When We Were Rabbits 

by Christopher Yin 
 
1. The Facts, or the Things We Weren’t Not Anymore, Mostly 
 
We were rabbits. 
We just were. 
We didn’t always use to be rabbits. We used to have long legs and hairless skin and weak noses. We 
used to have strong voices, big lips, ten fingers and toes apiece, and whiskers only some of the time. We used 
to have tiny ears that could barely flip, let alone flop. We used to not have tails.  
(We liked having tails.)  
Here are some other things we used to have: instant ramen, reality television, oil spills, architecture, 
toast, chicken coops, road rage, a global economy, schadenfreude, roller coasters, Texas, pumpkin spice, the 
internet, and teenage angst. It is hard to be angsty when you are a rabbit. You are too fluffy. You also do not 
live for very long.  
There were lots of new things we could do, now that we were rabbits. We got a lot better at jumping, 
for instance. We could talk to other rabbits, even though they didn’t have much to say (“Poop. Poop. Carrot. 
Poop.”). Speaking of which, we could eat our own poop. You got extra nutrients that way. 
There were lots of old things we could still do, even though we weren’t human anymore. We could 
still talk to each other. We could still eat vegetables. We could still be kind, and sad, and cruel, though it is a 
little harder when everyone you want to be mean to is adorable. We could still dance, of course, and tell lies, 
and make hot chocolate, and laugh at jokes we remembered in our heads but no one around us could hear, 
and we could still read books, though our eyesight wasn’t very good. We could still throw rocks at each other, 
and drink water out of licorice sticks with the ends bitten off, and use recording devices, and have political 
debates, though again we were too adorable for anything all that contentious. 
We could still fuck. 
(We liked fucking.) 
(This would prove to be problematic.) 
But rabbits don’t sugarcoat. There were things we missed about being human. For instance, rabbits 
cannot sing. We do not have the lungs for it. Or the tongues, or the lips, or the vocal cords, for that matter. 
Frankly, it was surprising we could speak to each other at all. We do not even have fingers that can play 
instruments, so making new music wasn’t really in the cards for us anymore. 
We also couldn’t climb trees. 
That was okay. You learned to accept things. Yes, there were things we used to do, things we used to 
have, things we used to be. But we couldn’t do everything we’d done before, and we didn’t have everything 
we used to have, because we weren’t what we had been. 
We were rabbits. 
 
2. Beyoncé is Another Word for Anarchy 
 
Let me introduce myself, though I hope you already know who I am. My name is Beyoncé. I did not 
always used to be Beyoncé, but I am now, and that’s that. Here are some other things about me: my favorite 
vegetable is beets, I live in Greentown which is in where Texas used to be, I once hopped all the way from 
Bunville to Rababbia in a single day because Chester Mills said I couldn’t. Also, I am a rabbit. You probably 
picked up on that already.  
 I can explain. 
There came a day in the history of this planet that all us humans became rabbits. We didn’t understand 
why, not until later, but we still had to figure out ways to keep living. You don’t go through a change like that 
without some things falling apart. 
Here are some things that fell apart: governments, stock markets, intercontinental travel, highways, 
Hollywood, brunch dates (no toast), telephones, satellites, the meat industry, the sex industry, pretty much 
every industry that didn’t involve vegetables, the industry that involved water chestnuts because no one really 
likes water chestnuts anyway. 
All in all, lots of things had fallen apart, and when that happens the only thing to do is rebuild. The 
way I decided to rebuild myself was by being Beyoncé. Other rabbits told me I couldn’t be Beyoncé. Here are 
their reasons: (1) Beyoncé was a human woman and I was a male rabbit, (2) Beyoncé could sing and I, being a 
rabbit, couldn’t, (3) Beyoncé was already Beyoncé. If we all started being whoever we wanted- well, that 
would just be anarchy. 
I did not care. We were rabbits. I could be Beyoncé if I wanted to. It is not like she could sing either, 
anymore. 
She was also a rabbit. 
I wasn’t the only one who decided to take a new name. Around 13% of the global population 
decided to call themselves Thumper. We had to institute a numbering system for all the Thumpers. That was 
okay though. What happened next wasn’t because of Thumpers, it was because of a rabbit running around in 
my own humble little Greentown who went by the name of Hot Buns XXX. 
 
3. The Extreme Melancholy of Mr. Nibbles 
 
Hot Buns XXX was a troublemaker for sure, a real rabble-rouser and a malcontent. When the entire 
human race suddenly becomes rabbits, there isn’t much more you can do but accept the change and move on 
with your life. But not Hot Buns XXX. Hot Buns XXX had to ask questions. 
“Don’t you think we should be more concerned about the fact that we are all now rabbits?” he could be 
heard asking random passerby on street corners. “Don’t you think we should try to find out why? And how? 
And if we can make things go back?” 
Hot Buns XXX was a hypocrite. He enjoyed being a rabbit. You could not be a human and call yourself 
Hot Buns XXX, in real life at least. 
(You could probably have gotten away with it on the internet.) 
As a rabbit, Hot Buns XXX also had a lot more free time to loaf around all day, eating other people’s 
vegetables, pestering us with his questions, and fucking quite a lot, even by rabbit standards. Hot Buns XXX 
did not really want to go back to being a human. But he still wanted to ask his questions. 
Hot Buns XXX was a hypocrabbit. 
“Don’t you think maybe it was vegans?” he would say. “A secret plot to make us hate eating meat? Or 
maybe it was communists? NATO? The homosexual agenda?” 
No one paid him too much mind. We had other rabbit things to do. Lately I had been helping out with 
Mrs. Parsley’s flower garden, as she was getting a little long in the ear and tired out before all the flowers 
could get cared for. Rabbits don’t have as much use for plants that aren’t food, but I liked seeing all the bright 
colors together, and Mrs. Parsley did, too, even though she wouldn’t call me Beyoncé, only “deary” or 
“darling.” We could always eat the flowers if we needed to. But even if we didn’t care too much about Hot 
Buns XXX’s one-rabbit crusade of questions, someone did. Or rather- something. 
 Well, no, it was someone. It is not nice to call a person a “thing” just because they are different from you, 
even if they destroyed your world and everyone you love. 
It seemed like a normal day. Hot Buns XXX was declaiming loudly from his street corner. Suddenly Hot 
Buns XXX’s tiny lips sucked inwards, as if they had been vacuumed shut. It looked like he was trying to 
speak, but all he could do was puff out his already puffy cheeks and frantically flap his floppy ears, and 
wriggle his fluffy tail. It was adorable, we admit. But also frightening, on a deeply existential level. It seemed 
like the whole town dropped what they were doing and gathered around Hot Buns XXX to watch his 
frenzied charade. Then a strange disturbance appeared in the sky. It was like a blur, a heat shimmer, a breath. 
It was a patch of scintillating blue-notblue that was-wasn’t actually there. And it spoke: 
“You can no longer call yourself Hot Buns XXX. It is not cute. Your name is now Mr. Nibbles.” 
Mr. Nibbles was sad that he could no longer call himself Hot Buns XXX. 
And that was how we found out- 
 
4. It Was Aliens This Whole Time 
 
Their name was Dr. Potato. 
“Because we are here to help you get better like good doctors and also because after much research we 
have concluded that potatoes are the baked salmon of people,” they told us. 
Dr. Potato’s analogies never made much sense. That is okay. They are an alien. 
“We were hoping we would not have to interfere, but unfortunately you humans are not cute enough, 
even after we turned you all into rabbits. So we will have to be a little more hands-on than we hoped. Oh 
well, you have to crack a few eggs to invent the cure for handshakes!” 
Dr. Potato, the alien blur in the sky, explained to us that we were a children’s television show. This is 
because the entire race of Dr. Potatoans had run out of their own ideas for children’s television shows. 
Therefore, they decided to film an entirely difference species, who could think of things they never had and 
make the best, most original and interesting television show for children that the baby Dr. Potatoans had ever 
seen. 
Unfortunately, there were a few hiccups. Namely, we weren’t cute enough. So even though Dr. Potato 
wanted to allow us as much originality as possible, some things just were not age appropriate. 
“But what about Beyoncé?” wailed Mr. Nibbles. “How is Beyoncé age-appropriate! She is a sexy goddess! 
Why can that rabbit call himself Beyoncé and I can’t call myself <CENSORED>? Wait, why can’t I say 
<CENSORED>? <CENSORED>!​ ​Oh, fiddlesticks!” 
“Beyoncé is the Queen Mother of the Lemonade,” said Dr. Potato. “Very kid friendly. Research shows 
kids like lemonade. Now stop arguing with us, Mr. Nibbles, or else we shall be very cross, and also explode 
you.” 
I did not like Mr. Nibbles. He was always trying to tell me I couldn’t be Beyoncé. But I still felt bad for 
him, because no one deserves to have their name censored, or to be exploded. Except maybe the person who 
thought water chestnuts was a good idea. 
“On a related note,” said Dr. Potato, “We understand the nature of our relationship demands some 
compromise, since we really do want you to be your authentic non-Dr. Potato selves, and we will tolerate a 
certain degree of inappropriate behavior. But this is really a bit much, don’t you think? So please, stop fucking 
so much. Our children do not want to see that.” 
There were some gasps, some sobs, some confused murmurs, among the assembled rabbit-folk of 
Greentown. We would later learn a projection of Dr. Potato appeared all around the world to have a similar 
conversation. It may have been a different Dr. Potato, or it may have been the same; it was a little hard to tell 
the difference between cosmic alien blurs. 
“Can we not fuck at all?” said Thumper 000069, who was a lusty rabbit. 
“You can still fuck a little, just do not fuck so much,” they said. But what could we do? 
We were rabbits. 
 
5. Chester Mills is an Assrabbit 
 
Soon after Dr. Potato revealed themselves and started vetting everyone’s names, an important thing 
happened. I was in Mrs. Parsley’s garden chewing up some weeds when a rabbit came racing through the 
gates. He had grey fur with splotches of white, and he smelled like acorns. I could hear another rabbit running 
up to the garden gates, and from the hopping pattern it sounded like Chester Mills. I did not like Chester 
Mills. He had doubted me. 
(Beyoncés should not be doubted.) 
I gestured for the grey rabbit to hide behind the chrysanthemum bushes, which are my favorite because 
they make me think of lions and also because they have the nicest-sounding name. Chester Mills poked his 
head through the gates just as the grey rabbit’s tail disappeared into a cluster of pink and orange flowers. 
“Hello, fellow rabbit,” he said. “Did another rabbit just come through here?” 
Chester Mills knew what my name was. 
“No,” I said. “Please get out of the garden you are spoiling the balance of the soil with your chemicals.” 
Chester Mills huffed and hopped away. 
“You can come out now,” I said. The grey rabbit poked his nose out of the bush and twitched it around 
before emerging the rest of the way. 
“Thank you,” he said. “You did me a real solid there.” 
“Chester Mills is an assrabbit,” I said. “Why was he chasing you?” 
“I stole his pocket watch. He would not stop muttering about his lateness, and trying to look important.” 
“That is a good reason to steal a pocket watch,” I said. 
The grey rabbit tossed the watch to me. It was shiny and smelled like acorns. 
“Here, you can have it. I only wanted it to bother Chester Mills. My name is Lickums.” 
“Hello, Lickums. Thank you for the watch. I am glad that you wanted to bother Chester Mills. My name 
is Beyoncé.” 
Lickums looked over both his shoulders, or what passed for shoulders when you were a rabbit. He leaned 
closer to me and said, “I call myself Lickums because while it sounds like it could be cute enough for Dr. 
Potato, it can also sound very inappropriate if you think about it in the right way.” 
I laughed. 
“My real name is Henry, though. You can call me that, if you want.” 
“My real name is Beyoncé.” 
“Okay,” said Henry. “Beyoncé. Beyoncé. Beyoncé.” 
 
6. The Terrible Shame of Demerit Carrots 
 
As a whole, we rabbit-kind did not stop fucking. 
In fact, we fucked everywhere we could. 
 Here are some of the places we fucked: vegetable factories, garbage heaps, kitchen counters, abandoned 
chicken coops, highways, the top of the McDonald’s arch, the place that used to be Texas. One of the few 
places where we did not fuck was trees. 
(We couldn’t climb them.) 
Dr. Potato was not happy. They called a global meeting, and projected themselves in the center of every 
town where good rabbitfolk gathered. 
“This is really too much,” they said. “We did give you a warning. Our children do not need to see such 
things. We want to let you be yourselves as much as we can, but it seems like we need to implement some 
restrictions.” 
We huddled together, frightened by all the possible meanings “restrictions” might have for a person like 
Dr. Potato, who was a cosmic alien blur. Imagine an entire town of terrified rabbits hugging each other and 
covering their eyes with their tiny paws. It was adorable. 
“So from now on, if you are a bad bunny you will receive the Demerit Carrot. Metaphorically speaking, 
the Demerit Carrot is a badge of shame.” 
We hung our heads and let our floppy ears droop to the ground in a facsimile of contrition. Inside, we 
were deeply relieved. Shame was not so bad a thing to have. 
“Unmetaphorically speaking, it is a carrot-shaped genital sheath with spikes on both the inside and the 
outside to make the act of copulation as painful as possible for both parties involved. Now, we will say it one 
more time: ​stop fucking so much!​” 
We were less relieved. 
 
7. Fucking is 4Ever 
 
Here are some of the things I liked about Henry: he smelled like acorns, he played tricks on Chester Mills, 
he was quietly devious, he called me by my name. 
The world was a strange and unstable place, mostly. 
I asked Henry to walk with me to the lake at the edge of Greentown. We passed by Mr. Nibbles, who had 
much less to say these days now that we knew why we were rabbits, and much less to do, now that we had 
Demerit Carrots. We passed by the statue of Dr. Potato the local crafts group had erected in the town center. 
It wasn’t very good because rabbits have a difficult time with metalworking, and furnaces. Those bellows are 
just so hard. Also because Dr. Potato was a cosmic alien blur, which is sort of like the opposite of statues. 
Right before we got to the lakeside we passed by the municipal dumpsters, which somerabbit had tagged with 
the phrase, ​Fucking is 4Ever​. It looked like it had been written in beet juice, which seemed like a waste of good 
beets. 
The lake was full of stars that night, because the moon was gone. I tried to count them all but there were 
many. We sat on the edge of the dock where humans used to launch their paddleboats, back when we had 
legs long enough to reach the paddles from the seats. 
Henry was closer than paddles. 
“Can I hold your paw?” he said. 
His paw was warm, and holding it felt like no one had ever called me by any other name but my own. 
“Can I kiss you?” I said. 
“Yes, please,” said Henry. 
Kissing was also something we could still do. It wasn’t very adorable when you were both rabbits, and the 
logistics were a bit wonky. 
We liked it very much, all the same. 
 
8. Never Neglect the Lesbian 
 
Dr. Potato did not account for lesbians. This was short-sighted of them. The lesbian rabbits continued to 
fuck a lot, since they could not get Demerit Carrots. Dr. Potato also did not account for dildos. 
Clearly they had not done their research. 
 
9. Dr. Potato Launches the Robabbipocalypse 
 
They called another town meeting. 
“Hello friends! We realize we have made some mistakes, which we apologize for. We were too hasty in 
turning you into rabbits all at once. You weren’t prepared for it, we weren’t prepared for it, all around it’s just 
been a bit of a disaster. That’s okay though! Sometimes when you fall you just have to pick off your own 
eyebrows and squirt a monkey!” 
A rabbit appeared in the sky next to Dr. Potato. His eyes were closed. He looked a lot like Mr. Nibbles. 
We looked around us and saw that Mr. Nibbles had disappeared from our ranks. It was Mr. Nibbles in the 
sky. 
“So we are going to take things a bit slower now, and give us all a trial period. Since you clearly cannot be 
trusted to make the right decisions for yourselves, we will be replacing most of you with robabbits. Robabbits 
are just like rabbits, except they are also robots, and they can only do and say what they are programmed for.” 
Mr. Nibbles floated to the ground. As soon as his paws hit the street his eyes opened and he said, “Hello, 
fellow rabbits. I am Mr. Nibbles. I like not fucking, and also obeying Dr. Potato.” 
If a cosmic alien blur could beam, Dr. Potato would have beamed. 
“We will be gradually changing most of you into robabbits,” they said. “We will take it slow this time to 
make sure everything is working properly, and that all your interactions are appropriately cute. We will also 
leave a few of you alone for originality’s sake. Thank you for your cooperation, and remember- it’s for the 
children.” 
 
10. Alan Turing Should Have Eaten More Carrots 
 
We wondered what it was like to be a robabbit. We wondered if Dr. Potato just made a copy of your 
body with a robot mind, or if they took your body and replaced your mind, or if your mind was still there but 
all its actions overwritten. We wondered which of us would be the first to be robabbified. We wondered if 
any of us were already robabbits. We wondered how we could tell if a rabbit was still a rabbit. 
Really, it wasn’t that hard. 
There once was a human scientist named Alan Turing. He came up with a test for distinguishing robot 
intelligence from human intelligence, by comparing their abilities to hold a conversation. It was very fancy 
and had all sorts of rules and definitions. 
We don’t need your test, Mr. Turing, because everyone already knows robots can’t dance. The moment a 
robot learns how to dance is the moment it stops being a robot and starts being a person. Maybe if you’d 
eaten some more carrots you could have seen that. 
 
11. When We Were Rabbits 
 
“I want to show you something, Beyoncé,” Henry said to me, the last time we were together. 
It was a record player. There was a record on it already. 
“I am scared to flip the disk,” admitted Henry. “I do not know if my clumsy paws could manage it. So to 
be safe we should probably only listen to one side, if that is okay with you.” 
“That is okay, Henry,” I said. “I would like to dance with you.” 
He flipped the tonearm off its cradle, and the needle began to descend. 
 
That was the last time I spoke with Henry. The next time I saw him he was not Henry. He did not 
recognize me. Or maybe he did, and could not say. 
“Hello, fellow bunny. I am Lickums,” said the robabbit. “I do not want to fuck you.” 
“Hello Lickums. My name is Henry,” I said. “And I just want to hold your paw, if that is all right.” 
 
I do not know if I will remember this. I do not know what happens to your mind after Dr. Potato 
turns you into a robabbit. I do not know if Henry exists anymore, if inside his robabbit cage there are eyes 
that see and a mind that thinks and a heart that remembers. This recording is for if we really are gone, after 
we are robabbits. It is for reminding the robabbit that will be me, what I was and who I loved, which might 
be the same thing. 
For now, though, I can believe. That on the day when Dr. Potato comes for me, and on all the days 
after, I will remember everything. 
Here are the things I will remember: him calling me by my real name the first time he called me 
anything, me holding his paw as we sat by the side of the lake counting drowned stars, the smell of acorns on 
a stolen watch, and this night, when we were still rabbits together, watching the needle fall like a prayer 
towards the revolving black disk that would exhort us to shake, to twist, to shout, one more time, just once 
more.