Greetings. This is one of Skip Morrow's less morose characters - the Ether Bunny, whose anaesthetic properties I am keen to discover.
I have written at length on the myth of Eostre of the dawn, thus will not weary this year's Easter readers with more of the same, except that the worship of Eostre was practised by 'Anglo-Saxon heathens", from which almost all will draw the wrong conclusions.
Neither shall I be rolling eggs down hills, painting them either red (for blood) or green (for spring), bowling them through long grass on the White House Lawn, nor eagerly hunting for them, cawing excitedly.
I shall, however be greeting the happy morn in the grounds of the British Embassy on Easter Sunday. Why, exactly...let's just not go there, shall we? The fact that it is still days away and I feel the need to blog about it is testament to my dislike - sometimes with extreme prejudice - of early morning activities; the notion of a five mile run before breakfast - indeed the idea of breakfast consisting of little more than a cigarette and a cough - makes me want to throw up, and chirruping lustily before sunrise about the great benefits of the Resurrection to mankind, sublimely meritorious as they all undoubtedly are, has yet to generate much spiritual, emotional or even physical momentum. Perhaps later on, when civilised men drink espressos over the morning paper, I might manage a yelp or two of triumph.
In the meantime, I wondered which of my many female friends might care to receive one of these as a small Easter gift, including manufacturing instructions. Colour coded for each disciple, inclusive of Judas, the whole package is obtainable for less than seven dollars. Truly, a bargain.
Came the hour, came the man. In shock at being called upon to sing lustily at 5:30am after a sleepless night, returning, blessedly, at 8:30 to the People's Republic of Nod.