Battling the baneful bunny brigade

By Sean Pearson

One of my greatest and most terrifying fears has finally come true: A raucous rabble of rabbits is stalking me.
I know that sounds a little odd, but surely you don’t think I would make such a leap without a cacophony of cogent evidence to back it up?
Do you?
If I remember correctly, we went through my stellar childhood collection of stuffed animals in a Spiew a few years back, so I’ll try to refrain from boring you with the details. I was a Winnie the Pooh kind of guy in my younger years. Don’t get me wrong; I had my fair share of Boo Kittys and even a stuffed butterfly. (OK. It was actually more of a moth-like thing. I can tell you it wasn’t some kind of “sissy” stuffed animal; it was one tough butterfly .. err … moth.)
I allowed only the fiercest and most cold-blooded stuffed animals to guard me while I slept. In fact, every night, I would line the perimeter of my bed with my appliqued army for reasons yet unknown to many. (Well some, anyway.)
But, at no time in that era of created comfort did I ever consider owning a stuffed rabbit.
It’s just wrong.
Some people really like rabbits. I’m not one of those people. That’s just one of many things I’ve come to learn about through my weekly hare family therapy. (Turns out rabbits don’t do well with insight therapy, but can role-play like crazy.)
So … while I certainly don’t gleefully do a small dance of joy in my head every time I see a bunny who met his or her demise via a flat, macabre canvas on the pavement, I shed no tears for them, either. There’s just something about bunnies that drives terror into my very being. The puffy tail, the large teeth, the twitching nose; what about that doesn’t scream “feral rabbit attack” to you?
Now, before I bound down another path of misdirected consciousness, let me state for the record that I am in no way responsible for any unusual bunny-happenings around here following what I am about to disclose. You may begin to notice an influx of the malevolent mammals cleverly disguised as cuddly creatures. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I first noticed an aggressiveness toward bunnies when I was about 4 years old, and discovered just how much I enjoyed biting the ears off the chocolate rabbits we got at Easter. (I even tried biting the heads off those “Peeps,” just to prove to myself that I enjoyed it as much. But that failed miserably, and you wouldn’t believe the headache you can get from eating four packages of colorful, sugared marshmallows shaped like tiny chicks.)
I’m sure I will either hear from PETA or the chocolatiers society on that graphic description of bunny and chick violence. No worries. It only gets more disturbingly graphic from here.
“Watership Down.”
If the name itself doesn’t strike fear into the hearts of you avid leporine fans, I say you’re smokin’ crack. Who writes a politically allegorical novel about a bunch of rabbits? And who reads it to their sixth-grade class? I’m sorry, but the efforts of Hazel and Fiver to embark on an odyssey to escape their demise and re-establish their warren on Watership Down did little to boost my confidence in real-world scenarios — like climbing that stupid rope in the gym. Nor did it inspire me to embrace the entire rabbit culture. Instead, I felt myself grow more and more resentful toward the creatures of the hop.
Still — I vowed to keep an open mind. Everyone else seemed to find them so cute and cuddly. Perhaps there was something I just didn’t get.
Sure, Thumper was kinda cute, and I could certainly identify with Bugs’ sarcasm. Still … something was missing. Roger Rabbit left me feeling like the characters were rather flat and needed more development. And I still haven’t made it through a full showing of Alice in Wonderland without falling asleep. I’m sure it’s a perfectly good story, but I always seem to lose interest once the White Rabbit appears. So, for that reason, if you have any questions about the psychological significance and societal symbolism of the White Rabbit, I’m afraid I’ll have to refer you to the Alibi Bar. Tell ‘em the Rabbit Slayer sent you.
And no clowns, either.
I hate clowns.
The only thing worse than a clown is a bunny dressed up as a clown.
Great … now I’m trembling …

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Posted by on Oct 13th, 2010 and filed under Spiew. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. Both comments and pings are currently closed.

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