See this guy on the right? The fuzzy one with the big ears?
Kinda cute, isn't he? Soft and cuddly. Check out those big blue eyes, the calming, pastel-pink fluff in his ears and on his chest, the friendly, glad-to-see-you lilt of his gaping maw....uh...cute little mouth and buck teeth.
Harmless. Or so he'd like us to think.
I, for one, know better. I don't think he's harmless at all. There's increasing evidence to support my position, and after a quick bit of internet research and the extremely scientific polling of friends (Fellow Bandita, Jeanne), I've come to the conclusion that I'm not the only one who's caught onto his vile plan.
"What plan," you ask?
The Easter Bunny. This time of year, just like Santa at Christmas, the bunny is everywhere. But I think he's hiding his true identity and luring us in because the cuteness is a farce.
In truth, he's El Diablo Conejo. The Devil Rabbit.
Go ahead, just...go ahead. Laugh at my paranoia. But in the photo on the left, you might get a glimpse of the truth behind the cute, fuzzy facade. And although I can't prove that the photo on the left is pristine or un-retouched, this little toddler's reaction--well-- I think it says it all. I mean, have you ever looked--really LOOKED-- at The Easter Bunny? I have.
I was, unfortunately, at the mall today. I don't like malls, with their artificially-generated environments. But the only place I can buy my shampoo is at the mall. So there I was, minding my own business, strolling into the mall, when I saw him. He was sitting smack in the middle of the mall's center court, on a throne-like chair. And a looooooong string of worshipers......oh, sorry......parents.... were restraining their screaming children, who were, with all their tiny mights, trying to get far, far away from The Easter Bunny.
They know. You've heard what they say about dogs and small children, haven't you? If your dog doesn't like it, or your little kid doesn't like it, it's probably got an evil soul. Well, I can verify that most kids don't wanna go anywhere near this guy. And is it any wonder? Somehow, over the years, using his plushness, the Bambi-fying of the animal kingdom by Disney, and the massive marketing tool that is Hallmark (I think they're all in cahoots) he's lulled the adult population into a false sense of security.
I came to this conclusion years ago.
When I was in my early twenties, I had to do a feature story on the Easter Bunny. I went to his lair-- the mall. I interviewed him. I helped the photographer set up shots. I saw him from all angles. I got down on my knees to check out a low-angle shot, and that's when I figured it out. But at that time I was a young woman. I know it was weak of me, but I was afraid to say what I really thought, so I did a feel-good fluff piece on what it was like to be the Easter Bunny, how much work it was to sit for hours, entertaining the swarms of chocolate-egg-drugged and hypnotized....uh...adoring crowds who flocked to see him, surrounded him, and let him feed on their childr.....uh...set their kids in his lap for cute pictures to send to the grandparents.
Oh, SURE, the kids always came back to the parents. But trust me, they were NOT the same.
Here's a picture of what should be a normal human child, but look what's happened. I'd lay money on the table that before this little one was even a glimmer in the eye, his grandparents took their daughter or son to see...yep, that's right...El Diablo Conejo.
What is the basis of this urge anyway? Why do we, as adults, have some irrational need to shove our kids onto the laps of strangers in gigantic fuzzy suits and take pictures?
As a kid, I colored eggs with vigor. I hunted eggs. I waited for my Easter basket every year, with
its goodies wrapped in cellophane and nestled on a bed of fake paper-and-plastic grass. But I knew my mom fixed it up for me. We were far from wealthy, and my Easter basket hung on the back of the basement door, wrapped securely in a big paper bag, and got filled again each year with some different, and some the same, goodies. It was purple. I loved it. I loved Easter.
And I never went to visit the "Easter Bunny."
Now, each time I go through my old photo albums, I smile over the pics of me as a kid, playing with my dog, or half-buried in a pile of leaves, or perched on the edge of the wagon-load of corn, with my dad on the tractor ahead of me, or
holding a big armload of chrysanthemums from my mom's flower garden. I even have a picture of me with my purple Easter basket. Not once have I ever shed a tear, or even had a passing thought of mourning because there was no picture of me in the clutches of a giant, buck-toothed, two-legged Easter Creature.
I know what you're thinking. You think I had to look hard to find these evil-looking Easter Bunnies. But alas, just the opposite is true. I actually had to look hard to find the cute one at the top of the blog. I think maybe the true nature of the beast comes out once El Diablo Conejo has a child in its lap, but the parents are so brainwashed that they just don't see it. They focus on the child. This little girl is old enough, you see, to hide her true feelings and "be good" for the photo.
The thing is, that cute fuzzy guy at the top of the page? That picture was taken by an adult, at adult eye level. If you'd get down on your knees or even a little lower--at two-year-old level--and take a look at that dude with the big ears, you'd see an entirely different picture.
Put yourself in the kid's position for just a minute.
Enormous paws clutch at you, a big, gaping mouth looms above you, with gargantuan teeth jutting out, and down, at YOU, the small child he's about to devour. Giant, pointy eyes, bug out at the sight of his prey. And including the ears, he's nearly seven feet tall. The ears bounce over you as the head nods forward. And, oh yes, speaking of the head. It's the size of a small car. And scream though you may, you cannot get your parents to see the danger. Finally, after years of this torture, you figure out that if you shut up and smile, you might get out alive.
Yeah, kids might be scared of Santa's beard, but hey, they're not stupid. Would you want to be thrust into the clutches of a monster like this? What the heck are we doing? Why do we have this need to force our kids, often kicking and screaming, into the arms of their worst nightmares?
Please don't misunderstand. I like bunnies. REAL bunnies. I go to great lengths to fence them out of my veggie patch so we can coexist peacefully. Each year several regular bunnies, just like the one in the picture below, build nests and raise bunny families in my yard. I even mow around the nests until the babies are weaned, to make sure they're not harmed.
As far as I can tell, the little guy in this picture, in spite of the ears, has no actual genetic relationship to El Diablo Conejo. Still...one can never quite tell. There exists, in some archives, filmed evidence that even the most innocent-looking of the species could succumb to repressed violent urges. Here's an image captured from one such documentary film. Look at the carnage around this gentle-looking specimen.
It's my understanding that Easter started out as a pagan holiday, a celebration of spring and the equinox, and later morphed into a Christian celebration of the Resurrection of Christ. As symbols go, there are a few available. I've figured out that the cross, which is actually a symbol of the crucifixion, is beautifully simple in design, though horrific in meaning, and is much more practical to create as a piece of jewelry, than is, say, a tiny golden cave with an even tinier stone rolled away from the opening--perhaps the only real visual symbol of the resurrection as told in the Bible. From the pagan side of things, flowers and, yes, eggs, are probably a good fit.
But
The Easter Bunny? What religion is this?
While I have not done a study on the origins of El Diablo Conejo, I did find photographic evidence of a cult of fanatical worshipers. Check out the living monument on the right. He's come a long way from Beatrix Potter and Mr. McGregor's garden.
All those years ago, when I wrote that feature, I knew the truth. But it's taken me until now to get up the nerve to go public . If you're thinking about taking your kids to visit The Easter Bunny, you should be aware. When your kid starts screaming, don't say I didn't warn you.
Looks like it's already too late for this young gentleman on the left. He has no clue that he's in the grasp of death disguised as cutesy-pie. And yet, his smile does look a bit fake, doesn't it?
And in case you're wondering, yes, even I have some unfortunate leanings toward the religion of El Diablo Canejo. No, I did NOT sit on his lap, and as far as I know, he's never touched me directly. Even on that life-changing day when I went to interview him, I was careful to maintain my distance. But no amount of precaution was enough. Now I recognize that he has other ways of injecting an unwary population with his seductive, addictive venom.
Easter is the time for eggs. Hand-tinted hard-boiled eggs, chocolate covered marshmallow eggs, candy-coated sugar-centered eggs, and - my favorite - good old pure chocolate eggs. As a matter of fact, I had planned to do a whole post about candy eggs for today, but my husband had a totally different idea (as he so often does). He said I should write about Faberge Easter eggs.
I have long been fascinated by Faberge eggs and it seems many other people are as well. PBS did a great program about the Faberge eggs as part of their
The Russian Orthodox church had a tradition that after Easter mass, family members would present each other with eggs they had decorated. The first egg commissioned by Czar Alexander III was a gift for the Czarina, commemorating the 20th anniversary of their monarchy on Easter in 1884. After his death in 1894, Czar Nicholas II (knowing only to follow the traditions of his much-beloved father) continued all of his father's traditions including the commission of the eggs.
Of course, the monarchy failed in 1917 and the Romanovs were all killed...except for the Dowager Empress Maria Fedorovna, who hastily departed her homeland on the British battleship Malborough. She took with her the Order of St. George egg - the last Faberge Imperial Easter egg. The entrepreneur and socialist sympathizer Armand Hammer brought many great Russian treasures to the United States to be sold to support the Bolsheviks in 1931. Unfortunately, the Great Depression made selling them difficult. Eventually, though, they caught on with several great collectors and many are in private art collections today.
So what do you think happened to those 8 missing eggs? Are they hidden in humble homes in the Russian countryside? Resting in vaults of wealthy art collectors who bought them on the black market? As symbols of a decadent and lavish lifestyle that led to the downfall of Imperial Russia, should they be handed over to the Russian government? When you finish nibbling the ears off your chocolate bunny, let us know!
