For some, it’s the first time they file their taxes.For others, it’s marriage.For me, it was walking into the Valeroso County Commissioners Meeting and seeing the agenda projected in cheerful blue Comic Sans:
AGENDA ITEM 4:Formal Consideration of “Dumpster Bunny” County Branding Initiative
Jake nudged me.“Comic Sans,” he whispered. “They’re serious.”
I did not respond.I was conserving my strength.
The room was packed.Half the PTA.Teachers.Local press.A man with a homemade “BUNNIES ARE WATCHING US” sign.And, unfortunately, Rusty, parked beside me like an emotional support appliance.
Commissioner Mendoza smiled from the dais.“Mr. Anxo, would you present the staff report?”
I approached the podium like a man approaching his own autopsy.
I cleared my throat.
Then cleared it again because the microphone boosted the first one loud enough to startle Rusty.
“Commissioners,” I began, “I’m here to advise strongly—very strongly—against the county formally adopting the name ‘Dumpster Bunnies.’”
A gasp rippled across the room.
Jake shrank in his seat.
Rusty chirped in confusion.
Commissioner Mendoza leaned in. “Why? The name has widespread community support.”
“And that’s precisely the problem,” I said.
Commissioner Ayala blinked. “Come again?”
I gripped the podium.
“Respectfully, you cannot rebrand essential municipal equipment based on memes, stickers, and the emotional whims of schoolchildren. This is how systemic failures happen. This is how chaos metastasizes. This is how—”
I stopped.Everyone was staring at me.
I continued anyway.
“This is how you end up with a situation none of you can control.”
Commissioner Mendoza crossed his arms. “Explain.”
“Because I’ve worked with—”I paused.Careful.“—entities. Let’s call them hostile forces.”
Jake whispered, “Oh boy.”
I pressed on.
“In other jobs, in… ah… adjacent departments, disagreement wasn’t a quirk of small-town government. It wasn’t a decorative fountain of civic dysfunction. It had consequences. Real ones.”
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A PTA mom raised her hand. “Are you saying the robots will get mad if we call them bunnies?”
“What? No!” I said quickly. “They’re not sentient. They don’t have feelings. They don’t understand words.”
Rusty rolled forward six inches and bumped my boot.
The entire room inhaled like a synchronized choir.
“That bump meant NOTHING,” I said loudly.
Rusty chirped twice.
Half the room swooned.
“This,” I said, pointing at Rusty, “is reactive motion compensation, not affection. Stop projecting emotions onto the trash robot.”
A man shouted: “THEN WHY DOES IT SOUND CUTE?”
“It doesn’t!”
Rusty chirped again.Softly.
The room gasped.
Commissioner Pritchard cleared his throat.“Mr. Anxo, we appreciate your concerns. But surely one nickname won’t break the county.”
“You say that now,” I muttered, “but you didn’t see the parade rehearsal.”
A band parent cried, “MY SON WAS RUN OVER BY A TROMBONE!”
“That was not the robot’s fault,” I said.“Mostly.”
The conspiracy theorist stood. “THIS IS HOW THE MACHINES TAKE OVER—”
Sheriff McCready gently escorted him back out.
Commissioner Mendoza tapped his microphone.“Mr. Anxo, thank you for your thoughts. But we must reflect the desires of our constituents.”
“Your constituents want to name the robots Dumpster Bunnies?” I asked
A chorus thundered back:
“YES!”
Jake added softly: “I mean, I want it too.”
“TRAITOR,” I whispered.
Rusty chirped.
“NOT HELPING.”
Commissioner Mendoza lifted his gavel.
“I move that Valeroso County officially adopt the brand identity of Dumpster Bunnies for all BT-4 Hopper units and future municipal collection platforms, with Mr. Trashy as the lead mascot.”
The vote:
5–0. Unanimous.
It was done.
Final.Official.Legally binding.
Mendoza beamed.“Congratulations, Mr. Anxo. You’ve helped create a county cultural icon.”
I stared at him.
“I hate everything,” I said.
Jake patted my shoulder.“You’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You will anyway.”
Rusty rolled forward and gently nudged my boot.
The room melted into a mass “Awwwwwwww!”
I glared.“Stop encouraging them.”
Rusty chirped again.Softer.
A second wave of “Awwwwww!” swept the room.
As the crowd dispersed and the commissioners posed with the mascot suit like new parents, I stared at Rusty blinking up at me — innocent, oblivious, and now the face of a countywide PR machine.
Jake slung an arm around my shoulder.
“Well,” he said, “you tried.”
“I did,” I said. “And it didn’t matter.”
“That’s politics.”
“No,” I said, pointing at the commissioners congratulating themselves. “Politics is pretending you understand the budget.This is something worse.”
Rusty chirped again — sympathetic?I hoped not.
“You know what’s funny?” I said quietly.
Jake raised a brow. “There’s something funny?”
“Yes. A long time ago, I dealt with forces — hostile ones. People who truly didn’t tolerate dissent. Systems where disagreement wasn’t an inconvenience — it was a liability.”
I nodded toward the commissioners and PTA moms arguing over bunny-themed tote bags.
“And compared to them?”
I exhaled.
“They were adorable.”
Jake sputtered laughing.
Rusty bumped my shin again.
The room behind me melted into yet another unified “Awwwwww!”
I rubbed my eyes.
“Fantastic,” I muttered. “I survived hostile forces overseas… but I’m being ground into paste by helicopter parents and county branding committees.”
Jake squeezed my shoulder.
“Welcome to Valeroso County, buddy.”
Rusty chirped one final time.
I glared.“Don’t you dare start a fourth wave.”
The room behind me:“AWWWWWWWW!”
I gave up.