My Rabbit had an Abortion.

I call Ivy my rabbit "joues" sometimes because it means "cheeks" in French and she's got the fattest little pinchy-cheeks ever. I used to call her "cheeks" but the secondary meaning made me feel like I was calling her a butt face, which she is decidedly not. Her cheeks are so pinchy that they make her mouth into a square and she looks like a grumpy fat banker in a cartoon about a grumpy, villainous fat banker. He's going to up your rent and take your house and also chew on some of the furniture until you clap your hands to scare him. I don't call her joues in public however because it sounds exactly like the English word "Jew" if you pronounced the "J" in "Jew" like a flambuoyant asshole and "are you eating your poops today, Jew?" sounds odd out of context drifting out of an open window on the summer breeze. Furthermore everyone knows that Ivy was in fact baptized in a formal Roman Catholic mass sacrifice like all of God's rightful children.

Because we're moving a lot recently and are for all intents and purposes a gypsy family of transients at the moment, we had to get really smart about our stuff. So we carefully went through all of our shit and our paperwork, including the bunny adoption papers. While I was leafing through them, ruing the amount of money we spent on rabbit painkillers when we should have just given them a spoon to bite down on (get a job, you parasites) I noticed some additional paperwork on Ivy's spay.

Basically, Ivy had an abortion, you guys. She actually had like four at once, since there were four babies in her belly when she got spayed. See, when the vet goes in to do a spay, they can't really tell if the rabbit is going to have babies in her uterus or not, so it's kind of a surprise when they remove it. Surprise! Dead bunny fetuses! Good morning, by the way!

See, this brings me to a dilemma. I just feel like for Catholic adopters such as myself and Julien, the shelter might have had some sort of warning. Maybe a big red "A" painted on her cage or something. I mean, what are we, a convent? We can't just be taking in every slutty teenaged bunny mother in the metro area, it's obscene. And now how am I supposed to deal with her? Now that I know she's just a bunny whore, how do I introduce her to my impressionable babies? We have a boy bunny in this household, how can I trust them alone together? We are God-fearing people in this house.

Who is the father, even? I bet she doesn't even know. I can't even walk into a pet store now without being plagued by thoughts of my rabbit's licentiousness. I saw a pair of bunnies just the other day with a similar rare spot pattern to hers. Are they her kids too? Don't ask Ms. Welfare Queen over here, she'll just give you a side-eye and beg for a carrot. Always take, take, taking. I don't even want to get into the numerous times I've found her in bed with my husband. "Oh she just wanted a little scratch, it's perfectly innocent", "Oh she just wanted to push the blanket around for some reason", "Oh your pillow case is torn up because she got lost inside of it and tried to claw herself out". Right. Listen, I don't care what kind of weird shit you're into, just keep it in the litter box.

So now here I am, entrapped into caring for this rabbit of the night, who won't even suckle her own young because it would be "inconvenient" for her to "develop a gynecological cancer". So, we've weighed our options and we've decided to start accepting recipes for rabbit stew. If we find any good ones, the Republican party is welcome to them. What other choice have we...?

HEY. YOU. IN THE SUIT.

Hey. American men. Your suits don't fucking fit. They never have and they never will, because you do not understand or appreciate how to buy or wear proper attire, or anything besides over-large wrestling t-shirts and dress socks with sneakers.

You're standing there, on the subway, winking at me like you're fucking hot shit while wearing a blue body/white cuffs and collar combo shirt like it's 1984 and you just stock marketed the shit out of Wall Street or whatever the fuck bank people do. Furthermore, you're wearing black motherfucking trousers with a shirt that's the type of blue that says "I'm just slightly too dark to be robin's egg blue, but definitely not dark enough to be interesting, so I'll just be the most corporate-looking, hospital-issued scrubs color that I can possibly be". And are those actual buttons on a fake French cuff? Where do you even find a lying liar shirt like that?

Are those brown shoes with black trousers, you son of a bitch? The only people who can get away with wearing mismatched shoes and trousers are priests on vacation, because they only have one pair of black dress shoes that they have to wear with everything. No one else gets a pass. I'm talking to you, boat-shoes-and-jeans. Who do you think you are? Hm?

This is not to even touch upon you bitches wearing jackets three sizes too large in the shoulders. Oh, you think I forgot because it's summer and everyone is walking around in shirt sleeves? I never forget. You think you can hit on me in the street while looking like you're wearing your big brother's one nice suit to your First Communion and that won't make some kind of an impression? Think again, dicks!  And just because you've foregone the jacket for the summer doesn't mean you can swim around in your giant-bodied dress shirt and think no one will notice because you tucked the four yards of excess fabric into your khakis that balloon out at the pleated front like a middle-aged woman's hips that she used to bear her eleven children. I noticed, and you look like a goddamn fool. Also, hem your trousers, Fred Mertz, it's not 1950 anymore.

I'd like to take a moment now and talk a little bit about ties. If you do not know how to wear a tie, do not wear a fucking tie. If you're pretty sure you know how to wear a tie and think your five-inch wide G.I. Joe print is an appropriate look for anyone other than a 1930s gangster attending some kind of bizarro time-traveling comic con, you are incorrect. If you think any kind of themed pattern is appropriate for anyone other than suicidal high school teachers, you are also incorrect. If you think you can wear anything other than a subdued diagonal stripe, you are probably still incorrect, just let the professionals handle that. I'm talking to you, checkered-shirt-and-paisley-tie guys. You're an inspiration.

So the next time one of you dicks wants to judge another person based on what they're wearing, be it a woman walking down the street in a tiny dress on a sweltering hot summer day, or a little baby-faced kid in a sweatshirt out to get some Skittles and iced tea from a corner store, you take a long, hard look at just what you're wearing and you shut your damn mouth.