While Easter Sunday is revered worldwide for Christians, it’s a safe bet the folks who make those little marshmallow Peeps and malted-milk eggs are celebrating today too.
Hopefully you weren’t running on fumes when you left for church this morning and had enough foresight to gas-up for the jam-up going to services. And I hope you wore comfortable footwear. You most likely had to walk a good ways and needed lottery luck to get a seat, unless your Saturday night was a sleepover in the parking lot.
The traffic jams around places of worship make the ever-mounting Atlanta problems look like Mayberry. Pray that your church isn’t located near a bridge where PVC pipe is part of the sleeping quarters of a homeless firebug who’s now most hated man in Atlanta since Juan Antonio Samaranch (you think I might still be peeved about the Spaniard’s snub of Atlanta after the 1996 Olympics?).
Traffic cops in front of churches needed plenty of ibuprofen. Before they got home to get a single mouthful, their arms were on fire from all that waving, gesturing and pointing.
There are some burning questions I have about this special Sunday. Before you start calling me some kind of heathen, indulge me as I offer a few thoughts.
Such as who is the mastermind behind the rabbit lobby? Every year, the Easter bunny makes appearances at malls with photo-ops being sold to make family memories. Ol’ EB poses, parents pay and hopefully, in a few years, the kids will see the pictures and say “that was lame.”
The Easter bunny is portrayed as having game. Not even close. Santa is the man when it comes to capturing the spirit of a holiday because it makes sense: Fat guy avoids a heart-attack every year by overloading his tractor-trailer-sized sleigh, punches the clock and delivers toys in one night.
Santa is a sweet guy. Kids love him. Jolly, rosy-cheeked, coercing the mini-monsters to hold bad behavior in check until at least Dec. 26.
But have you taken a good look at the Easter bunny? First, bunnies are little, cute and furry. EB looks like some deranged concoction from a Stephen King movie. He’s huge, bug-eyed and has a disturbing smile desperately in need of orthodontia.
His whole shtick makes no sense: Grade-school teachers should have probably explained a few things. Common Core can offer no help here.
1) How does a rabbit walk around on two legs?
2) When does a bunny reach rabbit status?
3) Teachers might be pulling out their hair explaining rabbits (mammals) have nothing to do with eggs; and finally,
4) Where does EB get all those eggs he puts in baskets and hides around the yard?
No need for local egg-producers to worry about a fox in the hen house. It appears there’s a rabbit hell-bent on absconding as many eggs as can be crammed into a limitless supply of baskets.
Let’s face it: The EB has a great PR machine behind him. He’s celebrated for his egg-thievery, but his abuse of the chickens is miniscule compared to his most egregious acts.
Every November, turkeys cower in fear, hoping their inevitable trip to the guillotine is postponed and there will be a Christmas celebration with their gobbler family.
But pity the poor pig: Porky Pig was one funny cartoon but for Porky’s pals, Easter season means “Th-th-that’s all folks.” Next stop for you is the refrigerated case at the Honey Baked store.
Easter ham will win today’s bill of fare contest by a landslide.
But not at Casa de Tasos. We’ll be giving Porky’s pals the year off. I’m fully prepared to fire-up the Traegar. Rib eyes or filets will be the choice. Foil-wrapped corn on the grill, too.
True, there will be no ham sandwiches for a week. But the pigs deserve it. All year long they take care of us with bacon and sausage, so it’s the least I can do.
Growing up, there were some fond Easter memories of finding all those hidden rainbow-colored eggs. But one year, further Easter egg hunts were permanently cancelled when my brothers and I “forgot” to boil more than a few eggs for younger cousins.
There was little amusement when, upon opening the eggs, Easter clothes became a yolk-stained mess. At least the yellow was a festive Easter color.
One year a brother-in-law/uncle tried to help out the Easter bunny by pirating a costume, delivering the goods and high-tailing it for the woods. The boys saw him and were delighted.
Knowing what I know now, I would have given anything for Elmer Fudd and his 12-gauge Mossberg pump to do its thing.
Mike Tasos’ column is published every other Sunday. He hopes all big brothers remember to boil the eggs and makea them easy to find. Nothing can ruin a July 4th celebration like a rotten egg magically appearing right before dessert. Comments can be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org. He is also on Facebook.