Okay, fine. You caught me. Congrats on catching the real Easter Bunny in the act. Yeah, I’m real. As real as Santa Claus. You know what else is real? My hatred of Santa Claus. Seriously, screw that guy. Like his job is any harder than my job. You know how long it takes to hide two dozen eggs? How much creativity? What I do is much more complicated than throwing a bunch of presents under a tree.
But please continue to regale me with tales of wonder about Santa and his elves, the hundreds of talented elves making and wrapping the toys for Santa, happily taking care of all of the details that make Christmas so… Christmas-y. Such a plentiful support staff. And every last one of them is abso-fucking-lutely delighted to make Santa’s job easier. None even entertain wishes or dreams of their own. Nope, they’re just there for Santa. What else could they even want? So don’t think for a moment that they’re being exploited, that they’re an indentured workforce, trapped in a frozen wasteland, working off a debt they know they’ll never fully repay. Don’t think that because it’s probably not true. Only maybe I’ve heard some shit. From very reliable sources.
This is not my point, though. My point is, whether there’s a secret North Pole Elf Dungeon or not, Santa’s got people doing all his shit for him. But take a wild guess at who helps the Easter Bunny make Easter happen. Ever wonder who’s raising and feeding the chickens that lay a septillion eggs? Or who’s decorating those eggs? Ever wonder who weaves the Easter baskets and makes the treats that go inside them? A legion of helpful elves? Hell no. It’s just me. And I don’t even have opposable thumbs! Okay, I’m exaggerating. Not about the thumbs. That’s accurate. I’m a rabbit. Truth be known, I outsource nearly all of it. I’m not a fucking idiot. But who has to make sure the Excel Spreadsheet is up to date, and that the vendors come through in a timely fashion? This rabbit. And this rabbit alone.
Oh, wait, silly me, you probably want to see my Quantum Rabbit Hutch in person, right? What do you mean you’ve never even heard of it? It’s the vehicle that makes it possible for me to do what I do. I designed it. I built it. It bends fucking time and space. And absolutely no one gives a shit about it. But that’s cool. I guess a faster-than-light vehicle is ultimately not as interesting as a sled driven by pack animals.
Look, sorry to vent. That’s the cost of catching me. Because there’s no Mr. Bunny back at the warren to rub my feet, bring me a cocktail, and listen to my tales of woe. Yeah, that’s the other thing: I’m a lady. Don’t even get me started on the sexism at the center of all of this. I don’t have the time. These eggs won’t hide themselves, and I still have half the world to cover, including the North Pole.
Can you believe that shit? I still gotta make Santa’s Easter special. Just fucking typical.
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Congratulations on Catching the Real Easter Bunny - McSweeney's Internet Tendency
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