The Easter Bunny Is A Pussy

Toe-to-toe with the Son of God, Easter Bunny can't even last three measly rounds

For years I've been forced to share my holidays with other fictional characters out there. Most notoriously, that fat fuck Santa Claus has stolen countless wishes for Christmas toys that should have been submitted to me in prayer form. I can't get the satisfaction of saying "No Timmy, I can't be bothered by your ridiculous request for a new fire engine when I'm busy ruling over Heaven and Earth" if the little ankle-biting bastard doesn't even bother asking me.

But I'm not here to complain about Claus, he'll get his another day. The reason I'm up late pecking away at my keyboard is because I want to announce far and wide that another nemesis of mine, one Easter Bunny, is a fucking pussy.

Now, everyone already knows the Easter Bunny is a tad on the fruity side. Mincing around with a basket filled with brightly colored eggs isn't exactly gonna win you any masculinity points, that's for sure. But somehow those silly little Easter baskets always steal some of the thunder from the celebration of my resurrection. I mean, I come back to life after being dead for three days, triumphing over the grave after bearing the sins of the world, and some little hippity-hopping homo gets equal credit for the holiday fun just for rotting little children's teeth with jelly beans and chocolates. I think he and the Tooth Fairy are in cohoots; quite a racket they got going.

Anyway, I finally decided it was time to man-up and challenge that nose-wiggling glory-stealer to a kickboxing match. A few of my connections in the mob tried to get me to take a dive in the 4th, and I considered it to help pay off some of my other gambling losses. But when it came down to it, I just had to pound the little eunuch rabbit into the ground. He toppled like a house of cards in the 3rd, and I left without so much as a scratch on me.

Next year there will be no Easter baskets little Timmy, and no Virginia, there is no Santa Claus!

I Work In Delicious Ways...

As mentioned last time around (and as you may have read the account of in My Word, the best selling book of all time thank you very much), I've been known to turn water into wine and make a dead fig tree instantly blossom. Yeah, I'm pretty much the greatest thing since pretzeled bread and I don't mind telling you so.

So if you somehow missed Mom's immaculate face burned into that grilled cheese sandwich a few years back (it sold for about 27-G's on Ebay), you were all blessed by a second chance to see Mom's image in food form. Recently, Ebay also featured the Virgin Mary pretzel, complete with little baby Me in her arms.

It's easy to scoff at this miracle and attribute it to a crackhead pretzel maker, or to claim that the misshapen snack looks more like a melting snowman than the mother of God. In fact, there's a whole circle of hell fired up just for you skeptics out there. I like to think I have as good a sense of humor as the next god, but at the end of the day I don't fuck around when it comes to manifesting a vague image of myself in random foodstuffs. Mom may have garnered a bit more attention, and a lot more scratch, from her manifestations but as you'll see here, I have a long history of popping my face up in tasty treats and other places.


Ted Tolberman, a 42-year old comic book store owner, rescued my moldy visage from a bag of Lay's and was given the choice of a Wonka-esque tour of my many celestial mansions, or the granting of one wish. With his newfound blessing he promptly wished for a bag of chips without moldy Messiahs on them.

Ted is a sarcastic bastard, and it'll be fun watching him roast like a honey salted peanut after I strike his junk food-eating ass dead of heart disease in about two years.

Gladys Nelson, 79, and a devout Catholic, served me up in potato pancake form one morning to her grandchildren. Really, I had just popped in to have a word with Mrs. Butterworth when no one was looking (I'm not very pleased with some of the rather suggestive labels she's been wearing lately), but Gladys spotted me and insisted little Bobby take a photo with his camera phone before I had a chance to dissolve into the batter.

Julio Marjelas, 33, discovered me peeping at him as he ate at a Japanese restaurant in San Francisco. I could make up something about appearing to warn against the environmental ramifications of shrimp farms and their effect on the mangroves in South America... but really I just showed up to catch a glimpse of the perky waitress. I gotta thing for Asian bitches. Sue me.

Before long I moved into liquids. Appearing on coffee cups and hot chocolate mugs all across the Pacific Northwest as your caffeinated Lord.

Naturally, given my newfound penchant working in the liquid medium, I moved into water stains on bathroom walls. No better place to watch you mortals go about your filthy business.

And for those you who have asked me to come live you your hearts, I've even showed up on chest x-rays. That's no tumor, just your Lord and Savior chilling like a villain.

Everyone knows all dogs go to heaven but few are aware it's not without some major proselytizing on my part. What better place to preach the Gospel according to Bark than right where my canine children are most likely to stick their noses... each others' assholes!

Finally, given the political nature of our times, I thought it may be interesting to show up at some important speech by the leader of my favorite nation in the world, America. Now this one is kind of subtle, but if you squint and turn your head just right you can see my image appear on the wall behind G Dub. I had to be extra sneaky on this one due to that whole separation of church and state thing.