I’ve been getting a lot of dirty looks lately whenever I open my mouth. And no, my dental hygiene is without a doubt superior to your own. Don’t go there. But I think I might know why people have been giving me the death glare.
OK, so not everybody is comfortable with all of my jokes—my sincerest apologies. Apparently, there are things people don’t like you to tell them. Nobody told me. I can’t begin to express how sorry I am right now.
To the girl at The Plaza last weekend who I told she looked like a raccoon that just got out of a spaghetti bath: I’m sorry. You aren’t actually an animal. Unless you’re one of the Animorphs, in which case don’t claw my eyes out next time I bring out my trash. See, this is no better.
What’s something that has absolutely no chance of upsetting anyone? Crayola Crayons... duh. Even an Expo sniffer could figure that out. Crap!
No, I will make it through one paragraph without pissing someone off. This is possible.
Wow, that wasn’t so bad. Wait, yes it was. I feel like I’m sweating tears right now. It’s really hard not to make everyone angry constantly.
Enough—I’m just going to start riffing on a topic and there will be absolutely nothing abhorrent or ugly about it.
Here we go.
The Easter Bunny is a wonderful creature. I remember the first time I met her (yes her), way back when I was a wee little rabbit lover wooed just by the thought of being cradled in her fuzzy, cottony knees. Looking into her eyes was like eating a KFC biscuit (before that place went to hell) smothered in magic butter.
She was kind and beautiful and treated me with more love and tender care than a 2-year-old could ever hope for. At about 5-foot-5 (not including the extra six inches from her oversized, carpeted fiberglass head), she was just the right height for a mythical creature, and I loved her for that, too.
I remember the wicker basket she gave me. It was full of pastel-colored eggs that were filled not with embryos and yolk but with jelly beans and nickels. An Easter miracle! I would have eaten them whole—plastic shell and all—but being such a thoughtful oversized rabbit, she wouldn’t let me force them into my mouth. There was also a big chocolate bunny in a cellophane and cardboard prism that came with her gift to me, a thing I didn’t want to consume because it seemed like sacrilege. How could I devour a disciple of the demigod that stood before me? But she insisted. And I succumbed to her helping hand that guided the sweet, milk-chocolaty figure into my evermore salivating mouth.
THIS WAS WHEN I LEARNED ABOUT CADBURY CREMES! And now, every year, I need to have at least one. OK, at least five... 10. Don’t forget about those wooden paddles stapled to an elastic string with a little rubber ball at the other end. Aren’t those great?
What happened next was even more amazing: The Easter Bunny made me cinnamon rolls! I LOVE CINNAMON ROLLS! HOW DID SHE KNOW?!? I stuffed like eight down my throat in 10 seconds and was going for my ninth when something pretty goddamned weird happened: The Easter Bunny took off her head. So I cried and cried and cried because the Easter Bunny was actually my mom. This was the scariest thing to ever happen to me and after that day I’ve hated everything so I instinctively make brutally unfunny and offhanded jokes with the intent of permanently damaging egos at every opportunity that comes my way.
This wasn’t any less offensive than telling you all to “shove it,” was it... I’m sorry; I can’t help myself. Maybe we can have a good cry together about our flamboyant deficiencies? But then again, there’s nothing more off-putting than someone rambling about the Easter Bunny, sobbing into a stranger’s lap.
Do you bathe in spaghetti? Tell Andy to back the hell off at holsteen@dailycardinal.com.
