Easter Strikes Again

Every year at this time, I write about how much I hate Easter. The antipathy goes back to the early 80s, when a particularly cruel Children's World employee would pelt me with spoiled Cadbury eggs whenever I wouldn't settle down for nap time. Ever since then, I have hated bunnies and any bunny-centric holidays. This year, Easter decided to take its battle to me early. In the event the actual day of Easter should succeed in assassinating me, I feel I must share my story.

Sometime in the last few weeks, I told my special ladyfriend to make me an Easter basket. I have no idea now why I made such a demand, but it is definitely in keeping with a lifetime of outrageous requests (see: inviting Andre the Giant to my birthday party, demanding Warwick Davis respond to my emails, etc). Anyway, last weekend, I got the aforementioned Easter basket and because I had no idea why I requested, I put it in my car. For all intents and purposes, my car is my mobile storage unit. For the past two weeks, I've been keeping a pair of shoes in there. Whenever I want to wear that pair of shoes, I walk out to the car in a separate pair of shoes, take those shoes off and throw them into the floorboard, and put the desired shoes on. Since I only have two pairs of shoes, this is a cycle that repeats itself daily, and I imagine it's only a matter of time before I change all of my clothes every day in the front seat of my vehicle.

Anyway, last Sunday I had to drive about 200 miles, and midway through the trip I realized that the candy would in handy (lovers of poetry, take delight). The candy had been in the car for maybe a day and a half, so it was pretty squishy. It really didn't matter to me, though. While I was driving, I began to unwrap all of the candy and gobble it up, hoping that most of the mushed chocolate ended up in my mouth. After 30 minutes of melted candy bacchanalia, I stopped for gas and went inside to pay the clerk.

As I made my way up to the cash register, the cashier stifled a giggle and said, "Everything ok, sir?" I looked down to see that a large deposit of my Easter candy had managed to smear itself all over the front of my pants. My first inclination was to ask her if the incontinent get a discount. Instead, I pulled some of the wrappers out of my pocket and declared, "It's okay, it's Easter candy." Except it's not okay, because I only have like three pairs of pants and one of these is now marked all to hell because of this stupid holiday. On the bright side, if I ever encounter some more melted chocolate, I have just the right pants for the job. Easter is on thin ice already.