Here we are again. Easter. The Day of the Dreadful Bunny comes once more.
The tale, as I must tell it every year, is this: When I was a very small child, my parents hid a GIANT inflatable Easter Bunny in a coat closet. When I unexpectedly opened that closet in search of hidden Easter eggs, the horrid thing jumped out and tackled me (it had been wedged in tightly against the coats — Dad was in a hurry). While my parents — who are lovely people, please don’t get me wrong — were naturally sympathetic to my horror and distress at being bum-rushed by a blow-up bunny, it was also undeniably the funniest thing they had seen all year. They reacted accordingly.
In years past, I’ve made note of the familial investment in continued acts of lapine comedy (giant cards, dog costumes, threats to acquire yet another giant inflatable rabbit) This year, I turn my attention to defense. Surely the giant rabbits can be stopped!
Alas. There are few remedies.
While summoning a dinosaur seems promising, in the end I suspect that it would make an even larger and more terrifying mess than the rabbit. In the end, there is little hope to be had.
In the end, we must all bow before the Easter Throne.
The Deaccessioned Philosopher 