Easter Bunny To Kids: Stop Stealing My Eggs!

Vintage-Easter-Bunny-Card

Hey Kids,

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.

Back in the Rock, I was prisoner 0420, and I was Peep-boarded every night by the guards. I was just a bunny, man. I saw things that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemies, which at the moment would be all of you disgusting, sniveling children that are reading this letter.  One night, my cell mate thought he would sneak over into my bunk, and have his way with my cotton tail. I shanked him with a carrot and made it look like an accident, you understand?  It was shank or be shanked in there.  I got my first egg tattoo that night, right by my eye, so that everyone knew I wasn’t one to be truffled with. And it wasn’t my last. Five years later, I was let off for good behavior (or being a “good egg”), and I played it smart for a few years until I worked my way into the profitable candy egg ring.  Which is where I would like to stay.

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.




Liz Garcia

Liz Garcia

Liz Garcia is a 30 year old Gemini, living in Chicago with her boyfriend, two cats, and puppy. She is a planner by day, and wannabe writer by night. Loves the White Sox, candy, wine and cooking. Hates selfies, Corollas, and being the only one to laugh at her own jokes. Watch her laugh at her own jokes on Instagram @themisadventuresoflizzyg 

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