Eggs! Friggin’ eggs. Everywhere I look, there’s eggs. I’m a rabbit. What the hell do I have to do with eggs? I don’t lay ‘em. I don’t eat ‘em. I have no thumbs, so I can’t hold that wire thing kids use to color them. So why is it that every year around this time I’m asked to hide eggs?
“Forced” is probably a better word. I’m FORCED to hide eggs. It totally sucks. I have to get up early, which is rough because I like to stay out late drinking on Saturdays. I don’t get paid for it. There’s no health insurance or 401k involved. Hiding eggs sucks. Do you have any idea what I smell like after hiding 10,000 slowly rotting eggs? I smell like eggs! Jackass!
They’re fetuses, y’know. Dead babies. There was once a life in those eggs. I don’t want to get all Michele Bachmann on everyone here, but boiling eggs is like a third trimester abortion. How would you like it if chickens went to Planned Parenthood, bought all your dead babies, and then painted them silly colors and hid them in their yard?
Just let the eggs hatch, for crying out loud. You can decorate the baby chicks any way you like. Dye their fur every fashionable pastel color in the gay rainbow. All your hands are stained with chicken blood! All of you! Look in this mirror! Look in it! Dead baby chickens are eating your hollow soul!
I’m sorry. That was rude. I just get a little upset about having to hide all these damn eggs. There’s only so many places to hide things in a yard, y’know. Mailbox. Bushes. Windowsill. Maybe put one next to a tree. That’s it. I’m out of ideas after that. I’m a rabbit. I’m not good at hiding things. I’m good at eating vegetables and biting people. That’s it.
And while we’re on the subject of rabbits, may I inquire as to who the hell that guy is at the mall? Why would a grown man dress like a rabbit? Why would someone even produce a costume that looks like a rabbit? Is it a sex thing? It better not be a sex thing! I was purchased from a mall, so I’d like to know if it’s a sex thing. If so, I’d like to politely request that you baptize me.
Speaking of which, isn’t this whole thing with the eggs and chocolate supposed to be in celebration of Jesus Christ’s birthday? Yeah, I read your books while you’re at work. Have you ever read the Bible? It’s on your shelf. Why is it on your shelf if you’re not gonna read it? Well, spoiler alert: There’s no rabbits in it. No eggs, chocolate or marshmallow Peeps, either. At least not described as such by the narrator. There might be some baskets. I’d have to check. It’s a rather long book, so I was skimming more than reading. I’ve got eggs to hide, after all.
It’s also quite the graphic book. Rather intense for my taste, but then again, I’m a rabbit. From my simple understanding of this story and the corresponding holiday, I’m assuming Jesus is the metaphorical egg? God puts him in the bushes or something, and someone finds him and takes him around to show all their family members how pretty he is. Then the Romans stepped on him, but he came back next year anyway because Easter is more a spiritual than a physical thing? I can’t make heads or tails of it, to be honest. You people are weird.
While we’re on the subject of odd things, can we stop with the carrots already? Don’t get me wrong, I like them. I know Bugs Bunny loved them so it’s become this big stereotype that we all do, but Bugs was a carrotoholic. He had a problem, and like usual in Hollywood, no one helped him because it was good entertainment. It’s sad that he died that way, naked on the toilet. Anyway, who do I have to blow to get some watercress around here? Maybe some parsley once in a while? Wheatgrass is healthy. I like to be healthy. It’s 2014. We’re all into that.
Just keep those eggs away from me. The mere sight of them makes me angry. I know my kind has a reputation for being difficult to work with, but these problems are easily avoided. Just keep the eggs away. Put ‘em in your fridge, in your pocket, in your weird diarrhea shakes you drink to lose weight. Drink ‘em in a glass like Rocky Balboa or throw them at your ex’s house on prom night. I don’t care. Just keep them away from me. I cannot stress enough how big of a douche I will become if you try to make me hide those eggs.