An Open Letter to the Easter Bunny–repost

Hey Mr. E. Bunny, I’m onto you!

The way you go around kidnapping all those potential chickens and disguising them with paint and designs so forlorn mothers cannot figure out which ones are theirs. Your incognito chocolately-colored costumes and furry coverings, hip-hopping through the ‘hoods so witnesses can’t provide clear identification. Don’t think I don’t see the racial undertones of you committing a crime and trying to pawn it off on some other ethnicity as you prey upon society’s bigotry. Since the 17th century, you’ve been traipsing around American towns delivering the fruits of your thievery to wanting children. Keeping your Peeps silent must not be easy.

Oh sure, it all started innocently enough in the Alsace, back during the Holy Roman Empire reign, when some German chap named Frankenau recorded the tradition of an Easter Hare bringing Easter Eggs to children (he also mentioned the negative impact of too much egg consumption, which, let’s be honest, can cause quite the flatulence problem). Back then, the kids would build nests for the Osterhase’s (that’s right buddy, I know your real German name) arrival, but your capitalistic lustfulness called for pre-fabbed wicker baskets which we all know you’ve made a pretty penny on.

Yea sure, I know, the rabbit is a pagan symbol for fertility, but – and I know it just pisses you off – RABBITS DON’T LAY EGGS! That’s right, pal, you just rub those little cotton balls of yours up against some little bunny and “F*ck like rabbits” as it were, and out come a bunch of little furry things whose future prospects include darting beneath bushes and hoping to prevent their lucky feet from being cut off.

Speaking of which, I found out that the women rabbit-folk have a rather interesting quality – superfetation I think you call it – which allows them to conceive a second litter while being pregnant with the first. Now, if you wanna go out and nail a bunch of Preggers in hopes of producing more offspring, so be it, but this theft thing has got to stop. The chickens are getting pissed off. Plus, the whole “No Fat Chicks” graffiti thing you left on your last go-‘round through the coop was completely uncalled for since you are getting off with those Fat Rabbits night after night.

I might also comment on your preference for sub-lunar surreptitious activity. We all know hens and chickens slumber like babies and the chances of them waking up and flying out of bed fast enough to chase you down is simply asinine. Your methods don’t even give them a fighting chance. I’m advising them to hire a tortoise to catch you—and we all know how that will turn out, you arrogant bastard.

But let’s get back to the eggs. Those might be kids, Mr. Bunny. Delicate potentiality growing inside their dainty shells as they wait to see the outside world. I can only imagine you and your furry little slipper-feet, silently padding into the henhouse, lifting the tailfeathers of some dozing fowl, and making off with life’s promise. Then what? You discolor the poor thing, dye him and hide him so his depressed mother has no hope. You are a kidnapper, Rabbit, a bad, bad bunny. I’m betting you and your sick friends are selling these eggs into sex slavery or some restaurant where they’ll be turned into a feast for an overblown steroid junkie looking for a quick protein fix. Where is your compassion?

Oh, and lest we not forget the whole Peter Cottontail pseudonym. You aren’t fooling anyone. Hiding out like some Italian murder witness, won’t protect you. You can stay up all night – I certainly have – wondering who’s gonna come first, the chicken or the egg, but nothing will save you. You are roadkill, Rabbit. I hope you hear me clearly. Stop with the baskets, the chocolates, the seductive marshmellow candies. Stop with the egg- finds, the jelly-beans, the irresistible diabetic precursors. Stop the hopping, the hiding, the hunting. Bring back the eggs, Mr. Bunny. Or the chickens will have their revenge.

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By ccxander

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