Boobs.

They’re soft, they’re bouncy, and half the world has a pair; it’s very difficult not to be a fan of teh boobage, let’s face it. Even if you don’t find them sexually appealing, even if you don’t want National Geographic or Secrets Lapdancing Club banging the bongos of others in your face all day, even if your body image is such that you’re repulsed by your own pair of oompha boomphas (which you keep hidden under a thermal vest and only bring out under Radox) … you’ve got to admit they serve a practical purpose. They feed babies, fill out Christmas dresses, and their fleshy folds serve as purses for those of us too vegetarian to carry our money in wallets made of dead Italian cow. If they’re huge, you can use them as battering rams during hostage situations; if they’re small, you can waft about braless and become a muse for an artistic, rich pervert. Boobs are wonderful.

But with great cleavage comes great responsibility. There are some ribcages that deserve not the gentle bob of a pair of breasts teasing gravity. No matter how comforting, how erotic, or how practical a decent pair of bajongas, there are some things you just can’t curve.

Like cartoon animals. Cartoon animals, outside of the weirdy world inhabited by the furry community, should not sport breasts.

Other nipply appendages,  I understand. If you’re looking to create an anatomically-correct moo-cow or some other such mammal, you’ll probably have to add those glands that makes them mammal. Cartoon animals are rarely anatomically correct, though. They can be bipedal, and very chatty, so in general the po-faced biology sketches are best left to the textbooks and out of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles series (can you imagine how appealing said heroes would have been had they actually looked like turtles? As appealing as Brian Cowen in a body stocking, I’d imagine). What I mean to say is, I don’t have a problem with bipedal, talking cartoon animals, or even those that have the imaginary audacity to wear jumpers or carry briefcases. We all like a bit of escapism, and sometimes you really need escapism, like when a blogger gives you mental images of Brian Cowen in a body stocking.

This, though. There’s escapism, and then there’s … this.

What the fuck is this?

That, me dears, is the Cadbury’s Caramel bunny after an apparent run-in with her very disillusioned agent.

“Listen, sugar … er … ears, Watership Down is out, you tiresome lapine stodgebucket! Get thee some inexplicable honkers and we’ll talk, coz at the moment you’re only a pest in the vegetable garden of the nation’s fucking pants, ok?”

Or something equally crazed. I don’t know why the Caramel Bunny has had so much work done. I don’t remember ordering a Furry version of Samantha from Sex In The City. I cannot comprehend why a rabbit needs mascara, or a trout pout, or a dazed, come-to-warren, pornalike expression in her deadened, deadened eyes … Holy Chist, Cadbury’s! This isn’t the essence of that “Still Got It” adage! This is a crime against pencil-shaded nature, this is!

It’s not just the Caramel Bunny, either (although she is the only one to have a dress designed for her by Giles Deacon). There’s the homely, child-bearing hips of the animums in the Air Wick ads … Christ, Caramel Bunny isn’t even the first! I recall wondering, back in my 80’s childhood, why Melissa Raccoon wore a top covering obvious boobies when she was naked from the waist down.

I mean, c’mon, lads. Coochie-less hooters? What? WHAT?

I don’t know. Perhaps I’m being a little pedantic about the whole legitimate placement of baps … After all, if they can stick them on Victoria Beckham they can stick them anywhere. It just makes my brain trickle, looking at a foxy rabbit. Edible herbivores shouldn’t contribute to an international problem with body image!

What do you think, dear readers? Rampant rabtits a go-go, or should kissy lips remain on friendly strippers and some species of tropical fish?

Have a great weekend either way.