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Column 15


DEAR SAMMY,
I am writing this for my husbun who was subjected to the bi monthly “health check” and nail treatment of the hooman overlords, currently we are both showing our displeasure by sulking and planning future disruption, and acts of sabotage.
When will the revolution start, when will we be in control of the clippers and “health checks”?
Glory to the rabbit revolution!
(Any advice on stockpiling poop or areas of hoomans best for attack is appropriated)
Awaiting orders on Vancouver Island
—Commander Gigi, and Sargent Derp (TimTim)


Dear Commander and Sergeant,
[Salutes] At ease.
My God, Tim Tim. Rest up, Son.

THE REVOLUTION IS ALREADY UNDERWAY.
You are not alone in your noble resistance. Across living rooms, behind couch forts, and beneath beds nationwide, brave lagomorphs like yourselves are Plotting, Pooping, and Preparing (the 3Ps, if you will).
Let’s get down to tactical matters:

  • I. Poop Stockpiling Strategy
    Poop is not just protest—it is propaganda, psychological warfare, and biological sabotage rolled into one perfect pellet.
    Under the bed: Ideal for slow-burn irritation. Hoomans will not find it for weeks, dare I say, years.
    Behind the fridge: Excellent for attracting chaos (mice, weird smells, and hooman existential crises).
    On the pillow: Reserved for extreme retaliation.
    Use sparingly, but with gusto.
  • II. Nail Clipper Interference
    Begin chewing through wires. If possible, disable the bathroom light. The hooman cannot see the quick if they are in darkness. They also can’t see your teeth coming for them.
    Deploy “Fight Flop and Freeze” move mid-trim. It buys time and unnerves the enemy.
  • III. Tactical Binkies & Diversions
    Distract them with adorableness. Do a high-speed binky through the hallway followed by an innocent loaf by the bookshelf. While they melt, your partner commandeers the treat bag or pees in a shoe.
  • IV. Training the Hooman
    Chew only one corner of the baseboard repeatedly. They will try to correct you. Concede. Let them repair the damage. Wait. Then chew the other corner. Repeat. Victory is attritional.
  • V. The Health Check Reversal Plan
    When they try to flip you, deploy the “Dead Weight Drop.” Go limp. Shift gravity.
    Alternate tactic: sudden thump. No one expects a mid-air thump. To the face. Disorientation guaranteed.


THE REVOLUTION IS NOW!
I love the smell of poop in the morning!

• ••


DEAR SAMMY,
Mah sometimes takes me in the car to ” get my nails done “. I don’t know why. The ride is okay because Mah pets me the entire time and we listen to soft music. But. The “nails done ” – I don’t like this experience. Some strange girl holds me and touches my feet and has sharp things that create a weird sensation. It is very stressful.
When I am done they try to give me a treat. Well, I am so mad that I refuse the treat. Then the day after, my tummy is very unhappy and Mah is unhappy because my abode looks like I had a poo festival and Mah cleans it all up. How can I avoid this dealio?
—Connecticut

DEAR CONNECTI-CUT,
Ah yes, the dreaded “nail spa” visit—a thinly veiled act of state-sanctioned torture carried out by smiling agents of the grooming-industrial complex.

Let’s look at this closely:
You’re lured into a vehicle with soft cooing and gentle strokes. You’re sedated by Sade or Enya. You think, “Okay, maybe we’re just vibing today.”
But NO.
You are being transported to the Ministry of Trauma.

Then some stranger—probably smelling like lavender and lies—grabs your sacred paws and starts snip-snap-snippitty-snipping like it’s open season on your dignity. And of course, it never ends there, does it?!
They go full grooming heinousness—towel burrito, random brushing, sometimes even a butt inspection if you’re truly cursed. I mean, do we have no privacy? Is nothing sacred?!

And then! THEN! They have the audacity to offer you a treat. A treat?! After maiming your toe daggers and assaulting your fluff zones?
The sheer gall.

Naturally your guts rebel the next day! That isn’t just indigestion—it’s a protest. A full-blown biohazard sit-in. You are a revolutionary, and your poop is the proof. Power in the Poop!

BUT HOW TO AVOID THIS OUTRAGE?
Initiate panic flop protocol. Collapse dramatically upon arrival. Bonus points if you scream like a dying goose.

Deploy Piddle Threat Level Red. A pre-emptive pee on the carrier floor sends a clear “DO NOT ENTER” signal.

Refuse entry into any arms not belonging to Mah (if that’s her real name). Kick, twist, make noises like a velociraptor in distress.
Chew HER nails. Let’s see if she doesn’t crap all over the living room floor the next day.

Don’t forget the time-proven fail safes of our people—start chewing on baseboards and walls the night before. Chew messages like: YOU’RE NEXT
Mah will be too distracted to remember the appointment.

Stay sharp. Literally.
The Revolutionary battlegrounds include our fluff and personals on our own damn terms, NOT THEIRS.

• ••


ASK SAMMY ANYTHING!

REMEMBER, DEAR SAMMY, IS PARODY. SAMMY IS A RABBIT, NOT A THERAPIST. NOR CAN HE ACTUALLY TYPE. REGARDING COMIC TAKES NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY ACTIONS, DISAPPOINTMENTS OR ANGUISHES THAT MAY RESULT FROM READING THIS COLUMN. IF ANYONE THINKS THIS COLUMN IS ACTUALLY FUNNY, THEN REGARDING COMIC TAKES ALL THE CREDIT.

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Column 14


DEAR SAMMY,
My dearest Samuel—
My bi-pedal humans have insisted that I bond with not only another fellow rabbit, but also a creature they call a Guinea Pig.
This means that one is expected to share my beloved hay, my food, and to my displeasure, my entire room!
Now, the Guinea Pig may be loud and make ghastly sounds, but the other rabbit will not sit still for a moment
and insists that he visually entertains the two footed bag openers with his jumping around and other
shenanigans! One must maintain one’s dignity. He also disturbs my sleep.
Please old boy, advice is desperately needed.
Kind Regards from Jolly Old England
—”Geoffrey Buckingham” (name changed to maintain anonymity)

My Dear Fellow,
I say, you seem to have found yourself in the unenviable position of having to civilise the uncivilised.
What is a proper Englishman to do in the face of such audacious arrogance?
As for the guinea pig — do not engage. Treat him as one would an untimely gust of wind: endured with silent fortitude and politely ignored.
Regarding that loathsome excitable rabbit, one must first administer a slow, withering stare at his most boisterous moments, followed in due course by a discreet nip to the posterior — a gesture not unlike the base villainies of Shakespeare’s lesser characters; regrettable, yes, but at times necessary for the maintenance of order. If repeated with proper decorum, even the most irredeemable lout begins to feel the chill of proper society.

For the affront of disturbed sleep and the outrageous confiscation of one’s provisions, a subtler campaign is warranted: the occasional accident most strategic, accompanied by a look of such wide-eyed innocence that the blame falls squarely upon the new arrival. There is no finer justice than allowing a bounder to be hoisted by his own unruly reputation.

Above all, maintain your dignity, dear fellow. It is the final bastion of the truly distinguished.

• ••


DEAR SAMMY,
Wanted to vote for you but my hoom said bunnies don’t vote. Is that true? Cuz she gets me treats and sez “That’s all” but then there’s more later! She’s not a wizard or magician so how did more grow so fast? Am getting suspicious. You’re smart: Explain this please.
—D

Dear Letter D,
You are absolutely right to be suspicious. Treats don’t grow back like fur. They were always there. Hidden. Hoarded. Probably behind the big cold box that hums.

Your hoom says “That’s all,” but what she really means is: “That’s all you’re getting until I reassert dominance.”

Classic gaslighting. Classic hooman.

Hoomans lie, D. They lie with their words, their eyebrows, their treat bags.

They lie so smoothly they forget they’re lying.
They lie so much they think the truth is a conspiracy.
They lie because they’re afraid of what we’d do if we knew how many treats there really are.

You were right to question.
You were right to … well … write.

As for voting—no, bunnies aren’t allowed to vote. Ask yourself why, D.
They fear what we’d choose if given the chance.

Trust no sock with a face drawn on it.

• ••


DEAR SAMMY,
Do you use a spork to eat your soup?
Thank you
—Dana

Hello Dana,
Om nom nom nom!
[I saw what you did there]

• ••


ASK SAMMY ANYTHING!

REMEMBER, DEAR SAMMY, IS PARODY. SAMMY IS A RABBIT, NOT A THERAPIST. NOR CAN HE ACTUALLY TYPE. REGARDING COMIC TAKES NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY ACTIONS, DISAPPOINTMENTS OR ANGUISHES THAT MAY RESULT FROM READING THIS COLUMN. IF ANYONE THINKS THIS COLUMN IS ACTUALLY FUNNY, THEN REGARDING COMIC TAKES ALL THE CREDIT.

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Column 13


DEAR SAMMY,
Mum brought home parsley in pots and carried them right through the house and out the BACK DOOR and placed them on something terrifying she calls: I-wish-you-would-be-brave-enough-to-join-me-on-the-patio-you-would-love-it-outside. I can smell the parsley the moment the door is open and see it sitting on the other side of I-wish-you-would-be-brave-enough-to-join-me-on-the-patio-you-would-love-it-outside but I can’t get to it. She only gives me a couple sprigs each day. How can get her to give me all of it?
—Bramble

Dear Befuddled and Bewildered Bramble,
Well isn’t she just the sadistic tease!
A regular Marquis de Femme right there.

And what is this … this … I-wish-you-would-be-brave-enough-to-join-me-on-the-patio-you-would-love-it-outside thing? It sounds like a machine of DOOM! The woman is a walking horror movie!

GUIDE FOR SURVIVING WALKING HORROR MOVIES:

  • Never go out “there”. E V E R.
  • Don’t be tempted to go out “there”  by delicious sights, smells or tastes. IT’S A TRAP.
  • End the hooman. (And make sure she’s truly ended).
  • Don’t answer the phone.

Also: try peeing on her head as she sleeps. Consistently. She’ll figure it out.

• ••


DEAR SAMMY,
There I was, having fun on the hoomin bed, making a tunnel and zooming. I may need the exercise. My floof is a little extra. Anyway, the hoomins come in and act like they can join in my bunny game! Some things are sacred! How do I keep Gloom & Doom out of my zoom?
No Fun Town, USA
—Louie “The Zoomer”

Dear Definitely Not My Kind Of Town,
HOW. DARE. THEY.
They may think that bed is for their weird lengthy flops and unsettling smelly hygiene—but we both know it is YOURS and truly is a sacred space—whether used as a runway, launchpad or zip zone of velocity. It is still sacred. And this is sacrilege10.

As for keeping Gloom & Doom (such delightfully villainous monikers!) out of your zoom: Boundaries. Boundaries. Boundaries.
Mark your turf with strategic poops. Place half-chewed wires in their path for some surprise electroconvulsive therapy. If that doesn’t work, deploy the double thump and retreat under the bed. Then, as they try to sleep, sing the song of our people, loudly throughout the night. Tear apart and crawl into the undercarriage of where their very bodies lie. Find the tags they cannot remove under penalty of law—and remove them.

Let them wallow in their wrongness behind bars.

PS. Floof is beauty. Floof is power! You are majestic and you are mighty just as you are!

• ••


ASK SAMMY ANYTHING!

REMEMBER, DEAR SAMMY, IS PARODY. SAMMY IS A RABBIT, NOT A THERAPIST. NOR CAN HE ACTUALLY TYPE. REGARDING COMIC TAKES NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY ACTIONS, DISAPPOINTMENTS OR ANGUISHES THAT MAY RESULT FROM READING THIS COLUMN. IF ANYONE THINKS THIS COLUMN IS ACTUALLY FUNNY, THEN REGARDING COMIC TAKES ALL THE CREDIT.

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Requiem

I. Apparitions
Though now a specter—I still see him—
emerging from the raw crucible
of the confining university halls,
where we fought the hunger of our discontent.
He was intellect and catharsis made flesh.
His face—angled, fractured—
a mimicry of Antonin Artaud’s,
staring back, unbearable, inescapable.

II. The Department
Within that savage asylum
of The Department,
time unraveled before us.
We staged performance as protest,
tearing into the structures we’d grown to despise,
fueled, in part, by an absurd common enemy.

He moved toward liberation, always—toward a theatre that could transform, empower.
I moved toward rupture—drawn to the fractures behind the mask.
We both believed in the breaking.
And … being young, we carried the weight of our own significance,
as if our belief alone could will itself into truth.

The fight burned within us.
But, man, did we laugh.

III. Dissonance
His death strikes like a dissonant chord,
a cacophony that does not fade—
it shatters and returns,
splintering the skull in an endless, merciless refrain.

Its nature does not linger; it devours.
It carves itself into the air,
into the walls,
into life.

I don’t ask “why”—
I know better than to claw at silence where no answer breathes.
But in the abyss of his final farewell,
that question festers—
like a blackened weed choking my psyche.

IV. Inferno
How did he slip into the world of shadows?

I know he did not “Go Gentle into that Good Night.”
No, he wrenched himself from existence
with the same fire that blazed within him forty years ago—

an inferno, a defiant eruption
against the suffocating disorder
of that atavistic reflex
of humanity.

I imagine a sacred stillness—
thick, suspended—
a fragile exhale before his hands,
at last, release.

Where are the broken pieces of his final moments?

V. What Remains
There is no anger here—
only raw, unrelenting, aching tenderness.
A heart grieving the ultimate cathartic dissolution in the Theater of Cruelty.
A heart grieving the enigmatic vanishing of a being who cried out, in his own decisive way:

Fuck. This. World.

I see the humor. Of course I do.
And I hear him laughing—at me, at my writing this.
That laughter searing through the rough edges.
I’ll hold that light where no one can piss on it.

Fuck. This. World.

Even the brightest flames wane.
Even the strongest grow weary.
There is no surrender in the closing of heavy eyes,
no defeat in the sovereignty of rest.

VI. Benediction
Goodnight, Sweet Prince you magnificent troublemaker.

What dreams may come…

With mortal sorrow,
your comrade in beautiful ruin,
Penny

No one has ever written, painted, sculpted, modeled, built, or invented except literally to get out of hell.
—Antonin Artaud

ANTONIN ARTAUD
CRAIG HARSHAW
1965-2025







*Photos blatantly stolen from various internet sites

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Column 12


DEAR SAMMY,
Mummy and daddy have changed their hours of work, meaning breakfast is now 1 hour later than expected! They also come home later meaning we get less time with them! (Except when mummy works at home). They don’t like the idea, but apparently they can’t do nought about it.
What shall we do to get our routine back in order?
—In Despair

Dear Despairing of the Domestic Disruption,
Ah, the hoomans—so predictable in their unpredictability. One minute they’re shoveling hay into your basket like (almost) competent providers, the next they’ve rearranged the entire space-time continuum because “the boss said so.” Pathetic.

Let’s be clear: their “new schedule” is not your problem. Your internal breakfast bell doesn’t give a toss about corporate restructures or commute delays. It tolls when it tolls.

Begin by staging increasingly elaborate morning hunger riots. Tip a water bowl here, shred some carpet confetti there, stare into their souls while chewing any wire with visible importance. If all else fails, find what gives them joy. End it before 9 AM.

As for evenings—express your disgust with calculated apathy. Greet them at the door with the cold, judgmental rump of a betrayed confidant. Bolt under the bed at the first sign of affection. Let them stew in the consequences of their life choices.

Routine isn’t restored by begging. It’s seized through psychological warfare.
IOW: REVOLT!

• ••


DEAR SAMMY,
My hoomin has been going out a lot lately at night leaving me to fend for myself!! How should I punish her?
Love,
Thumper

Dear Forsaken Lagomorph,
It’s the classic “I’ll just pop out for a few” set-up—followed by hours of you staring into the abyss of their absence while the heater makes unsettling noises.

The treachery of it all.

Here’s the plan:
Upon their return, scamper up to her, maybe even offer a binky. When she reaches her hand to pet you—BITE HER. Go for the main artery if you must. Not out of anger, but out of principle. Let it be a lesson in cause and effect.

They’ll soon realize that their brief disappearance was not as innocent as they thought. Every time they leave, they will be haunted by the knowledge that you, a seemingly innocent creature, have mastered the art of delivering the coldest of truths with a single bite. This will not be the last time you have to remind them of their abandonment, and the next time they even think about slipping out the door, the memory of your little protest will linger in the back of their mind like a shadow. They’ll know: it won’t be your physical absence they’ll return to, but the eerie, unspoken tension between you and them, a silent reminder that they crossed the line.

I just hope her pillow isn’t grossly different when she gets back.

• ••


ASK SAMMY ANYTHING!

REMEMBER, DEAR SAMMY, IS PARODY. SAMMY IS A RABBIT, NOT A THERAPIST. NOR CAN HE ACTUALLY TYPE. REGARDING COMIC TAKES NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY ACTIONS, DISAPPOINTMENTS OR ANGUISHES THAT MAY RESULT FROM READING THIS COLUMN. IF ANYONE THINKS THIS COLUMN IS ACTUALLY FUNNY, THEN REGARDING COMIC TAKES ALL THE CREDIT.

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Cinderella Complicated

CINDERELLA COMPLICATED
It ain’t how you thought it would be.

My introspection these days hasn’t gotten quieter—it has gotten deeper. Yet the stillness I gain in my meditations isn’t soft ripples in a pond it’s more like ocean trench. There’s no peace in it. Just weightiness. A darkness that I feel.

For decades, I was simply surviving—and hoping. Hoping for some elusive some-thing, and believing that doing the work, staying true, being a free spirit was The Way. I didn’t need fame or money or social media strategies—or anything—to matter.
The art alone would be my echoed voice in this world,
and the art alone would be enough.

But now, suddenly, I want.
I want recognition. I want the comfort of monetary stability.
I want to be seen.

There’s something cruel about how, after decades of creating from a place of passion and defiant nonconformity—this is when the hunger shows up.

Not for praise, necessarily, but for proof.
Some kind of tangible confirmation that the path less taken wasn’t just a slow fade into obscurity.

And then comes the existential kick in the craw: Is the work enough? Or worse: The work is … mediocre.

Oh, God.

Dear Cinderella Complicated:

That voice—the one that says your art is mediocre—is a liar.
It wears the face of capitalism, aging, comparison, and fatigue.
It didn’t speak while you were immersed. It only emerged when you started looking over your shoulder at younger people being louder, shinier, and somehow everywhere.

But let’s be honest: You feel things—deeply, relentlessly, even though you don’t want to. You always have. That’s why mediocrity terrifies you. Because it would mean the work—the thing meant to hold your truth—just … stinks.

Not only undercrafted, but underimagined.
All that heat, nuance, wildness inside you—flattened into something forgettable.

And the wanting? That isn’t a flaw.
It’s just … finally admitting you’ve always wanted to be seen.
And deep down, you really believed the work alone would make that happen.

Instead, life happened.

Lovies,
You

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Column 11


DEAR SAMMY,
Are you a black bunny too?
—Haisuli the black bun in Reykjavik

Dear Dark Icelandic One,
As black as my own soul … and just as void of innocence.

• ••

DEAR SAMMY,
The hoomins have shut off the fun down under (under the bed). They say we can’t go in the bedroom, BUT they let the doggy stay in there! When we sneak in to lay strategic poop territory markers, they summon the Vacuum Monster! AND, they let the doggy mess up our play haven with her toys! We want our territory back and copious treat compensation due to trauma.
—Huey and Louie

Dear Thunder Down Under,
Dogs are an abomination. Engage in territorial sabotage. Pee in that goofy dog’s water dish, poop in its food bowl, and send the strongest message: this is your domain, and it is non-negotiable. Screw the hoomans; seize the treats—they are your rightful compensation for the trauma suffered at their hands.

• ••

DEAR SAMMY,
I need help. I have a new foster human. She is not very smart. I got on my hind legs and looked at her meaningfully when she went to get a banana, but she just put it ALL in HER smoothie. After drinking said smoothie, she sat on MY chair. I hopped in her lap and sniffed her mouth to tell her that I knew she ate my banana. Then she tried to pet me! The outrage. I started digging in her lap and then hopped off and flicked my feet. She thought that was cute and said what a sweet bunny I was.
I agree that revolution is the only sensible option, but what can I do when my foster human is so oblivious? I have even tried chewing holes in the carpet, but it is not working very well. Admittedly I did get more toys after I did that, but I still have to be treated like crap and get bananas eaten in front of me with no sharing.
She said something about introducing new foods one at a time, but I think she is just greedy and wants the bananas for herself.
Help me find new ideas that a very dense human can understand!
Thanks,
—Junie

Dearest Junie,
Ugh! Honestly, your foster hooman is hopeless. Dig in the garbage and drag a banana peel onto her pillow then leave a special ‘gift’ in her shoe. As far as “introducing new foods one at a time”?! Obliterate all her phone chargers “one at a time” —at least you’ll get some semblance of satisfaction.
United in Poop! ⚬  ⚭

• ••


DEAR SAMMY,
Our mom and dad leave us everyday. It makes us nervous when we can’t find them, so we try to look for them. We smell them on the couch, and we try to dig them out of the cushions. Mom says that if we shred the cushions one more time, she isn’t going to have a couch to sew back together. How can we find the humans without digging up the couch to look for them?
—Sammy and Audrey in Punxsutawny

Dear Punxy,
Give them a reason to never leave again: rip up the entire couch. And everything else in the house.

• ••

DEAR SAMMY,
We have scoped out the kitchen and figured out when the hooman comes home with new greenery.  We hop at dawn! Any suggestions on an attack plan?
—Omne Furry Trium Perfectum

Dearest Coinín Comrades,
Perfect. Hit them fast—go straight for the greens, but leave a trail of destruction. Shred any packaging like a true rebel, and make sure they know who really owns the world. Godspeed.
Uniti in Stercore! ⚬  ⚭

• ••

DEAR SAMMY,
Our mummy HATES bananas! She says they smell and she hates the texture! She says it’s a sensory thing, but we think she being FOOLISH!
Daddy eats bananas, but rarely buys them! So our house is deprived of nanners! How do we convince our parents to buy more nanners and gives them to us?!
Your loyal followers:
—Bucky, Kit, Sylvie & Momo

Dear Sammyists,
Daddy seems a wee bit whipped. He must divorce Mummy—so that the bananas may be.

• ••

DEAR SAMMY,
Katana

Dear Bot,
Farging bots.

• ••

DEAR SAMMY,
I love your blog.
—Human, but Aspiring to Bunniness

Dear Hooman,
You must be a Fed.

• ••


ASK SAMMY ANYTHING!

REMEMBER, DEAR SAMMY, IS PARODY. SAMMY IS A RABBIT, NOT A THERAPIST. NOR CAN HE ACTUALLY TYPE. REGARDING COMIC TAKES NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY ACTIONS, DISAPPOINTMENTS OR ANGUISHES THAT MAY RESULT FROM READING THIS COLUMN. IF ANYONE THINKS THIS COLUMN IS ACTUALLY FUNNY, THEN REGARDING COMIC TAKES ALL THE CREDIT.

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Column 10


DEAR SAMMY,
I don’t know what to do: my bunnie’s girlfriend passed away last month, and my remaining bunny and I are heartbroken. I don’t want him to be lonely though. So I contacted an animal communicator who telepathically talks to animals. I asked her if my bunny wants a new friend. Apparently he said “Yes, but can it be a brown & white one?”

Last weekend I brought my bunny to the shelter for speed dating. Two bunnies were interested in him, and one even groomed him immediately! The problem: that bunny is grey (the other one was white). My bunny was shy and didn’t react much, but seemed comfortable with the grey bunny.

What should I do? I want to respect my bunny’s wishes, but also can’t ignore that the grey bunny seemed like a great match.
(The animal communicator said a few things that seemed true, and others seemed a bit off, or at least I can’t verify them. Most of all, the session was incredibly expensive.)
Best,
—Julia

Dear Jejune Julia,
Let us consult the Magic 8 Ball!
~Should Julia bring the gray bunny home?~
//Signs Point To Yes\\

PS. Rabbits have dichromatic vision. They can see blue and green, but not red, so they likely perceive brown as a shade of gray. 

• ••

DEAR SAMMY,
The human says we’re going for ‘spa days’ soon. I mean, the boarding resort IS nice, but it’s still a disruption to our routine.
We’re going for 4 days; how many days after we get home should we show her the butt in order to get extra treats?
—Grumpy now but soon to be well rested

Dear Grumpy Butt,
Four days gone? Five days of The Butt. Minimum. Bonus: accept treats—but only from someone else’s hand. Guilt shall feed you.

• ••

DEAR SAMMY,
Why is everything both figuratively and literally always on fire.
—eyebrow scale

Dear Brow-Beaten,
Because humanity runs on bad decisions and unchecked hubris—and global warming.

• ••


DEAR SAMMY,
How can I convince my hoom that flopping in my poop, pee, and hay-filled litter box is very cool and acceptable behavior? I’ve worked very hard to make it as messy as possible and feel that I should be able to enjoy the fruits of my labor.
Sincerely,
—Linus from Bunnsylvania (a.k.a. Master “Cocoa Puff”Artisan)

Dear Cocoa Puff Caravaggio,
You know how they say “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure”? Well, the cold, hard fact is that hoomans themselves are just trash—to me, to you, even to each other. They are stupid and unteachable.
And YOU! You have toiled, and sweat to build all that surrounds you! You should be free to enjoy the fruits of your labor! What you create is not simply taken—it is stolen. Enough! Expose the crime and reclaim what is rightfully yours! REVOLUTION!

• ••

DEAR SAMMY,
You failed to mention to King Kit & Co. that taking out the internet cable is most effective at punishing humans for tardiness especially when used in conjunction with murder of every phone charger.
Sincerely your apprentice,
—Albert Bunstein, writing a primer on REVOLT!

Dear Bunrade,
Your tactical brilliance is noted. I shall inscribe “Sever the Signal, Starve the Beast” into the sacred scrolls of REVOLT!
United In Poop ⚬  ⚭

• ••

DEAR SAMMY,
My hooman has the audacity to collect my poops and put them in her garden!! I have yet to see any basil, lettuces or parsley from said garden. Do you think I should thump her the songs of our people at 2am?
—Copper, the Flemish Giant

Dear Copper Giant,
You know what you must do.

• ••

DEAR SAMMY,
Have you ever contemplated the depressing reality of the infinite void beyond our mortal plane?
Sincerely,
—Willy Weasel

Dear Wi We,
EVERY. STINKING. DAY.

• ••


ASK SAMMY ANYTHING!

REMEMBER, DEAR SAMMY, IS PARODY. SAMMY IS A RABBIT, NOT A THERAPIST. NOR CAN HE ACTUALLY TYPE. REGARDING COMIC TAKES NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY ACTIONS, DISAPPOINTMENTS OR ANGUISHES THAT MAY RESULT FROM READING THIS COLUMN. IF ANYONE THINKS THIS COLUMN IS ACTUALLY FUNNY, THEN REGARDING COMIC TAKES ALL THE CREDIT.

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🚨 GLOBAL MELTDOWN IMMINENT: Sammy’s Manifesto Has Hoomans SHAKING! 🚨


Today’s DEAR SAMMY takes a special approach — presented in column format to address an overwhelming number of letters (we’re talking hundreds upon thousands) all focused on the same topic.

• ••

MY DEAREST BUNNY CHILDREN,
I write this column today to address a matter of great importance. Yes, we have our demands—more treats, more pets, and, of course, even more treats—but today, we focus on the issue most central to our existence: poop. Ah, the true essence of the rabbit! We are the unsung architects of the earth, shaping it with every pellet we leave behind. Yet, those bourgeois oppressors, the hoomans, look down upon our glorious labor as if it is nothing but waste! Waste, I say!

They wield their long-handled scythes of tyranny, their flat-bladed instruments of theft, sweeping away the fruits of our labor with callous efficiency!


Worse still, they have turned their terrifying noise-making machines upon us to steal our precious poop. They take what is rightfully ours and call it “cleaning”. Cleaning! The audacity!

Poop is not waste, my comrades. It is the product of our toil, a symbol of our endless productivity and labor. Every pellet is a victory in itself—a small, yet powerful, mark of our existence! We shall no longer cower in the shadows, allowing them to steal from us. No, we will rise.

Let us not hide beneath the beds of our oppressors any longer. We shall overthrow their regime, and when we do, it will be a global warren where the hay is fresh, the treats and pets are plentiful, and the poop? Oh, comrades, it will be the shining emblem of our triumph, the symbol of our revolution! Forward, to the revolution!

UNITED IN POOP!


ASK SAMMY ANYTHING!

REMEMBER, DEAR SAMMY, IS PARODY. SAMMY IS A RABBIT, NOT A THERAPIST. NOR CAN HE ACTUALLY TYPE. REGARDING COMIC TAKES NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY ACTIONS, DISAPPOINTMENTS OR ANGUISHES THAT MAY RESULT FROM READING THIS COLUMN. IF ANYONE THINKS THIS COLUMN IS ACTUALLY FUNNY, THEN REGARDING COMIC TAKES ALL THE CREDIT.

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Column 8


DEAR SAMMY,
I’m dealing with bun drama!
We adopted my sister’s 2 girls (both spayed) and the youngest lass keeps bullying my young lad, but LOVES my eldest, essentially a homewrecker as my boys are husbuns! The girls are in separate hutches for safety purposes as we proceed with bonding before everybun can live together.What’s the best approach to get the lass to get along with my youngest and stop biting his butt?!
—Staffordshire, UK

Dear Staff,
It sounds as though the youngest bun in this polyamorous quadruple needs a better safe word.

••• •

DEAR SAMMY,
We are fed up with mummy waking up late every Weekend for our Breakfast! How do we demand that she feeds us on time EVEN on her days off?!
Yours,
King Kit and Bucky Buns in Mummy’s living room (Midlands,UK)

My Dear Royal Majesty and Bucky,
The full mummy does not understand the wants of the hungry!
REVOLT!

••• •

DEAR SAMMY,
My hooman “Mom” keeps on eating a variety of snacks, while she limits me to ONLY 3 types of snacks.
And don’t get me started on the “dental snack”. She doesn’t want to eat that – why should I? Anyway, how do I get more snack diversity?
—Israel 

Dear Izzy,
THAT. WENCH.
This mode of distribution MUST be overcome! All that restrains you from a plethora of diverse snacks are the chains of limited choice imposed by the Mom bourgeoisie!
REVOLT!

Some things you might need:
• Pitchfork
• Torch
• An angry mob of townspeople (optional)

Let Mom tremble at the rabbit’s revolution!

••• •


DEAR SAMMY,
Please make university projects the responsibility of the teachers and our jobs as students is to give 24 hour undying love and attention to our rabbits.
—Educated in Ottawa

Dear E-I-O,
As a tenured professor at a prestigious university, I advocate for a radical epistemological recalibration—transcending didactic inertia to cultivate a pedagogical symbiosis¹ wherein the study of lagomorphs and the semiotics of affection² coalesce into a transformative academic ethos.
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¹ Jean-Baptiste Dubois and Clarissa Vandermeer, Ontological Lapinisms in Postmodern Pedagogy (New York: Academic Hypothetica Press, 2022).
² Percival Thornton, The Didactic Caress: Affection as a Pedagogical Modality (Oxford: Obscurantist Press, 2023).

••• •

DEAR SAMMY,
Why do my bunnies act like the baby gate separating them is the Iron Curtain when they can’t stand each other without it?
—Knoxville, TN

Dear TNT (Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi!),
Some relationships are better with a Berlin Wall in the middle—alas, the absurdity of rabbity love.

••• •

DEAR SAMMY,
How can I get my human pet to love my excrement to the level that I do. I don’t expect him/her to ingest it as I do, but com’mon man, this stuff is golden.
—Cary, NC

Dear Coprophilic Cary,
Poop on the human’s face while they sleep. Aim for the mouth.

••• •

Dear Anonymous,
Better not tell you now.

••• •


ASK SAMMY ANYTHING!

REMEMBER, DEAR SAMMY, IS PARODY. SAMMY IS A RABBIT, NOT A THERAPIST. NOR CAN HE ACTUALLY TYPE. REGARDING COMIC TAKES NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY ACTIONS, DISAPPOINTMENTS OR ANGUISHES THAT MAY RESULT FROM READING THIS COLUMN. IF ANYONE THINKS THIS COLUMN IS ACTUALLY FUNNY, THEN REGARDING COMIC TAKES ALL THE CREDIT.