It's been said that there are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Our story today, though one of profound grief, doesn't fit neatly into these categories. However, anger and depression certainly come to mind.

A relaxing evening at home for our rabbit-lady, casually painting and non-ironically listening to Styx while decked out in comfortable, stylish "teen bibs". What could possibly go wrong?

THIS could go wrong, that's what. Only the COLD HAND OF DEATH reaching out and taking - NO! Not JERRY GARCIA!

Yes, this is a furry comic about the emotional impact of the death of Grateful Dead guitarist Jerry Garcia. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance... Go ahead, cycle through 'em. I'll wait.

Yes, it is a tragedy unheard of in American history, the death of an obese, drug-abusing, diabetic middle-aged rock star. Why, God? WHY?? Haven't the Grateful Dead suffered enough, God? You've already taken Pig-Pen from us! And Keith Godchaux! And, uh Brent Mydland. In fact the shock here is that the rest of the band was still breathing. And that Jerry probably lasted a lot longer than anybody expec... No no, shock, despair, sadness, definitely sadness.

You know how he was with drugs! In that he, uh, took a lot of them. For decades. But hey, every tragedy has a silver lining, it's time for a trip to Frisco!

And with a montage set to that one Grateful Dead song that everybody knows, mostly because it clocked in at under eight minutes and wasn't comprised solely of noodly, meandering guitar solos, our rabbit-human mother-daughter duo prepares for their epic journey. By the way: "Jerry Garcia died, man, okay" is not on the list of Department Of Labor-accepted reasons for ditching work. HA HA! What am I saying? Deadheads don't have JOBS!

If only all America's infants could be exposed at an early age to the beauty and wonder of a muddy field packed with unwashed jam-band worshipping hippies.

"There was so much joy and happiness going around!" Also crabs and the clap, but those aren't nearly as cute as the charming spectacle of a fox-thing and a tiger-thing staring at a rabbit-thing's tits. Oh yeah, syphilis, that was going around too. Summer of love, man.

And here we go with the part that demonstrates why I hate that whole self-obsessed hippy generation; it's because they can't even let the tragic death of a public figure go by without reminding us all that THEIR idols were SO MUCH MORE IMPORTANT than ours or anybody else's. That god forbid the world not UNDERSTAND the TRAGEDY behind the overdue death of some irrelevant, smack-addled, millionaire jam band guitarist. We're just jealous, I guess.

Finally our grieving rabbit-things arrive in San Francisco, where rabbit-people and fox-things and dog-men all forget their differences and come together to mourn the passing of the greatest, most influential figure to ever... ever, man. Period. Look man I can't talk about it right now, you can't really put it into words, listen my friend, these are tapes from the New Glarus '73 and Greeks '88 shows, they're both soundboard and they were given to me by a wise old sage named Darkstar who's no longer with us... got a dollar?

BY THE WAY HIPPIES, be sure to keep enough of your material posessions (money) around to afford the new exciting digital multimedia Grateful Dead social-media MMO online community experience that's coming soon! (not a joke.)