Best of 2022

I, The Easter Bunny, No Longer Want To Be Connected To This Creepy ‘Jesus Rising From The Dead’ Thing

Every year, one thing leaves me, the Easter Bunny, scratching my floppy ears: that scary, crucifix-Jesus I have to hang in my rabbit hole. The higher-ups sent it to me in the mail one time and I don’t know why.

It’s hard to paint pastel eggs and label nut-free candy accurately when you have flashes of blood and gaping, festering wounds on a mostly-naked man jutting out in your peripheral. I’m serious. Those hollowed eyes just watch me hop back and forth as I fill baskets with colorful crinkle paper, and they make me wonder: why would Jesus’ reanimated corpse be connected to the same holiday as me, a lil’ bun-bun?

It just seems like two completely different vibes. Like, I get he’s a really important religious figure, but do we really have to commemorate his rise from the dead on my holiday? My whole thing is hopping around with a basket full of chocolate eggs. And, from what I understand, he hobbled out with nothing but some brutal physical trauma.

I personally think it’s just creepy that this guy dies in the most gruesome way and then is suddenly all like, “hey, I’m back” with his wounds out and all. If that happened today, we’d think he was a zombie. Don’t tell me everyone that saw him after wasn’t like “AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!” at first. Is it a miracle? Sure. But should I really be the one you associate with it? Debatable.

I say we’re both special in our own way, and deserve our own days. He gets the orange and black and skulls one, I get Easter because it’s literally in my name.

A lot of people say that his rise from the dead represents “birth”, but that’s my thing! I am a rabbit. Do you know how many births I’m responsible for? I lost count! So not only do we have to share a holiday, but he’s actively encroaching on my territory.

Picture this. You. Me. Grandma. No scary shrouded man with the long hair. I’m honestly doing you all a favor by calling this out. Can you imagine how fun Easter would be if death wasn’t the creamy center of the Cadbury egg? Wouldn’t you be able to stomach that ham better if you were only tired from looking for all my milk chocolate instead of the whole three-hour-mass thing? You don’t even have to dress up for my hunt. Heck, it doesn’t even have to be on a Sunday anymore. Let’s do a Friday night – it’s already called “Good Friday”! Why not “Excellent Friday”?

When I was born, I was given a mission. I’m a bunny with the special gift of hiding stuff in your backyard at night, but like, in a delightful way. Jesus had twelve friends and one of them flat out betrayed him. Unlike Mr. Popular, I’m only friends with that one golden egg-laying goose and she would never do that to me.

I know I’ve had too many Peeps and I’m going on and on, but hear me out. This guy is a real bummer, with his “sacrifice” this and “be kind” that. In my egg hunt, there are no rules. What you do to get that last egg is none of my business. I’m here to give you CANDY EGGS. That’s it. That’s the holiday. I’m getting that crucifix off my wall tonight. Happy?

Anyways, kiddo, the line is looping into the food court. Let’s take this cute fucking photo.