Dear Easter Bunny,
So it’s that time of year again, B-Man. Santa’s been and gone, Cupid’s shot some arrows and stolen a few hearts, and weird little green dwarves have run amuck all over town. And now it’s Easter; your time to shine. But before you bounce your cute little bunny ass into my house, I have a few conditions.
Easy on the Easter Grass.
Paper or plastic, that stuff gets everywhere; under the furniture, in my shoes, in the laundry, in Niagara Girl’s bed, and as a result, my bed. It screws up the vacuum and I can never really get it all picked up, so just do me a favour and keep it for your own house, ok?
Lighten up on the Chocolate.
I know that chocolate is inevitable at Easter. It’s your job, I get it. But put me down for the minimum order quantity please? I’ve still got Halloween candy here for God’s sakes. You are the last imaginary entity to bring candy into my house for at least another six months. Believe me when I say I’ve got enough to last me.
All parents should get Easter Monday off.
You’re imaginary, I know. But you do have a fantastic brand going for you. If you could put in a good word to the powers that be to make Easter Monday a holiday for parents, we’d really appreciate it. Think about it: the kids have spent the weekend in a chocolate bunny binge-fest, running their cute little butts off, throwing tantrums of sugar withdrawal every hour, on the hour. We need a day to recover. See what you can do.
Cream Eggs are disgusting.
They’re like chocolate-covered snot-balls. They’re gross. Write that shit down.
So that’s it, Easter Bunny. Those are my conditions. Meet them or suffer the wrath of a mom who’s chiseled her last squished mini egg out of the fibers of the living room rug; the matriarch who’s yanked and pulled her last piece of Easter grass out of the vacuum; the mama who’s had candy in her house for six whole months and can’t get rid of it. And she can’t eat any because she’s trying to look after herself and only put good things in her body. *sigh*
Look, I’m sure you’re a reasonable bunny. I know you and I can come to some sort of consensus. As a sign of my good faith in our professional relationship, I’ll leave a bunch of carrots out for you this Sunday, along with a gift certificate to your favourite bunny brothel. Go ahead and breed your successor on me. Just please pass along my requests, as you mentor the next generation of Easter Bunnies.