Bloody hell, you lot are in for a treat today. The wonderful freelance journalist Louise Bolotin is gracing us with such rage that I fear I may have been out-krakened. I shit you not. I, The Kraken, am actually afraid…
Never mind the Kraken’s black hole of fury, I’m forming a fucking humongous pink one for all womankind. The source of my rage is the minge-cringing, bristol-boiling BraBunny. There, I’ve said it. Now stand back while I spit out my teeth followed by a long string of piss-flavoured bile and full-on fury.
What the frikking titsling is one of those, I hear you cry? It’s a “super cute soft bunny”, in pink of course, that you are supposed to “cheekily” clip to your bra to show your support for breast cancer. What in the name of all that I hold sacred has a bit of stuffed fucking plush with ears on to do with fighting cancer? Buggered if I know. But the makers seem to think if you pin it to your nork sling and let the ears peek out you’ll be showing solidarity with women who have breast cancer.
For fuck’s sake, if I’m going to let anything hang out of my flopper-stopper, it’ll be my actual fucking cleavage and not a pair of sub-Playboy bunny lugholes. And if I want to support women with breast cancer I’ll be doing it my own bloody way. I find the subtle Playboy reference pretty fucking disturbing, sexualising as it does a pair of diseased breasts. And don’t even get me sodding well started on the pink of it. I’m sick to my metatarsals of the pinkification of all things designed to appeal to women, as if it’s the only colour our poor wee feminine brains can process. Or that we have a mental age of Disneyfied toddler.
I’m roiling in disgust and wrath that breast cancer awareness comes in fifty sodding shades of cyclamen, rose and Barbie. Which is why I won’t wear a pink fucking ribbon in solidarity. It’s not just that I hate pink, it’s that I hate being told what to do, what to think and what to bleeding well wear. And quite apart from the fact that I prefer my rabbits to come with batteries or in a casserole, I’m reserving a special Kraken-size BraBunny-shaped well of scornful anger for the sheer, gut-curdling arrogance of the assumption that cute and fwuffy makes cancer palatable.
Let me tell you, it fucking well doesn’t. Cancer is not cute and fwuffy. There’s nothing pretty and pink about it. It’s a horrible, ugly, painful disease that eats its victims from the inside, whether they survive or not. And it’s not just women who get it, men do too and are more likely to die of it because they’ll be diagnosed much later. But I bet you wouldn’t catch a bloke wearing a pair of pink, fluffy bunny ears popping out of his Pringle v-neck or artfully unbuttoned shirt because they’ve got more fucking sense than to let themselves be infantilised in the name of illness.
For fuck’s sake, sisters, I swear if I see even one of you with a BraBunny dangling from your over-the-shoulder boulder holder, I’ll shove it so far up your rabbit warren you’ll be picking bits of Thumper from between your teeth for the next year. Just stick a fiver in the collection tin instead. Discretion is better than cutesy pukesome exhibitionism that makes you look like you’re three again.
Right, I’ll stop rabbiting on now…
So what do you lot think about the bunny? Love it? Hate it? Get stuck into the comment box and spill your guts.