Easter is so frustrating. First, if you were like me as a kid, the whole pastel spring ensemble with ruffles, white tights and bonnets was torture. Second, sitting still in church with a sugar-buzz is so unfair.
This is probably equivalent to those of us who show up for mass still drunk from the night before and feeling nauseous from the smell of incense.
Now that I’m an adult, I have far more questions about the Easter Bunny than I ever did before.
Mainly, I don’t get the bunny, where does he live? Obviously, some place secluded where chocolate stays just the right temperature.
What is his real name? Is he really Peter Cottontail on the lam?
Why is he not fat? I spend a day eating Cadbury eggs only to gain an immediate seven pounds. Does he own P90X or what? Is there a six-pack under all that fur?
How does the bunny turn himself into a guy wearing a fur suit? Does he attend annual furry conventions and sleep with Dalmatian furies? Is it black magic? It can’t be, can it?
What’s up with the eggs? Did he live his childhood as a bunny trapped in a chickens body and started selling eggs for ear (top) surgery? It all starts somewhere people.
Or is he just the pimp of the hen house?
Do pimp bunnies wear diapers? He never leaves a poop trail like the other bunnies in my hood. I guess he don’t want no one to pop a carrot in his ass.
That’s slang for—kill the rabbit. You can only get away with passing off counterfeit grass for so long.
Happy Easter to all my Peeps, don’t go stale.