By Alex Berger
There’s quite a story, about the Easter bunny, and the wonderful things he can do.
Every Easter morning, without any warning, he colors eggs, red, green, or blue.
Some he covers with spots, some with quaint little dots. And some with strange mixed colors, too
Red and green, blue and yellow, but each unlike his fellow, are eggs of every hue,
And it’s odd, as folks say, that on no other day, in all of the whole year through,
Does this wonderful bunny, so busy and funny, color eggs of every hue.
If this story you doubt, he will soon find you out, and what do you think he will do?
On Easter morning, he’ll bring you without warning, those eggs of every hue!
–M.J. Todd
Easter Sunday arrives on March 31. Coincidentally, before I was to sit down and write a column about Easter and the lovable Easter Bunny, I decided to open my mail first. That was one bad decision. There sitting in my bin was a very angry letter from a very angry reader. Her name was Ms. Chicken Little, and she apparently does not share my affection for the Easter Bunny. She writes:
“Dear Mr. Berger’s Burg, I am writing to you for help in my crusade to correct a gross bias that must be erased. In fact, no cause has so united the hens of America as this one. (”Oh, my,” I whispered to myself, as I girded my loins for what was to come).
“Across race, class, and political lines, we hens are joining together to right this longstanding affront to our gender. The movement is sweeping the country. The National Organization of Women, the Junior League, the National Women’s Political Caucus, and the Republican and Democratic Federations of Women are all behind us 100 percent.
“Even the pro and anti-choice factions are joining together in this common cause to reverse an insupportable affront to our female gender. We are determined to prevail. The only question is: How long? How long must the hens of America, and, indeed, the world, continue to suffer under this unconscionable cultural affliction? How long before it is righted and the hen is at last given her just due?
I speak, of course, of the Easter Hen.
“This stoic bird, which for these thousands of years now, has been laying one egg after another. And if you think it is easy to lay an egg, consider the size of the hen, consider the size of the egg and think about doing it yourself, bubba. You would do a little cackling yourself under the same circumstances.
“Year after year, egg after egg and no credit, no gratitude, no pay, no benefits, no overtime. At last comes the one time of year when all the world celebrates the egg at Easter. Little children seek them on joyous hunts, shouting with glee when they find an egg that has cost the Easter Hen untold labor. Great artists paint eggs, great jewelers imitate them in precious materials, countless amateurs dip and dye them and then admire the results.
“And who gets the credit? Who is sung in story and fable? Who is celebrated in Hallmark cards? Whose portrait hangs in a thousand schoolrooms? The Easter Bunny, who wears that idiotic bow tie and weskit, that’s who! Who is responsible for this outrage? Where is the sense of justice, of comity, of simple decency? Is it right that Mr. Easter Bunny, who hops down the Bunny Trail with a basketful of eggs, whiskers twitching with self-satisfaction, claims credit for someone else’s work? That is the unfairest story since Adam ate the apple and Eve got the blame!
“And where is the Easter Hen during this fowl injustice? Sitting in the hen house just as cute as a bug, as we say in poultry circles. But her poor little red comb is flopped over in depression, and her self-esteem is lower than a fox’s morality. First, she gets PES (pre-Easter syndrome), and then she gets PED (post-Easter depression).
“It is not as though the Easter Hen gets credit all year long and Mr. Easter Bunny just steals the show once a year. Oh, no! For the rest of the year, the poor darling has to put up with the rooster. What is the oldest saying in the barnyard, where they really know how all this works? You got it. ‘The rooster crows, and the hen delivers.’ She gets no respect. People make slighting remarks about ‘hen parties,’ ‘old biddies’ and ‘broody hens.’ You would be broody yourself, duckie, if you had to put up with this.
“And then what happens? The Easter Hen puts on a little weight and suddenly she is dropped like a hot rock for some young chick. Really! Just let her add a little stoutness, as befits a hen who has delivered many an egg, and there goes the rooster after some trophy chick. Well, we are not putting up with this anymore.
“The National Campaign to Recognize the Easter Hen is already in high gear. We are lining up many prominent fine-feathered friends, from all walks of life (including, Daisy Duck, Mother Goose and Madame Chirpy (Tweety’s second cousin) to join us. We are prepared to fry, boil, and scramble as necessary to achieve our goal of helping the poor Easter Hen achieve the recognition and respectability she so richly deserves and earned. Our motto is ‘You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.’ As for the so-called self-proclaimed Easter Bunny, let him eat lettuce.
“We know we are up against entrenched, special interests backed by huge war chests, but I am telling you, the Easter Bunny will be Fricassee of Lapin before this is all over. The Easter Hen has given and given and given, without recompense. Now her turn has come at last.
“As an old bird yourself, Mr. Berger’s Burg, I appeal to you to join in our crusade. Do not stand in the way of justice, for she is blind. If we don’t get our way in this, we will take the Hen out on strike. And see what the Easter Bunny leaves the children in their baskets next year.”
Signed, Ms. Chicken Little
Whew! That was one angry letter. As a great feminist myself, I mailed a letter to the Easter Bunny and sent it haremail. I demanded that he cease and desist his false Easter demeanor and give credit where credit is due. He e-mailed back a refusal.
Let me tell you about the Easter Bunny. I once found him lolling in the refrigerator and not delivering his eggs. When I asked what he was doing in there, he replied, “This is a Westinghouse and I am just westing.” The next morning he delivered a deviled egg in my Easter basket. Oh, well, I tried my best Ms. Chicken Little. Don’t expect more from a columnist whose family was so poor that he found only colored potatoes in his Easter basket.
Nonetheless, at this time, Gloria and I want to wish everyone (including Ms. Chicken Little and the Easter Bunny) a happy and joyous Easter. Fight on and go get ‘em, Ms. L.
