Jesus Takes the Easter Bunny – and Putin – to Task
I’m rising from the dead, and those rodents are going down
Photo by Rodrigo Rodriguez on Unsplash
Hey, it’s me, Jesus. You know, the guy who looks like Greg Allman dressed as Gandhi but with better hair? It’s your day of reckoning. Or maybe your mortgage is due. I’m not sure.
It’s about time one of you heathens told me how a bunny became associated with my Big Day.
I rise from the dead to save all mankind – and of course, womankind, gay-kind, bi-kind, and all the “kinds” you people have come up with – and thumper over there steals my thunder.
It’s not right. I moved a boulder by myself. Not even Dwayne Johnson can do that. He could have. But he was late the day my Dad gave out delts.
I demand to be told how a hare peddling colored eggs and I, the Risen Christ, got connected. And don’t tell me it was some tradition the Germans or Russians started.
Those Slavs are so confusing.
I don’t see what bunnies and chocolate have to do with the highest of Holy Days. And I see everything.
Everything, Vlad.
You always were an evil little shit. Stealing toys. Countries. Parading around bare-chested on horseback with that dad bod. Blech.
But I was talking about the bunny. And chocolate. I like chocolate as much as the next god.
I also like rabbits. But like that psycho prick Putin, the Easter Bunny’s gotten too big for his britches. He’s got my peeps following his Peeps, and that’s not kosher.
I’m a Jew, remember? The Catholics glommed me. Get over it.
You’re horning in on my action, cottontail. So where’s the nod to my heritage? Put chocolate coins in those baskets!
And forget Cadbury Crème Eggs. I want Cadstein Crème Eggs! My man, Marv, in Brooklyn. He makes them. Just a magician with matza.
And cyanide.
So listen, EB. Your job is to bring one of Marv’s special Easter treats to our Vlad. It’s called Sink Your Teeth into the Post-Soviet State of Your Choice. The brute will take one bite – megalomaniacs are putty in the hands of Marv’s work – and the world will be back to normal.
He’ll be in Hell and you can return to hopping along with your baskets full of future dental work and diabetes.
Just don’t screw it up.
I’d hate to have to hobble you.