Anthropomorphic

Furry Rabbit 

Character Portrait

Charles Moneyshot

"I, Moneyshot…" was an impassioned open letter penned by the anthropomorphic furry rabbit, Charles Moneyshot, the plaid-clad mogul of Anthroxville's adult entertainment industry. This searing manifesto emerged as a direct response to the meteoric rise of Quentin Marmalade and his avant-garde collective known as Le Jerkoffs. The letter, a blend of righteous indignation and sardonic wit, found its way into the public consciousness through multiple channels: it was published in Spencer Godwottery's high-brow periodical, Well Magazine; dramatically read aloud by the silver-tongued presenter Felix Finicky-Snout on his primetime TV show, The Sniff Test; and zealously distributed as pamphlets throughout Anthroxville's neon-lit streets. This grassroots dissemination was carried out by Moneyshot's devoted followers, The Tossers, including such notable figures as Graffen Gruntsqueeze, John Knuckle, Hans Hüftgold, Digby Bladder, Wesley Smidge, and even his leading man, Cory Numbnuts.

Charles Moneyshot, long accustomed to his unchallenged reign as the Sultan of Smut, found himself besieged by a new wave of artsy, intellectual pornography championed by Marmalade. The final straw came when his lawsuit against Ménage à Moi Productions for plagiarism was unceremoniously dismissed by a judge who seemed more amused than convinced by Moneyshot's arguments. This legal defeat, coupled with the defection of his star performer Penelope Snizzsnapper to Marmalade's camp, left Charles seething and determined to rally his Tosser base.

In the muted glow of his plaid-wallpapered sanctuary, Charles Moneyshot set quill to parchment, fueled by a potent cocktail of top-shelf scotch and wounded pride. His mission was crystal clear: to rally the common folk of Anthroxville against the insidious influence of Le Jerkoffs and their pretentious pornography. The furry rabbit's hand flew across the page, pausing only for the occasional adjustment of his spectacles or a fortifying swig from his crystal tumbler. With each stroke, he poured his frustrations, fears, and fervent beliefs into the parchment, crafting what would soon become his most notorious opus.

The resulting letter, simultaneously scathing, wry, and oddly poignant, read as follows:

My dear, deluded Anthroxvillians,

As I, Moneyshot, write to you today from my humble chair, nursing a bottle of discount scotch and staring out at the garish neon hellscape our once-proud city has become, I can't help but mourn for the Anthroxville we've lost. Gone are the days of honest, hardworking Tossers, replaced by a plague of pretentious popinjays calling themselves 'Le Jerkoffs'. Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

Remember when porno was simple? When a man could come home from a hard day's work, pop in a tape, and enjoy some good old-fashioned rumpy-pumpy without needing a PhD in French literature? Those were the days, my friends. But no, apparently that's not good enough anymore. Now we need 'art' and 'nuance' in our smut. What's next? Ontological debates in our burlesque shows?

I have always said, "To one's labor ye must dignify, before ye make the bald man cry." It's been the motto of Moneyshot Motion Pictures since day one. But these days, it seems the only thing crying is my faith in our collective soul. These Jerkoffs wouldn't know a hard day's work if it bit them on the cock. They're so far removed from honest toil, they probably think manual labor is the name of an exotic dancer.

And don't get me started on their viewing habits. A proper Tosser sits down, enjoys the show, and gets on with their day. But these Jerkoffs? They've turned watching a dirty movie into some kind of pseudo-genteel experience. Candles, incense, silk robes - it's like they're performing a sacred ritual in the Temple of Carnal Delights! They spend hours 'appreciating' a single film, yammering on about camera angles and narrative subtext. I'm sorry, but if you can find subtext in "Oi, Is This Taxi Even Real?” you're not a genius - you're delusional.

The worst part? These pompous twits have the gall to look down on us Tossers. They sneer at our simple tastes, as if their pretentious twaddle is somehow more valid than our honest, hardworking approach to pornography. "Thou fobbing fat-kidneyed nut-hook," they'll say, thinking they're oh-so-clever. Well, I've got two words for them, and they're not "Parlez-vous."

Now, I won't deny that this rivalry has led to some... changes in the industry. But at what cost? We're losing sight of what really matters - giving the good folk of Anthroxville a chance to unwind without having to consult a thesaurus. I didn't get into this business to educate, for heaven's sake. If I wanted to improve minds, I'd have become a teacher. No, I got into this business to help people turn off their minds, and maybe learn a few interesting uses for household objects along the way.

As the recently-formed Tosser proverb goes: "Hard times create Tossers. Tossers create good times. Good times create Jerkoffs. And, Jerkoffs create hard times." Well, my friends, those hard times are upon us. Our city is drowning in a sea of faux-intellectualism and overpriced lubricant.

So, to all you remaining Tossers out there, I say hold fast! Keep your noses to the grindstone and your minds in the gutter where they belong. And to the Jerkoffs? Enjoy your froufrou 'pornaux' while it lasts. But remember, when reality finally bites you in your perfumed postérieurs, it'll be good old Moneyshot Motion Pictures you come crawling back to.

Because at the end of the day, beneath all the layers of pretension and posturing, we're all just simple creatures of base instincts and carnal cravings looking for a good time - no matter how much overripe philosophy you try to dress it up in.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a bottle to finish and a screenplay to write. "Give Her One From Me An’ All" isn't going to pen itself. And this time, we're pulling out all the stops - we've even hired someone to hold the boom mic!

Mourning the death of common sense and simple pleasures, 

Charles Moneyshot

The impact of "I, Moneyshot..." reverberated through the streets of Anthroxville like a climactic scene from Charles' seminal work, "Meat and Two Veg, Please." The letter, in its various incarnations, became the talk of the town, igniting passionate debates in the most unlikely of places. From hushed arguments in the waiting room of Earnest Wafflemonger’s psychotherapy practice, Non Compos Mentis, to headed discussions in the produce aisles of Mario Miff’s many Miff Inconvenience Stores. Postal workers paused their rounds to pontificate on the merits of Tosser vs. Jerkoff ideologies, while street cleaners engaged in philosophical discourse on the nature of art and porno as they swept the sidewalks. The rhythmic swish of brooms provided a strangely fitting backdrop to impassioned quotes from Moneyshot's manifesto, punctuated by the occasional honk of agreement or disagreement from passing vehicles.

Felix Finicky-Snout's dramatic reading on The Sniff Test drew record viewership, with ratings that would make even the most seasoned adult film star blush. The episode was rebroadcast nightly for a week, each airing followed by a panel discussion featuring an increasingly bizarre mix of sociologists, retired adult performers, and at least one bemused plumbing expert who thought he'd been invited to discuss the intricacies of laying pipe.

Well Magazine, Spencer Godwottery's notoriously unread publication, experienced a surge of attention it had never known before - though, crucially, not a surge in sales. Godwottery, accustomed to his magazine gathering dust on newsstands, was aghast to find people actually opening its pages in shops - even if only to find Moneyshot's letter before carefully replacing the magazine on the rack, unpurchased. The publication's letter section, typically as barren as a desert, suddenly overflowed with passionate responses from both Tossers and Jerkoffs, all mailed in on separate sheets of paper or hastily scribbled postcards. Most of these letters, ironically, began with "I don't usually read Well Magazine, but..." - a statement Spencer found painfully accurate as he checked his stubbornly stagnant circulation figures.

The furry rabbit’s missive served as a rallying cry for the Tosser community. They emerged from their workshops and factories en masse, proudly sporting plaid armbands and chanting slogans like "No frills, just thrills!" and “Wham, bam, don't give a damn!” Impromptu viewings of classic Moneyshot Motion Pictures films were organized in public squares, often disrupted by groups of Jerkoffs, led by the likes of Louis Battenberg, Clém de la Crème, Bertie Plimsoll, Herbert Whiffpop, and Rupert Taboo, who staged counter-protests with interpretive dances inspired by Marmalade's more esoteric works.

Quentin Marmalade himself responded with a characteristically obtuse press release, describing Moneyshot's letter as "a fascinating exploration of the dialectic between low and high art, filtered through the lens of post-modern carnality." This statement was accompanied by the announcement of his next project, a 12-hour experimental film titled "L'essence de la Lettre: A Deconstructionist Approach to Reactive Discourse in Erotic Cinema."

As the controversy raged on, Anthroxville found itself cleaved in twain, the rift between The Tossers and Le Jerkoffs widening into a seemingly unbridgeable chasm. Each faction dug deeper into their ideological trenches, hurling salvos of critique and counterargument across the divide with escalating fervor. The schism permeated every facet of Anthroxvillian society. Families fractured along pornographic party lines, with dinner tables transforming into raucous debate forums. Lifelong friendships buckled under the strain of artistic disagreements, crumbling like the pretensions of a low-budget film set.

Through it all, Charles watched from his office high above the city, a tumbler of the finest single malt scotch in one hand and a script for "Give Her One From Me An’ All," in the other. As the neon lights of Anthroxville flickered below, reflecting off the furry rabbit’s spectacles, a slow smile spread across his face. The streets might be in uproar, the populace divided, but to him, it was all part of the show. He raised his glass in a silent toast to the mayhem below. This wasn't just a culture war; it was the greatest production of his career. And the final act? Well, that was still to be written. The game, it seemed, was far from over. In fact, if he had his way, the real fun was just beginning.