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...