Bruce the Butthole Bunny, "The Bitch Takes Me On a Trip To 1974"

I’ve heard the Bitch say over and over that whenever she wants to get some real time off from work she has to leave the state to do it; well, that whining sack of crazy really one-upped herself this time when she packed up and left the damn CENTURY!

Since before Christmas she’d been bitching about how everybody else got to sit around with their family for the holidays and have some sort of gay hippie love-in that sounds nothing like the way I’d imagine those sort of get-togethers play out (assuming Married With Children is an accurate indicator of how things work with your typical American family. Clearly I assume it is).

Me, I was happy to be left on my couch that day so she could go drink beers in the Valley with her softball buddies who are obsessed with douche and…well, I’m pretty sure that’s all they talk about, really. Considering their all-consuming fascination with a squirt bottle that gets stuck up your twat, I was shedding no tears being left at home to enjoy a foreign object free day with my butthole.

And on account of most people’s friends seem to be far more tolerable than their families, I wasn’t tore up over not being with them either. She just couldn’t let the family bonding thing go, though, so after what she described as “retail holiday hell” petered out, she belted me down in the car and we took off for some middle of the woods coastal town whose claim to fame is that the Sheriff ran on a platform of no marijuana arrests.

As we pull off the highway onto a dirt road that looks like it’ll drop us off somewhere in the middle of Deliverance, a deep-rooted fear is awakened inside me. This place is remote, no cell service, secluded from civilized society, view blocked by trees, surrounded by underdeveloped parcels of land…

I’m gonna get dirty. Laugh if you will, but even though ignorant pricks mistake me for a pig at times, I’m a plush white bunny; if I get mud on me it’s gonna looked like I crapped myself. I’m classier than that.

As I pray for a miracle and a can of Scotchguard, the Bitch pulls up and parks in front of the house time told to fuck off. It’s so obvious this place hasn’t been touched in the last 30 years that I’m half expecting it to be covered in a cloud of dust thicker than the one on the Bitch’s snatch.

The Bitch shoves me into a bin of dirty clothes she’s been too cheap and lazy to take to the Laundromat in the last month, so naturally I emerge from that smelling fantastic. I guess it was too much to ask that she show me the same care as the jug of moonshine she coddles all the way up to the refrigerator.

But hell, if I had the personality she does I’d make sure there was plenty of booze available to keep my guests from fleeing. Of course, she’ll probably just get them drunk and encourage them to find new limits to push my asshole to. Maybe I’ll just hide under the one of the parachutes she calls underwear and pray she forgets I’m there.

For a while I’m left at peace. It stinks, but at least I’m insulated from her constant braying. I do start to worry that our location is being broadcast to all the local inbreds and I’ve got no one here who’s got my back. So as soon as the Bitch does fish me out to let me play in the mounds of shag carpeting covering every surface of the house, I post myself by the window to see what sort of unsavories have been summoned to our location.

It takes about an hour, but truck after mud-flapped truck pull up and deposit the Bitch’s family at the house. Lucky for me they’re a bunch of lumberjacks, hunters and hippies who are more interested in eating rabbits than fingering them. Real lucky.

After all the hooch disappears the Two Buck Chuck begins to flow. Apparently convinced that having wine stained teeth makes you a damn sommelier, the Bitch proclaims we’re going to Napa the next day to have some real wine. She then grabs at me and throws me into a room with giant stuffed rams heads on the wall and tells me to rest up and have sweet dreams. Another adventure tomorrow. Fan-fucking-tastic…

From my new coffee table book: Bruce the Butthole Bunny

"My Hero, John Atkinson"



John Atkinson was one of the first people the Bitch introduced me to. First impression: he’s overweight, balding, works for a makeup website and he’s hanging out with a c-rag who picked me up just so she could stick her filthy fingers in my ass; clearly this guy’s a loser.

Not that you’d ever hear me admit to being wrong, but I couldn’t have been more uninformed about this guy (clearly the Bitch’s fault).

First off, even after constant prodding, the guy won’t stick even a pinkie finger in my ass; classy. On top of that, his priorities with less than an hour until his international flight leaves the ground are to get two gallons of Scotch and a carton of cigarettes from duty free, smoke one of said cigarettes, get several drinks at the bar and NOT finger my asshole.

He further impresses me by trying to light a cigarette in a bar that clearly prohibits it. Definitely my style. In addition, when the bartender approaches him about putting his smoke out (mine remains lit far after his is extinguished. Bruce:1, Society: fuck all), the guy argues with the bartender long enough to smoke half a stick and then gets the SOB to buy him a shot! The guy’s a rock star.





All the while, the Bitch is over there yammering on about how great she is because she got some schmuck to rent her apartment for $600 while she’s gone. You think with all that loot to burn moneybag’s bought me even a single drink? No.

But since he had a free shot and a bit of nicotine in him, John saw it fit to buy me a round of his favorite: double grey goose and soda. Apparently he orders this drink because it’s the best way to get hammered without too many calories. I think it’s a little queer, but it’s sound logic and it sure did fuck me up.







I hear the TSA people aren’t supposed to let you on a plane when you’re trashed, but John did a good job of covering for me. He spits some garbage about travel anxiety and animal tranquilizers and I get a little pat on the head and my own seat in the section with the hot stewardesses.

I know what you’re thinking: Bruce, you’re a rabbit with a butthole that gets more action than a Santa Monica Blvd tranny; what are you doing looking at chicks?

First of all, I’ll tell you to mind your own goddam business, thank you very much. Yeah, I don’t really go for chicks, but while I’m not that hot on eating steak either, sometimes I order it because it’s the best thing on the menu, you know?

Plus I like motorboating. Who doesn’t?

There’s a bunch of other reasons John Atkinson is my hero, like the fact that he paid $2 a minute to call home his last day in Australia to make sure the person picking him up from the airport had his flight information and his drink requests, but that'll wait for another chapter...