In 2011, a bunch of scientists decided to genetically combine all bunnies and bears in their neighborhood central park. They wanted something functionally strong and cute, so they can commercialize them as pets. (The full account is in the origin story.)
At first glance, Bunny Bears seem predictable. They have the soft existential anxiety of a rabbit and the unapologetic strength of a bear. They can sniff a carrot from three zip codes away, but they have tiny rabbit stomachs, so they only need 11ish carrots a day. Evolutionarily confusing? Yes. Adorable? Also yes. The scientists called this a success!
Unfortunately soon after, a bunny escaped in a bear suit, the assigned bunny bears couldn’t figure out how to catch him, and the whole unholy scheme was leaked to the press before these entrepreneurial scientists could iron out their marketing scheme… The backlash was IMMENSE.
But the real cherry topped plot twist nobody asked for is….
They meow meow.
Not roar.
Not squeak.
Not some majestic woodland hybrid sound like “rawr-squeef.”
Not even meow.
They meow meow.
Scientists initially assumed it was a lab error. Maybe someone left a cat video playing near the embryo chamber. But after extensive research (and several scratched lab coats), they discovered something profound.
When you combine prey-level alertness with apex-predator confidence, the nervous system simply gives up and defaults to what is now known as the kitten OS.
It turns out that because these Bunny Bears are so fluffy and formidable, their mental coping mechanism is the same as a baby cat’s.
Exactly.
“Meow.”
The meow is not weakness. It’s strategy. Imagine being a forest predator expecting a roar, only to hear a polite, judgmental “mrrrp.” You hesitate. That hesitation is all a Bunny Bear needs to either escape… or steal your picnic basket.
Behaviorally, the meow also simplifies diplomacy. Other woodland creatures are confused, but disarmed. It’s difficult to maintain fear when the creature looming over you sounds like it wants tuna.
In the end, Bunny Bears don’t meow because they’re part cat.
They meow because existence is already confusing enough.
And if you’re going to be a carrot-loving, honey-hoarding, fluffy juggernaut of genetic ambition—
You might as well do it softly.
The rest of the record: Kev, who meows the most and signs off with it; Charlie, who considers the meow a branding liability; and all the comics, where the two of them argue about it.
