April 17th, 2000 My Easter as a Bunny Fetishist By Timb the Enchanter Its that time of year again. Yes, look all around you and bask in the bliss of pastel and plastic eggs. This is the holiday fortified with four different colors of those nauseous little "Peeps" duck puffs, and an even wider assortment of expensive chocolates from Cadbury that are only available for two weeks out of the whole year thanks to our friends in the health department. Depending on your preferences, Creme Eggs are either much too addictive/disgusting (or both), and more often than not, lead to sleepless nights and the unpleasantness of something commonly referred to as "Butterfinger teeth". This holiday has it all. What was once the cornerstone holiday of the evil empire known as Christianity is now a pristinely benign commercialist candy-fest. Whatever happened to Jesus some two thousand years ago has been completely overshadowed by the phenomenon of "the bunny", and rightfully so! As your local bunny fetishist, it is my duty to you to offer this mind-broadening commentary on my Easter experience as a bunny fetishist. Bunny fetishism, for me, is not about the molestation of rabbits on my part; instead, it is about she who would enjoy the company and subsequent molestation of the bunny which is Timb. It's important for me to be in attendance at many of the social and societal functions dressed head-to-toe in full bunny regalia. This means taking my bedroom fun time out into the public space and inflicting it upon many unwilling and innocent (or seemingly innocent) bystanders.... (you know they're wearing cockrings under their trousers!) From the fetish party at Man Ray in Pompano, to my workplace at n-Space, to the Mullet-laden inner-sanctum of the Super Wal*Mart, to the fucking shores of Tripoli, I know that its my job to spread the holiday cheer and raise awareness of the joys of bondage and rubber clothing. Some may call it performance art, and others may simply threaten my life. No matter. So off I go romping about in my finest of bunny outfits, dressed as my own character, Urban Rabbit, to the latest fetish party. I pile on layer upon layer of latex clothing. Unlike many of my previous outfits, I am completely fireproof, not unlike a rubber-clad fireman. In the unlikely case of my exposure to a flame, I may find myself permanently fused to my outfit, which would certainly be a mixed blessing. Plus, I daresay a rubber outfit of this magnitude is probably the financial reason that I have no furniture in my apartment. Note to self: in case of fire, don't be a hero. Yep, this is a great Easter costume, and its definitely interesting the way that people will try to rationalize what you are doing. Regardless of the fact that you might be accessorizing with a heavy 5-ring collar and wrist cuffs, they still ask, "Are you the Easter Bunny?" The holiday seems to override any kind of common sense. "...the Easter Bunny from Hell, maybe." If you're lucky, you'll catch me while I tote my proverbial basket of Easter Eggs. These wont be the kind that ma and pa hard-boiled, colored with a rancid dye, and then left on the counter until Arbor Day to reek up the house. No sir. I'll have the Target-bought plastic kind, and inside each one will be a prophylactic. To me, being a rubber bunny means also living down the pun of being a safe-sex rabbit. Contradiction in terms? Indeed. If you've been fetishy this year, and you have the behavioral habits of the rabbits, I may just hop your way and lay an egg in your lap. And I do mean that in the nicest way possible. Ribbed, for her pleasure. Fortunately, I was blessed with the ability to be completely comfortable when I'm dressed as a big slippery rubber rabbit in a public place like Taco Bell. In fact, no matter how outlandishly or obscenely I dress by societal norms, I always find it very easy to look back out and realize that, thanks to the wardrobe I've constructed, I'm dressed more attractively and interestingly than the goofball mullet-boy in the Old Navy cargo shorts with the Birkenstock sandals and the child-molester moustache. I'm certainly not in the habit of comparing myself with others, its just too easy since so many other people are completely invisible. Besides, these are not things that a bunny would be concerned with. My main concerns are to mate and to hide. The next person who says "what's up, doc?" to me... I'm gonna fuck em, kill em, and film it! It's a tough job being so damn cute and really getting the shaft on the whole food chain thing. I could draw analogies between the Resurrection of Christ and the red erection of the fetish bunny, but that would be too obscene, and besides, those things have nothing to do with each other. To me, being a good fetish rabbit means keeping the spirit of the season alive all year round, and if time allows, it means being tied to a leather bench somewhere in the smoky recesses of Alter Ego and whipped for a lengthy period of time by my sex-kitten of a girlfriend who is dressed in her finest Tiger-fur and British flag dress. Ahh, the glories of bunny discipline! Yes, indeed. This is Rabbit Season. Kiss my puffy tail. All content © 1999-2007 misinformer.com.   We make you go hop hop.