Judy tears off her police uniform, exposing her 36DDD breasts to the world. "I WANT TO FUCK," she screams.

Nick also tears off his police uniform, exposing his 36FFF breasts to the world. "I ALSO WANT TO FUCK," he screams.

"HELLO JASON BATEMAN," shrieks Judy as a giant gush of vaginal fluid shredded her pants. "I WOULD LIKE TO EXCHANGE A FLUID WITH YOU BY WAY OF REPEATED GENITAL CONTACT. WILL YOU ACCEPT THIS INTERACTION?"

"I AM PLEASED TO ENGAGE IN GENITAL CONTACT NOW, WITH YOU," Nick bellows. "THIS IS A VERBAL CONTRACT EXPRESSING CONSENT THAT CAN BE RESCINDED AT ANY TIME."

"CONSENT HAS BEEN GRANTED FOR THE FUCK," intones Judy, her eyes rolling back into her head. "LET US COMMENCE FUCKING UNTIL FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS ARE RECEIVED."

With a massive amount of effort, the rabbit with the massive tits embraces the fox with the more massive tits. The pair lean forward on their gargantuan udders and, closing their eyes, they simultaneously extend their tongues to touch. Long strands of drool fall from their open mouths onto their tits, a viscous expression of love.

But obviously now there are zombies shambling toward the pair.

"Oh no, Hopps," mumbles Nick into her mouth. "Looks like we've got company."

"Yeah, but it looks like we've also got GUNS," says Judy as she shoves her fist up her asshole and pulls out a Remington Arms Bushmaster Adaptive Combat Rifle. "Let's lock and load!"

Nick reaches underneath his testicles and pulls out the Colt CM901 that he keeps taped there, because you know, fanfiction dot net, furries, and military fetishism. "Right beHIND YOU, CARROTS," he says, unable to control the volume of his voice.

"How, whiteman," say the zombies in unison, shambling toward the pair. "Your city is built upon our sacred ground. All we ask is for some recognition of our suffering."

"You'll have to pry that recognition from MY COLD, DEAD PAWS," one-lines Judy as she begins unleashing white hot justice into one of the United States's greatest atrocities.

This continues for some time until there are more zombies than our busty heroes have bullets for, because this is what happens in the story. It's like, a plot or something.

"Damnit, Nick," says Ginnifer Goodwin, ejecting her last cartridge. "There are too many of them, and I'm all out of justice!"

"We were thinking about erecting a commemorative statue," say the zombies. "Or maybe a plaque. We don't need anything that fancy."

"I think we're done for, Carrots," says Jason Bateman sadly.

"Dear Nick, you shortsighted fox," says a mysterious voice. "Don't you know that a creative man is motivated by the desire to achieve?"

The pair turn around to see, levitating in the air behind them, a human woman in a grey peacoat somehow holding a M134 minigun in each hand. A bandana is wrapped around her old-fashioned bob haircut. She has three lit cigarettes in her mouth.

"Why it's Ayn Rand!" say Judy and Nick excitedly to each other.

"That's right," she says, spontaneously producing a fourth lit cigarette between her lips. "And it's time to teach these filthy greenskins that there's no greater minority than the individual."

With that, she unleashes the full force of individuality or 2,000 to 6,000 7.62 rounds per minute into the zombies, effectively tearing them to shreds. Finally, the nightmare ends.

"Hooray for individual rights!" the fox and the rabbit cheer as they leap into the air, their massive knockers bouncing around as expected. "All creatures have the right to make their own decisions, but none have the right to force their decisions on others!"

"That's right, my friends," says Ayn Rand, as she tears off her peacoat to release her 400JJJ bazoombas. "Now who else here is horny as fuck?"

Meanwhile, in a different! Place!

Clawhauser emerges on stage, completely nude. A strawberry frosted donut hangs off his erection.

"You can be," he begins to sing into a microphone. "Anything you want. In Zootopia."

On a stool next to him is an open pink box. He picks up another donut—this one, chocolate glazed—and slides it onto his cock.

"You can be," he says, tears starting to roll down his face. "Anyone you want. In Zootopia~"

The audience of faceless animals begins to cheer.

The cheetah—I think he was a cheetah?—turns around to expose his ass to the audience. He pulls two more donuts from the box and places each one on his cheeks.

"If you know w-who you are," he starts to sob. "And you know what you wanna do—"

The donuts take their time falling off his ass, leaving obscene streaks of glaze on his fur. Similarly, the donuts around his penis fall off.

"In Zootopia, your dreams will surely come… t-true…" and then Clawhauser completely loses it and just starts bawling.

The audience roars its approval, throwing dollars onto the crying leopard. Cheetah! Shit. Shit, I don't remember if he's a cheetah or a leopard, but it doesn't really matter because he's basically just a fat, gay joke. I thought the movie was supposed to be about loving yourself, not feeling like the comic relief in an otherwise skinny and heterocentric world. Well between Clawhauser and Le Fou, Disney, you're not getting a single dollar more from me until you agree to stop plugging the glory holes in the bathroom outside of the Finding Nemo Submarine Voyage ride.