It’s a tumultuous time at CarrotCorps Pty Ltd. The employees gather anxiously in the boardroom as it swells beyond comfortable capacity.
Basil enters the room at two minutes past nine and takes his position before the assembled masses. He sits back on his hind legs and rests his paws deftly on the soft white fur of his pot belly.
‘Firstly, I would like to thank all of you for having the confidence that I, Basil Hopper, have what it takes to be the most successful Head of Rabbit Resources and Workplace Relations that CarrotCorps has seen yet.’
There’s a smattering of applause; you can hear the reservation between paws. It has little effect on Basil.
‘And now, to business. There are going to be a few changes around here. So listen up. We are not giving into stereotypes, OK? I’ve had more workplace relations guys in here than I can shake my cute tail at, and it’s doing my head in. There will be no more “doing it like rabbits”.’
Basil silences a giggle at the back of the room with a cautionary glance.
‘I’m not joking. There seems to have been some confusion between Peter and some female workers about what constitutes consent. We’ve decided to impose a blanket ban on hanky-panky in the office. Just to be clear: you have all lost your sex-at-work privileges.’
Miffy’s cheeks flush at this point, remembering the rogering that Basil had delivered that very morning in his new office. It was on the sixteenth floor, and the view, oh, the view. Basil hadn’t moved the photo of his warren to his desk yet, and Miffy had found it a little easier to give in to her urges.
‘Finally, I want to put a rest to all these claims of favouritism in the office. Peter’s pedigree has nothing to do with his employment, and he will receive no special treatment because of his family line; good luck splitting those hares.’
At this Jack, the slow rabbit who works in the mailroom, lets out a loud guffaw. It’s met with much appreciation by a floundering but persistent Basil.
‘Now, Peter – no not perverted Peter: Peter ‘son-of-the-CEO’ Peter – was complaining about a fly on his nose. This is just a warning that around twenty-seven per cent of office stationery is now booby-trapped to eliminate flies, and you will be vapourised upon contact should you touch these things. We’ll catch them though – the flies will never be able to tell which pieces of stationery are safe and which are not.’
With an air of confusion settling over the boardroom, the assembled employees are dismissed into the minefield of CarrotCorps Pty Ltd. At their cuburrowicles, staff are seen holding their feet for good luck while reaching for a pencil, a hole punch, a stapler.