: run, easter bunny, run :

This isn’t a good time to be a bunny, you know. It’s particularly dangerous for those of the chocolate or marshmallow variety. You see, tomorrow everyone everywhere will turn into Elmer Fudd — all seven billion of us — hunting for wabbits. Or chicks. Or eggs.

Kids, even the ones barely able to toddle, will be set loose on grassy, blooming lawns to plunder and pillage. They’ll run from bush to flower to fence post in a mad, screaming frenzy to fill their Easter baskets. Unsuspecting bunnies and chicks will freeze mid-hop. And get snatched up by grabby, clumsy little hands.

That’s when the gruesome carnage begins, when the hunt is over. Normally tender-hearted children become tiny Ozzy Osbournes, biting the heads off chocolate bunnies, snapping off feet with their baby teeth, popping marshmallow chicks into their mouths whole. It’s an unsettling sight, this bacchanalian tableau. It’s how cavities and sugar rushes get started.

Suddenly, a trip to the grocery store or Walgreen’s is the equivalent of a trip to the zoo, shelves are lined with bunnies and duckies and chicks and eggs, both the edible and huggable kinds. Peeps, those day-glo sugar bombs, stare out at us in wide-eyed wonder. Kids stand hypnotized before them all, mouths watering. Adults, too.

Me? I stand in the cookie aisle, dreaming of butter cookies. Boxes and boxes of butter cookies, truckloads of them, being brought to my house by a relieved and grateful Easter Bunny who knows he and his kind are safe from me. I can’t eat a bunny, not even a chocolate one. Or a chick or a duckie or a lambie. I can eat those Cadbury eggs, though. Oh, yum.

Anyway, that’s what I’ll be doing tomorrow, eating butter cookies with a shovel. It’s been six long weeks since my last taste and I’m jonesin’ for a cookie fix. I imagine my friend Lenore will be filling up on Ben & Jerry’s. What are you jonesin’ for this Easter Eve? Whatever it is, I hope it’s in your Easter basket tomorrow.

Have a happy day!

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