Just the other day I saw - A Rabbit.
It stood about four and not-quite-a-half-foot tall, made out of cardboard, propped up by a sign that read something like...
Celebrate! The Reason For the Season.
Chocolate! Creme-Filled Bunny Yums.
So I grabbed myself a basket. One of those flimsy-handled drab colored things, stacked up by the big squeaky-slidey doorway, that no one ever thinks to touch except to knock over with a cart or trip on.
Well, I picked one right on up, and I filled that bastard full. Filled it to the brim. Well, almost - shit was expensive. Inflation or something. Idk, hard times at the Bunny Ranch.
I blame Obama.
Anyway, I bought some eggs. Did my patriotic duty.
I bought some eggs. Chocolate, mind you. Cream-filled, obviously.
And well, I walked up to that checkout line like the proud egg bearing woman that I am. And I said to that Rubenesque vixen behind the counter,
"I am woman, help me count my eggs. And my change... Help me count my change, please."
Obama promised I'd have plenty to last a lifetime. But going on the ripe old age of thirty-something now, seems it's about time I stood up and had my eggs counted.
Like I said, just doing my patriotic duty.
I really wasn't sure how many of them things I'd grabbed in all that excitement. Hands were so hot in all that furious fumbling, might've even let a melty few squish through my hungry lady fingers.
I know, I know, you say,
"Don't go puttin' all your eggs in one basket".
But I was too hot to be bothered. That's for sure! I know a woman's real purpose in this life. Just doing what I's put here to do!
You have to understand, you just don't get between a woman and her eggs - unless you want a near lifetime (or around roughly 18 years) of trouble - and especially not once they been cooked. I've heard some real horror stories from some buddies of mine, let me tell you...another time, not now.
No time for Lifetime stories; this is all about them bunny eggs.
I don't know if they stuff 'em like chickens in a barn or how they pull that off so good, but it's like magic every year. Suddenly, BOOM! Bunny eggs!
Everywhere you look, bunny eggs.
I almost forget that such a pint-sized majestic creature (if I do say so myself) could produce such a well-packaged and perfectly marketed specimen of deliciousness.
But Christ! Just like that! Every year, all that bunny mischief adds a good hefty fifton pounds to my figure. Straight sexy like,
"Black Betty bam ba lam"!
Almost like it's some kind of cycle. Bicyle, motorcycle, life - cycle. Weird. Like life, maaan, woman. Who woulda thunk it?
Anyway... Thank you for asking.
I did consume them ALL in one sitting,
laying,
whatever you heathen kids call it these days.
And here I remain in my blissful choco stupor,
howling at the moon, typing at the keys. It's quite romantic. Sure is.
Basking in that beautiful glow.
Money sure can't buy you happiness, but it can buy you a high fructose jolt in the name of a massive amalgalmation of bastardized age old cultural traditions every time.
Now I am quite the healthy eater, y'know, usually. I would say quite proudly that this kind of wild debauchery only happens Once in a Wild Blue Moon.
Quite the rare occurrence - and equally spectacular. Smudged across my cheeks like a joker's smile. Smug self-satisfied grin.
"Mmm hmm". Life tastes good.
Think I might need a cigarette. Let me grab my housecoat and we can take this out on the porch. It's been such a nice night.
Okay, now where were we?
I know, I'm probably gettin' a bit carried away here, but I heard something today about Paschal. This is his month or something. I'd wager to say that's significant.
Might have to Google that.And well, you know them Jews nailed Jesus up on that tree sometime around about now.
It's all about love, obviously. You know, life, death...murder. Love.
And I don't mean to be too graphic for the religious, I know, PG audience here, but them bunnies have obviously been busy.
Everybody knows that.
It's like every year they roll that stone away up on Candy Mountain and it's just Chocolate Rain down on all us heathens.
Where do they go the rest of the year? Nobody knows. The North Pole? Naw, that's Satan's land, uh sorry, Santa, I mean Santa.
This ain't no Santa Claus shit, this is real. Real stuff. Real stuffed bunnies. They gotta go somewhere hot, y'know? Like somewhere down under. Almost like the underworld, maybe.
I'd wager that.Maybe if I followed one of them rabbits...
It is gettin' a bit late...
I should probably be heading off to bed. And you should be heading on home before long.
But here we sit, looking up at the moon, out my back door.
And what do I see in that beautiful moonlight, but little bunnies in the distance, hopping wild and free - so why not you, why not me?
How come every year them well meaning misguided souls down at the church gotta send that sneaky deacon hoppin' over here with that basket full of eggs?
I swear, by the time I get to it after all this fun, it smells pretty damn rotten to me. I don't know how they think that'd make me wanna crack open of them Bibles too.
No tellin' what kind of stinkin' mess they got that thing loaded full of.
Man, child, or woman, I'll tell you right now, it's just one of them April kinda days. Sometimes I feel like a nut and sometimes I don't quite know what anything's s'posed to mean anymore. Do you?
Happy Easter Fools, errbody!
All images and links have been stolen from Google and are SAFE to click.
No-phishing here, 'cept for votes.
If there are qualms, please forgive. I promise to repent for my sins.
And probably beating a dead rabbit by now, but...
this post has been edited and re-re-tagged to be entered into comedyopenmic Round #8.
I nominate 
