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| These Ukranian Easter eggs are overkill. Who’re they trying to impress? Are we supposed to live up to this fucacta? |
This will be brief.
Because I’m exhausted. And I’m exhausted because I’m a people pleaser.
I want everyone to like me. Even murderers and Sarah Palin. So when spring break (for whom is this a break?) comes around I cover all bases.
For the Persian holiday Nowruz I did a thorough spring cleaning also known as “shaking the house.”
And like the men I shaved my beard to indicate the shedding of old tendencies (barking at dogs who bark at me) and habits (smelling the inside of my nose).
On the Latvian Leildienas Day I asked Henry, in ancient Latvian, if I talked too much about myself and he said “No” while eating a hard boiled egg with no salt.
Which meant he was lying.
I retaliated by bequeathing him two hard boiled eggs, which means I don’t like him. If he’d played his cards right and said, “You do talk about yourself a lot, but I find it endlessly fascinating even when you repeat yourself,” he’d have gotten five eggs. (Hey Henry — Tu ieskruve up!)
For the Japanese Honen Matsuri (aka Fertility Festival) I was forced to participate in an all-you-can-drink sake race after which I had to carry a 96-inch wooden phallus which ultimately impaled me upon the Shinto Shrine.
For the non-denominational (can’t this holiday take a stand? Did it start in Canada?) Arbor Day, I planted a cherry tree.
In the process I was stabbed by a cherry tree twig which leaked cyanide causing me to suffer gasping, excitement and prostration. Eventually I died, but was resurrected on the third day in order to participate in …
Easter.
I had to break up a fight between the Goddess Eostre and the Easter Bunny as they grappled for the egg baskets, each claiming to be the mascot for Spring while Jesus (who had risen) wept.
And don’t even get me started on Passover. I spent days slaving (no pun intended) over the Chremslach, Gebrochts and Karpus only to be told I couldn’t eat my own Chemetz!
I’m off to crash a Seder so I can drink four cups of wine in a reclining position. But if I have to say the Hallel, there’ll be no more mitzvahs from this shiksah! Here’s to the dead of winter. L’Chaim!
