I Am Not Dressing Up In A God Damned Bunny Suit

Pictured: Pete Dunson

I'll do a thing or two for my kids, even if the thing in question is on the ridiculous side. I'll admit it. I'm kind of a softie dad that way, you know? But so help me Jesus, if I end up dressing up in a motherfucking rabbit suit today for Easter, somebody is going to get some eggs jammed right the fuck back up their ass.

It's like I was explaining to my buddy Jim from the plant yesterday (oh yes, that's right, they had old Petey-boy work on a Saturday, because why in the motherfucking Jesus Christ would I ever need a day off?): Easter is a religious holiday about Jesus rising from his grave to destroy the Muslims and Koreans, not a giant god damn rabbit running around and shitting eggs everywhere.

"Well, that might be true," said Jim, his buck-teeth sticking way the holy fucking shit out and reflecting florescent light into my fucking eye sockets. "But you still ought to buy your kids a piece of candy or two."

Sure, Jim. Just tell me how to raise my stupid fucking ass-fuck kids. That's real fucking neigbor-like.

"Why in the JESUS FUCK would I want to do that?" I yelled, jamming him up against the wall so I wouldn't be blinded by the shit light bouncing all the fuck over the place from his shit teeth.

"It's just tradition, Pete," he said, talking about some bullshit that I didn't even care about.

"TRADITIONIZE THIS," I said loudly, and slammed his head down on the break table, trying to snap off his fucking motherfuck biters. Buy my kids candy? What the ASSING SHIT? Jesus didn't have any shitty-motherfuck candy when he was fucking smiting the JEWS!

But candy was only the tip of the old Easter Mother Mary Fucking Shit Iceburg, my friends, because who should get right up in my god damn face when I get in the door but my old wifey.

"There better be a good god damn reason," I said calmly, on account of it being a holy holiday, "that you are standing right the HOLY EASTER FUCK in front of me without any DELICIOUS FUCKING HAM in your MOTHERFUCKING HANDS."

"I thought you could dress up as the Easter bunny," she said with that shit-ass snivel she does, making fake tears come out of her eyes like a croco-shit-dile. "It would be nice for the kids, and --"

"THE KIDS GET SHIT!" I screamed, and bit some of the fucking bunny suit she was holding. "In this motherfucking house, I am JESUS, and if I don't get some CHRISTMAS GOOSE AND PASSOVER ICE CREAM, I AM GOING TO FUCKING SMITE EVERYONE IN THIS SHITTING SHACK!"

Just then my ass-kid eight year-old son came up to me, whining about -- what the fuck else -- motherfuck eggs.

"Can we get a Cadbury egg, Daddy?" he said, pretty much taking my hard-ass-earned wallet out of my pocket and eating the Jesus Christing money inside. "The kids at school said they're really good."

"The kids at school are MOTHERFUCKING LIARS!" I shouted, kicking over the table to help explain. "Cadbury eggs are made out of MONKEY SHIT!"

That just about wrapped up Easter at the old Dunson household, and luckily, that bitch-fuck rabbit suit stayed back in the closet where it motherfucking belongs. But let this editorial serve as a warning: if anybody tries to get me into that suit next year, not even the power of Jesus rising and building motherfucking America will save them from my wrath.

Pete Dunson lives in rural Pennsylvania, and is an active member of his community. He often speaks out against the poor lessons that the Easter Bunny teaches children.

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