It’s me, your neighborhood Easter Bunny, and I just have one thing to say to you this Easter:
LEAVE. MY EGGS. THE FUNK. ALONE.
Let me explain to you how things work around here. Paying customers call me when they need a candy fix. I hippity hop around the streets, leaving eggs filled with product at pre-specified drop points. And then once a year, every year, without fail, my stash mysteriously disappears. All because your parents insist on telling you that I hide said candy eggs for your pleasure. Then word gets out that I, Eas-ter E, have cheated paying customers out of their candy eggs. And while you laugh merrily in your Sunday best and your god damned floral bonnets, I have to be on my guard in an undisclosed rabbit hole with only my chocolate knuckles for protection.
I know you don’t know me, so let me tell you some things about myself. I don’t stop to smell the roses, I don’t smile at puppies, and I don’t Instagram pictures of double rainbows. In fact, the last thing I Instagrammed was a picture of my new tat. It’s the Playboy Bunny logo. Pretty tight. So anyway, what makes you think I would spend a whole night busting my tail, trying to hide treats for you to enjoy the next morning? What makes you think that I give one flying duck about your happiness? I don’t. I’m a hardened criminal.
When I was in my bunny years, I did hard time on Easter Island, AKA the The Rock. They call it the Rock, because it used to be a hub for Rock Candy addicts. Once they built the prison, the Rock addicts disappeared. Legend has it, that’s where rabbit foot keychains came from. Like I want to live in a fucked up society where “cleaning up the streets” means sawing off limbs and calling them lucky. But I digress.
And that’s why I’m writing you this letter. I am tired of always looking over my shoulder, making sure I don’t get hopped. The stress has me smoking two packs of Caramel Lights a day. I was born on the streets, and I will die on the streets. Every time you come around stealing my candy eggs, you ensure that it will happen sooner rather than later. So please, I implore you, find something else to do on Easter Sunday besides ruin my livelihood. Go read a book, ride your bike, or fly a fucking kite. I have a whole basket of sharpened carrots, and just ask my cell mate – I’m not afraid to use them.