even enjoy the successful outcome of your hunt, as ephemeral as it may be. Perhaps being a hunter isn’t really who you are. Wouldn’t it be nice to explore what a more authentic, happier self might be for you?
EF: No! I don’t want to be fixed! I don’t want to be cuewed! I’ll woose what makes me special! My edge. My dwive. My Elmuh Fuddness. I’ll be just another schmuck with a speech impediment.
Dr.: Not at all. You will still be Elmer Fudd. But you will be a much less miserable Elmer Fudd. A more fully dimensional Elmer Fudd.
EF: Where’s the adwenawine wush? Where’s the dwama?
Dr.: Well, those intense but fleeting feelings, those “highs” and “lows,” would be replaced by the deeper, more fulfilling pleasures of marriage and family, of connection and community and love.
EF: Will I have to go to PTA meetings? Will I have to assemble compwicated toys at midnight on Chwistmas Eve from instwuctions that have been twanslated into mangled Engwish fwom Japanese?
Dr.: Probably.
EF: Will I have to pwetend to be intewested when my wife talks about pwobiotics? Will she have a bunch of wehwatives whose names I can nevuh wemembuh? Will I have to say “Stop kicking my chaiw” to my childwen at the dinnuh table for eighteen yeaws? Will I have to go shopping at Macy’s on Bwack Fwiday with the west of humanity?
Dr.: Well, all those things are a part of ordinary life.
EF: Can I say something?
Dr.: Of course.
EF: Yecch! It sounds excwuciating!
Dr.: Do you mean boring?
EF: To say the weast!
Dr.: It’s not as boring as you think. There are moments of great excitement, great stimulation.
EF: What moments?
Dr.: Well, there’s sex, for one thing.
EF: I don’t even know what that is.
Dr.: Then you’re in for a treat, Mr. Fudd.
EF: Is it wike hunting that cwazy wabbit?
Dr.: I’m sorry, I’m not following you.
EF: Is it humiwiating and fwustwating, and aftewud do you feel the pain of wegwet?
Dr.: No, not usually. Only sometimes.
EF: Weawwy?
Dr.: Yes.
EF: That’s good enough for me. I’m in.
* * *
Mr. Fudd seemed greatly cheered by this prospect, breaking into sudden staccato laughter (“Huh uh uh uh uh uh uh!”). At this moment, this interviewer experienced a sudden sinking realization: Mr. Fudd is hardwired to experience pain as pleasure. It is his nature, nothing less.
Perhaps, earlier in his career, this interviewer would have recommended to Mr. Fudd an extended course of psychotherapy. But experience has shown that for patients such as Mr. Fudd, all the talk therapy in the world will not alter their behavior. Electroconvulsive and/or cognitive behavioral therapy may effect some change, but it will be temporary. The patient will eventually return to his essential, despondent self.
It is recommended that a bed at Acme be reserved annually for Mr. Fudd, so that he may spend several days recovering from the rigors of the useless pursuit of his foe. He should then be released—back to the forest, back to the rabbit who torments him so successfully. Some things you just can’t fix.