Molested by cholesterol, Sylvester requested a better test from his doctor, but Daffy Duck just cachinnated wackily and sang the same looney tune as usual, laughing like a lunatic leaping on the moon.
Governor Bugs Bunny deemed it unfunny that Tweety wasn’t such a sweety, while Elmer Fudd, whose name was mud, suggested Sylvester resist eating the Road Runner’s eggs, and Woody Woodpecker popped in from another cartoon community, apologizing to Popeye for pecking out his eye.
Meanwhile, Olive Oyl recoiled in horror, surrendering to sorrow, but Bluto consoled her with a stolen can of spinach he’d lifted from a health food shop in Greenwich Village while visiting New York, a port he supported with the authority of Professor Porky Pig, a retired police officer dedicated to overcoming his stutter, but Foghorn Leghorn buttered him up in order to get a better grade, unbeknownst to Scooby Doo, a clueless buckaroo for whom study was taboo–a fine how do you do!
Wile E. Coyote met an old woman who lived in a shoe and talked like Truman Capote. He offered to sell her a colossal sock to help keep warm with her animated family in the wincing winter. She rejected his offer with chattering teeth and painted an unflattering picture of the scrofulous huckster for the pusillanimous newspaper she wrote a column for.
Wile didn’t have time to shed tears over her shenanigans. He needed to buy some dynamite for his wannigan and paddle his canoe down the Colorado River before it ran dry so he could track down his nemesis, whose premise was to grimace between supersonic trips down the highway, unpursued by semis or any manner of traffic whatsoever, to make the cartoonists’ lives easier so they could put down their pens and rest, while Sylvester resisted the Easter egg festival and a chance to murder Tweety in favor of convalescence at the unsuccessful hospital, whose patients always ended up in the cemetery next door because they had too much patience and not enough money, but that was the way the world worked when the voice actors went on strike and the artists tipped over their paint boxes, refusing to work because the fat cats who’d hired them were too busy grooming themselves in their own litter boxes, impressed by their sleek, gleaming coats and restlessly flickering tails.