Happy freakin' Easter

from Mr. Bigglesworth the disgruntled, one-eyed bunny. Although certainly not the fluffy, playful Easter Bunny I was expecting to show up at my house, I had a chance to chat with him and it didn’t take long for him to spill his guts. I think he just really needed to somebody to listen. Long story short, he had one too many cherry martinis at his 17th, twice-removed cousin’s bachelor party and got himself into a pickle of a predicament two years ago (involving an over-protective hen and a drunken game of truth or dare with the wild rabbits – you could tell the whole incident was just eating him up inside and the painful memories were still so fresh). Apparently the only egg-hiding contracts he can now get are at the farthest corners of New England during record-breaking snowfalls. He barely made it up I-95 without skidding into the pine trees. (Lack of depth perception and icy highways should be an avoided combination at all times – but try telling that to a broke rabbit with 47 babies at home to feed.)

Doesn’t he look thrilled to be here?

Mr. Bigglesworth had dreams. Big dreams. He was going to make it to the top someday. He had everything going for him and it wasn’t until that fateful night of careless drinking games did he realize his life was a mere shadow of what it could have been. Nowadays most of the fluffier, well-paid Bunnies talk behind his back and place bets as to when he’ll finally lose his last few marbles and nose-dive off the deep end.

Towards the end of our conversation I had to hold his ears back for him while he bunny-puked and listen to him go on and on about how much he loved me and how I was such a good friend. You know this rabbit is just one chocolate-covered, sugar-rushed toddler shy of a trip to rehab and a life condemned to standing on street corners yelling obscenities at pedestrians.