We gratefully acknowledge the original 'Disapproving Rabbits' website, that inspired this site, and its creators, Sharon, Bill, Cinnamon, and Dougal. Without you, we would not be here. We Approve Of You!
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
Go ahead, explain to Mister why you're late with treats!
- Thank you, Audrey!
PS: Mister was wild cottontail bunneh that formed a very strong bond with The Carrot Lady and the rest is history. Currently, Ginger Sprite carries the mantle and the legacy of Mister lives on. To learn more about Mister, visit her blog right here. Of course, Mister has her FB page as well.
Monday, November 28, 2016
Saturday, November 26, 2016
No bun paid much attention when the old satellite in the geostationary orbit got its brains scrambled and stopped transmitting data for a short while. Nerdbuns argued vociferously about the cause of the outage, starting with the sun and ending with the satellite by blaming it for being old. That's where this glitch should have ended. Instead, we all paid attention when the Center lost contact with the crew of our own Mr. Toes' ship. Everybun's temperature jumped. He took a couple of FNBs (Frowning New Buns) on a simple flight, right after they got certificated for flight. A short communications outage, although unusual, never created much cause for concern, but we didn't just lose telemetry and stuff like that; we lost the craft, without a trace. Shortly after, near panic broke out when we noticed that a massive object of unknown origin had parked itself in a geostationary orbit and was doing absolutely nothing.
We started reconstructing what had happened when an engineering intern drew a straight line from the object to the spot where Toes' craft should have been and through to the satellite. One theory suggested that, when the foreign vessel maneuvered to enter the orbit and fired its retro booster of some sort, that blast had taken out Major Toes and his young crew. That could also explain the interruption in communications with the old satellite. It is an unlikely possibility, but for now, that's all we have.
This is Pancake and Molly. We found this journal when we were cleaning out Toes's quarters. Abby couldn't handle it. She tried to do it all by herself, but it was too much for her. We had no idea he was keeping a journal. To honor him, we have decided to try to keep it going.
Right now, the Buzzard is floating near the spot where we lost Toes. If you know exactly where to look, in the distance, you can see the foreign vessel surrounded by our machines, buzzing with scientists, trying to figure out what it is.
We are keeping away from all the hubbub in that place. Our immediate task was securing the area of Toe's last known position as a scene of an accident. That's exactly what we've done. Then, we called the Center and requested additional time to deal with an "unexpected maintenance" of one of the cooling units.
They didn't question our request. Freddie was to thank for crafting the message. Now, Freddie and Eva are pre-breathing pure oxygen and getting ready for an EBA. Penny is helping them suit up. How Freddie managed to both take sick time from the machine shop and list himself on this flight is one we'll never know, and it's probably better that way.
We have put together a wreath for Mr. Toes, and we are hoping to place it outside, in the void, where we think, he disappeared. The simple wreath is made of hay, twisted into a ring; whole carrots are wrapped around it, and the whole thing is being held together by long, thin willow twigs. Freddie and Bruno insisted we add Toes' old flight suit to it. We rolled it up and tied it in the middle. The whole thing looks a bit odd, but then again, we were, and still are, an odd crew.
Abby and I are sitting up front, staring into the infinite blackness just beyond the pane of a unshielded window made of a glass-like substance. Abby is tapping her paw on the console and keeps staring out into space. We have said nothing to one another beyond what's required to fly this ship.
When we arrived here, we tried to detect any particle traces of what happened. If Toes was blasted away, we should be able to find remnants of the craft, maybe residual background energy. However, we found nothing, literally nothing. There were no signs of radium, titanium, or carbon. The space we searched was devoid of any atoms of helium or hydrogen. You know, the atom or two of helium that your can normally find in a cubic meter of space was nowhere to be found. It looked as if the retrofire from the mystery ship had created a laboratory-style, perfect vacuum. Never mind that we couldn't find debris; this whole area appeared to be have been returned to its pre-big bang, virgin state.
Suddenly, Abby stopped tapping her paw on the console. She looked at me and said "I don't think they were burned up here. Whatever that retrofire was made of, it flung everybun away somewhere."
I think the stress was starting to get to her.
Friday, November 25, 2016
Thursday, November 24, 2016
One apple? Where's the rest of the veg platter and the kale turkey?
- Thank you, Rabbits Guy!
PS: Rabbits Guy says, "Here is our deceased pal Goldie at House of Rabbits in a picture from 9 years ago – full of disapproval and she was in this picture on the old Disapproving Rabbits site!!!"
It's such an honor to host Goldie!
Wednesday, November 23, 2016
Tuesday, November 22, 2016
Monday, November 21, 2016
You make nannerinis? Let me see!
- Thank you, Renee!
PS: Joey found his forever home with Renee and Brad last week after Mango succumbed to seizures. Multiple visits to the vet were not able to keep him from heading for the Bridge. Binki free, Mango :-(
Follow the worren on FB page of the Dolly Family.
Sunday, November 20, 2016
The good news is I can't sing, so there will be no singing of the blues. The bad news is I have a stylus and no shame to use it.
We're running a bit low on disapproval, so it's time to get the old begging bowl out.
A little bit of arting goes a long way in coping with the gastro-emotional stasis that set in a month and a half ago. Be it a daily post of disapproval, an episode of bun-fiction or an occasional portrait of Mr. Bun, it forces me to focus on what we have in common. For me, that seems to be the only way to go through the tectonic changes taking place in the world these days. In the end, we're all in the same burrow. Together, we shall overbun.
Saturday, November 19, 2016
Hello, Everybun! To say that the last couple of weeks were difficult would be a terrible understatement. It's been a terrible struggle to reconcile the loss of Mr. Toes. I've been going back and forth on the idea of preserving the character and not "retiring" him, thus breaking one of the rules I set for myself when working on The Disapprovers. Back then, when a character died in real life, he or she also passed away in the story.
I had a couple of ideas for this week's story and, in the end, decided to postpone the proper post for a week. One needs a lot of editing, and the other is still a "concept" that still has to make it into longhand form on paper.
In all honesty, I would love to carry on with Mr. Toes. After all, what would bunfiction be without a bit of fiction? The only trouble is, Mr. Toes would require an illustrator to have any new artwork accompany his sweet mouf. To that mouf, justice would require a whole lot of different level of performance than yours truly can commit to and deliver.
PS: Follow Pancake and Molly on their FB page at Dolly Family.
Thursday, November 17, 2016
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Monday, November 14, 2016
Saturday, November 12, 2016
I had a bad day in the simulator today. I thought the sim malfunctioned when I tried to dock the craft manually, but they wouldn't hear of it. The exchanges got so heated that the deputy director of training got involved and personally sent me off to cool it. He then ordered me to go and clean the old hangar. Of course, I saluted him and decided in the last split second to use all of my toes and not just the one. I took that as a good sign; my cooling off has begun.
During the very early morning hours, I drove a forklift to the old hangar used as a storage depot. The abandoned parking lot was quiet. A single, old, lonely lightbulb over the side entrance barely gave off any light. I felt bad for its tired wolfram and wished it could tell me the stories it had illuminated during it's younger glow.
We were going to use this hangar for transient training vehicles. I had to wrestle with the door lock. It wasn't ready for any visitors at this hour and wouldn't let the key make half a turn; it took me a lot of wiggling of the key to convince the lock to let me in. I found the light switch, and a couple of retired lightbulbs by the rafters begrudgingly gave off a few photons.
I pushed the main doors open and let in some fresh air. That spooked some critters by the ceiling, and they flew off through the busted window. What a mess this place was. There were storage containers stacked almost to the ceiling. Hopping past them, I had to use my torch to see what was in between the stacks. Beyond the containers squatted something tall and massive. The shape made no sense aft first, and I telescoped for a better look, but it was no use. After a while, I realized I was looking at an antique N-BUN-33 rocket engine. It sat lonely, flanked by piles of rubbish and scrap on both sides. As I got close to it, I noticed that half of its combustion chamber was gone. It looked cracked and cleanly broken off. I carefully hopped around to see what else was there. I was worried about tripping and getting knocked out or getting stabbed and buried under an avalanche of rusted scrap.
By now, I had forgotten all about the sim fiasco. I had also forgot to tell anyone that I was coming out here to do the job. I wasn't sure if this order to clean this hangar was a rhetorical one or not. I pressed on and went around the back of the old engine. I had hoped something like that would rest peacefully in a museum, instead of doing solitary time in an abandoned hangar. It probably hasn't done anything to deserve this cruel forsaking.
I was hopping around it, touching the cold metal from time to time as if reassuring it that it is going to be OK. I turned around to go back the same way I came, to start hauling some of the containers to the parking lot. We would have to have space in the building to drop an empty container for all the trash.
That's when I noticed the capsule. At first, I thought that it was another engine, this time laying on its side. When I approached it, I saw the conical shape and the corrugated texture of its outside skin. I couldn't believe it. The concave bottom and the sides have shown signs of charring. Was this a space-flown capsule? You just about had to carbon date it to see how old it was. There was no mistaking it; this was an original Bunkury capsule!
It lay on its side, stuck between a couple of old electrical generators and an AC unit. The entry hatch was low to the ground, and I shone my flashlight into it. I slowly stuck my head inside and looked around. I've only seen one of these capsules in old pictures, and here I was, looking at the insides of one. Very carefully, I stepped into it. The pilot seat was in front of me, serving as a wall since the capsule was turned on its side.
On my right were the guidance displays. I was looking at a real "eight ball"! The light from my torch caressed the control panels, the dusty switches, and the lights, without disturbing their repose. I stopped on the master switch and stared at it. Of course, it was silly to think the master switch would do anything else other than click. I pressed it anyway. The master caution light, confused, blinked and came to life. Pins shot through my toes, and I froze. The rest of the master panel lights came on. I flipped the subsystem switches. The bewildered circuits started running systems diagnostics, chirping nervously. Most of the lights and press buttons lit up. I had to sit down; I hoped the side panel wouldn't mind my bum resting on it.
The attitude indicator mesmerized me, and I started scratching my chin. There was no way the batteries here were still good, was there? Could the fuel cells still work after Bun knows how long?
Outside, the sun must have been preparing to rise, and the birds were going wild, sounding giddy and yapping about an orchard with a bunch of fermented apples on the ground.
I had days like that.
The wild bunch flew off and silence settled back in. I shifted my position to get a bit more comfortable and kept staring at the panel lights. I couldn't help but think about the last time those lights were revealing the pulse of the capsule and telling the fortunes of the bunstronaut strapped inside. He or she, suspended in the void between celestial bodies, would be looking out of the tiny window, pondering a bird's eye view on things no birds had ever enjoyed. The view would constantly change as the craft circled the globe every ninety minutes or so. A sunset, followed by a sunrise, followed by a sunset, followed by a sunrise and another sunset. Every time the sun was completely out of view, the stars came out in droves and shone like never before. It was their showtime. I enjoyed every star twinkle my eyes could catch. I sensed another sunrise coming up and became focused on the sliver of space where I expected the sun's awakening. Then, just as the sun started to come to life again, my capsule shook violently, and I was glad to be so tightly strapped into my seat. Without that, I was sure to be thrown against the cabin like a rag doll. The sun blasted my eyes, much harsher and whiter this time. Somebun was shaking me by my shoulder. I looked up. That was no sun. It was Abby and Pancake's headlights. Quiet, they stared at me in disbelief. The capsule was dark; all the lights were out.
"Good grief, Major! We thought you were a goner, that a hawk got you or something!" said Pancake.
Friday, November 11, 2016
A salaaaaaad? Only one salaaaaaad?
- Thank you, Renee!
PS: Mango found a forever home with Renee and Brad on Wednesday, joining Abby, Molly, Pancake, Ava and Penny!
This is what mango had to say on Thursday:
"Hi I'm Mango. I was born at the Hoppy Homes Rescue June 28/2015 which makes me a just over a year old. My new hoomins wants me to make friends with the pretty lady who lives next to me! So far I think she smells good & she's nice to look at too 🙊
My new hoomins are going to give us a few days of toy/blanket switching then cage switching before we are introduced. She is a little confused right now cause she lots her husbun not long ago & den some other guy lived next to her & even cuddle with her & then he went away and I showed up. I think she's interested in me tho, cause she keeps sticking her nose through the bars looking at me 😊
My new hoomins will keep you all updated on our progress."
Thursday, November 10, 2016
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
It is with a very heavy heart that we're sharing the sad news of Mr. Toes making his journey to the Rainbow Bridge. He suffered a stroke and spent his last moments in the loving arms of his hoomins.
He enjoyed 11 years of wonderful life with the most exceptional bunny servants.
Renee says, "He was at the pet store before rescue existed. He was there for 6 months. No one wanted him. So I bought him he was marked down and 6 months old and Brad bought his cage."
He inspired The Disapprovers and X Plus Bun stories, and we will sorely miss Him.
Our hearts go out to the family of Mr. Toes
- Mr. Bun's hoomin.
PS: Lately, I've been thinking a lot about Mr. Toes and started working on the early episodes of The Disapprovers, to tidy up and complete the series. Below is the re-imagined version of Mr. Toes meeting his hoomins.
The Disapprovers - Episode 1
It was a quiet, not too dark but soggy night. We had freezing drizzle and low clouds, reflecting the town's sodium vapor street lights, making for a ghoulish and putrid view. This was the last time I'd see Zip, my best friend. Once I decided to put in my notice and to retire, there would be no going back. We took all of my personal possessions, or whatever was left of them, and we burned them in a small bonfire by the river. Zip would escort me as far as the park, but after that, I would be on my own. I'd play a bunny that some hoomin "set free" in the park, in front of a particular couple of hoomins. We had it on good authority they were pretty good at taking care of strays and rescues. I'd put on a bit of a charm charade, and all would be OK in the end. It sounded risky, but we had it all figured out, and this was nothing compared to the antics I would be leaving behind.
Zip checked his watch; it was time to go. The park was quite a ways away. We started hopping at a good clip, just to keep warm. It was getting colder as the frontal passage approached.
We trekked along the river bank, foreboding and quiet. We had to be on the lookout for predators, but at least we didn't have to think too hard about where we were going. The park would be downstream and to our right, and if we got to the road bridge, we'd have gone too far. Zip was a great companion on this last adventure. He shed his suit and went along barefoot to blend in and be exposed to the elements in solidarity.
Finally, the park lights came into view and my stomach sunk a little. The drizzle started changing into rain. When we came to the edge of the park, the place was mostly empty. A few hoomins hurried along, disappearing into the shops along the sides of the park.
We paused behind a tall, thick shrub. I hugged Zip, and we said our goodbyes. Now we would try to spot the hoomins we needed and avoid the others. We hid behind an empty bench and waited. It was getting very windy, and the rain was freezing. I was starting to shiver. Maybe I was getting too old for this? My mind shorted for a split second, and I thought, "Retirement my fuzz! I should be in a warm, cozy burrow now, having some tea and snacks!"
Then Zip tapped me on the side, "Your three o'clock, I think it's them!" I looked up. Yes, those were my future hoomins, bundled up, rushing along with their heads down to keep the rain out of their eyes.
This was it. I looked at Zip. He scratched my side. As the hoomins got closer, Zip ran out in front of them. They perked up. I followed him, and I froze right in front of the hoomins. It took them a second to realize two bunnehs were staring at them. I pretended to run and took a couple of hops to my right while Zip went left and turned around. The hoomins looked like they had taken the bait. I hopped again, never letting them out of my sight, and froze in front of the girl hoomin. Zip took a step sideways and blinked at me. I watched him break into a full gallop across the park and disappear behind a bush.
I still couldn't believe this was happening. I would never see Zip again, and I wished him a safe return to the base.
The next thing I knew, I was getting picked up off the ground and instinctively tried to run before I reassured myself that this was why we had come here. My heart pounded as the hoomin unzipped her jacket and hid me inside to shelter me a little from the bitter cold. I looked at them both. One started to scratch my head. Maybe this would work out?
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
Hoomin, you're great! How about you stick to making salads, eh? I love your saaaalads!
- Thank you, Stephen!
PS: Stephen says, "She was slated to be bred for food, but her sweet demeanor demanded instant rescue! She entered our home this weekend, and has been a joy. Mochi disapproves of rabbits being raised for anything other than love."
We couldn't agree more; congratulations!
Monday, November 7, 2016
Saturday, November 5, 2016
It was my third week working the daytime penal shift as support for the carrot peelers because I was slow to salute a Flem officer. I worked the graveyard shift from nine in the morning until six in the evening. When I wasn't fixing jammed peelers or replacing burned out motors, I had to keep busy breaking down hoomin clothes, from battle fatigues to flight suits, and even pressure suits. I heard someone got to break down a spacesuit.
The Flems, I mean the Flemish Giants, were enforcing a quarantine by blockading the planet where a small colony of hoomins took a hold. They were raiding the hoomin settlements and snatching hoomins to work in the machine shops and hydroponic farm factories. When they caught their little ones, the Flems would raise them as Snorglers. They would spend their lives as ear scratchers and head rubbers. If you raise them right, they never know the difference and make excellent companions. You can even potty train them. Hoomins, of course, tried to break the quarantine and re-supply the settlements.
It was a particularly hot afternoon, and I had just got done re-packing the bearings of an old hay fluffer. I was glad to do it, because that day, it was operated by a bun I had my eye on all week. We were not supposed to talk to one another, so I enjoyed the official excuses for conversing with her. Her name was Abby and when the Gendarme left us alone, we got to whisper a little bit. She was here because she was incapacitated, I mean she had "accidentally stepped on the air hose" of her superior officer, the captain of the flight. She saved her crew. The jerk was about to fly into a trap that would have meant the loss of his crew and craft.
Well, as much as I liked talking to her, I had to get busy and break down some stinky, hoomin garb. There was enough to do, keeping busy with the maintenance, but garb breakdown adds just that little extra pinch of salt to the wound. First, I had to go through the pockets and remove any metal parts that could damage the shredder. If I found anything of interest in the garments, I was supposed to turn it in.
I untied the next bag of rags and started sorting them out. There was another flight suit, orange, looking brand new and pretty small, even for a hoomin. I pulled it out to have a better look. There was something different about this one. I could feel it was made of several layers of fabric. The outermost one was very slick and thin, without any signs of stitching. It had to be glued to whatever else was underneath it. There were several ports and outlets located on the front and sides of this thing. The back was reinforced with something light and stiff and appeared to be a support structure for something heavy and bulky. I looked at the insides of the suit and saw a strange lining that was separate from the suit itself. I pulled out part of it. It was made of something similar to cotton, but I think it was synthetic. It had a net of little plastic tubes woven through it. I pinched one and noticed air bubbles in it. The tubes had liquid in them. Then, I knew: this was no pressure suit; this was a spacesuit.
I started sifting through its pockets, and I found a small, red capsule in one of them. It was covered with something sticky. I got some of it on my paw and rubbed it with my toes. Dried slobber? Hoomin slobber? Why would it be coated with dry, hoomin slobber? I put it back and closed the pocket. My paws began to tremble. I knew what that pill was. That had to be a cyanide pill. The hoomin wasn't supposed to survive its capture.
The fabric of the suit was tough. It laughed at my attempts to cut through it from the outside. I tore all the lining out of it; there was a fabric tape running up the side of the torso, along one of the seams. I peeled it off and found a silver, smooth wire, running the length of the seam. At the top of the torso, it was broken off from a small, black tube, about the thickness of my toe. One of its endpoints was shaped like an eight-pointed star. I got a hunch. I peeled off the wire and everything I could find connected to it, including that little, black tube, and stashed it all away.
To draw no attention to myself, I left the suit alone for a while and got busy shredding the other garments from the pile. Before I left the post for the day, I went through the rest of the pockets in the suit and found a small, laminated picture of a dutchie. A dutchie picture? On a hoomin? I spread out the suit and straightened it out. That hoomin was pretty short. When I looked at the torso, I realized that it was probably a she.
Next night, when the serpentine belt broke on Abby's carrot peeler, I whispered about my finding. I was pretty sure, I told Abby, that the hoomin was supposed to break and swallow that red capsule, but she didn't. She had also disabled that antenna woven into her spacesuit. I asked Abby if she knew how to access and reactivate that beacon if I could connect it to the antenna. She said she could do it. She said that it was most likely an emergency locator and a telemetry transmitter; its job was to summon a search and rescue drone. She said we could hack a drone like that and use it to break through the blockade. Then we could hitch a ride on a freighter and get away from this star-forsaken hellball.