You know, it seems a little weird that Easter (pagan Easter, y’all — the Spring festival) is all about eggs. Like I get that they’re an excellent symbol of rebirth and the renewal of the earth, but why does that mean we eat them or hunt for them?
Y’all have already heard my thoughts on eating eggs. As disgusting as eggs are, it seems extra odd to devour a whole bunch of eggs for Easter, as if you really think about it: eggs are things that will never be born. We are reveling in the non-fertilized export of the chicken. This is like saying, oh, hey, see the grass springing up and baby everythings? We must celebrate by all taking pregnancy tests and then licking the negative ones! Tasty! Look at how well we celebrate new birth!
I know that got weird fast and extra gross (as if eggs weren’t enough), but seriously, it does seem odd that we celebrate spring and new life with something that like, had life potential once, but we enjoy specifically because it has been confirmed that it will never be alive (and therefore can be fried up in all sorts of ways).
Dead. Dead dead dead dead dead. And colorful.
At least hunting for eggs is more fun than playing “Guess which egg will be ovulated this month!” That’s a game that I just made up. It’s a lot like pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, except orders of magnitude harder.
Antelop 