The True Meaning of Easter is Trauma
I'll see your magic rabbit and raise you a zombie carpenter!
Hey kids, come on out here! Daddy has a grisly surprise!
No, it’s not Grandpa.
You know how I’ve been trying to lead you kids to the unconditional love of God and, you know, keep Him from sending you to burn in Hell for all eternity?
Yes, you’ve all been very brave and alternately mocked and feared me for my devotion to the Lord, what with various over-educated creeps on the internet telling you I was “ignorant” and “superstitious” and “cobbling together my own theology from a mixture of the New Testament, Shakespeare, and Thundercats.”
But I’ve got big news!
The ball is in your court. (Or “the burden of proof” as your beloved heathens call it.)
Turns out Daddy got a bead on the Easter Bunny and blew his pagan brains all over the side of the house.
Now, don’t start with the waterworks. This isn’t your first homemade horror show.
Remember last year when Daddy disproved Santa by shooting that reindeer and serving him up for dinner? Yeah, me and my gun have certainly had some good times… I hope one day you kids find a gun like mine. A gun that’ll not only keep you safe but make you feel like a big man. With a good, satisfying “POW!” noise that lets you know you’ve taught yet another “kind, gentle” creature it should have been ready to defend itself at a moment’s notice. You never know when a madman will strike, kids. A madman with a gun…
A gun that goes “POW!”
Huh? Oh, uh… as I was saying, you’re not babies. And if you are, you certainly won’t be if your alleged Easter Bunny proves me wrong and drags himself out of his shallow grave under the azaleas to bring us all colorful eggs and candy. Oh, we’ll all enjoy the chocolate, but good luck keeping it down after you see what’s left of him. Ever hear tell of that movie Darkman?
So– here’s the deal:
You kids go put on your Sunday best and then come back out here and pray and beat your breasts over there next to the azaleas. If, in three days (or less– there may be different rules for magic rabbits) the bunny comes back to life, I’ll not only let you continue to blaspheme my religion’s holiest day with an anthropomorphic abomination, I’ll let you worship it as your god! Ideally you won’t fly a plane into the house, but you do as your candy-coated prophets tell you and don’t worry about what we infidels say. Hey, maybe we can have a family holy war!
That’s if things go your way… But what if they go mine?
I say that rabbit isn’t coming back and you wouldn’t want him to. Who wants a desiccated god with blood all over it?
Jesus took a Heavenly bath before He came back, Craig. That’s how He had a clean, white robe and a velvety beard.
As I was saying before your brother interrupted— the potentially terrifying ball is in your court, kids. When your false idol fails you, you’re signing up for Jesus. And not just normal American Jesus. Weird, obsessive, source-accurate Jesus.
You’ve all got a lot of pridefulness and sloth and independent thought to make up for and I think the best way to do that is by studying the Gospels of Mark, Luke, and the Apostle Panthro day and night until you’ve pleaded your way out of Hell and back into both of your fathers’ good graces.
Me and God, Craig. That’s what I meant.
For as the Good Book sayeth, “It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge.”
Alright, let’s break and meet back out here in… say, twenty minutes?
That’s twenty minutes to get dressed and ready to mourn your innocence, not to call Child Services on dear old Dad.