I am continually fascinated by the Easter Bunny. Perhaps you are, too. Or maybe you were drawn to this blog post because the title makes it sound like I’m a Nigerian prince needing to make an offshore deposit. I assure you that this is not the case.

A friend of mine on Facebook chat recently said this of the Easter Bunny who works at his local mall:

you should see the easter bunny we have out here

we have a picture of it and it looks like it wants to eat the kids on its lap

eeeeeeevil

Randy paints a vivid picture. Everyone knows that Easter Bunnies are carnivorous. And let’s face it — kids are made of meat. Of course I’m kidding (mostly) but also serious (somewhat) when I say that the Easter Bunny might be of the same fate as your typical circus clown, which over 10% of the population is deathly afraid of. What has been intended to bring joy to the children actually scares them and the adults that drove to the mall. The Easter Bunny is a cuddly creature who, thanks in part to terrible growth hormones concocted with a horrendous chemical that they probably got from a store in the mall (nod toward Bath ‘n’ Body Works), has now grown to the size of a man covered with synthetic fuzz which reminds you of the toilet seat covers at Grandma’s house.

Who isn’t afraid of this monstrosity?

Answer: all the kids standing in line, eagerly waiting for their turn to tell the Easter bunny what they want for Christmas (or whatever — I wouldn’t know; I’m too scared).

I want to see some Kris Kringle credentials. Santa has a residence on file, a little place that shows up even on google maps: the North Pole. As far as I can tell from the surveillance tapes on YouTube, the Easter bunny lives in his ’87 Caprice Wagon. Hardly the North Pole, although you could certainly locate it on Google StreetView, since he was driving down to the Circle-K for a breakfast burrito that day.

If Santa fills out his 2010 census, he will be able to report that his home is shared by the venerable Mrs. Claus, which only adds to his apparent stability. Behind every Kris Kringle is a Mrs. Kringle, combing his crushed velvet coat and vacuuming crumbs from his beardy-works. It’s good to know that there’s been matrimony because it enables us to rest assured that if Santa gets off track, Mrs. Claus (first name — Shirley?) will get him back on the straight and narrow. “You go right down to the neighbors and apologize for what you did, Nick”
Santa, responding with the laughter of regret: “Oh, oh oh oh…kay.”

And speaking of the census, Santa can also report that he has a massive army of elves that do his bidding. And you can bet your bottom dollar that he’s claiming each and every one of them as dependents on his 1040. I know that’s what we do at our house.

The point is that Santa has credence. He has stability. He’s paying a mortgage on an entire land, paying his workers with Kibble and continuing down the daily path of marriage to his sweet, sweet lady.
Sure, let the kids talk to Santa. He checks out.

The Easter Bunny lives in his car.

It’s a good thing that there’s some significant fiction involved.