A rather religified judge in this red cervical region of the sticks cancelled his regularly scheduled motion on hour for this Friday.  Knowing this particular man of the cloth – who incidentally wears a dress while on the bench – to be a believer in a power higher than the Yankees, I put one and three together and wondered what four?  Then it hit me.  This Friday must be one of them non-restaurant affiliated Fridays God is thanked for.  Yep, it’s Easter Season.  Jesus is back.  Go buy a ham.

Having no clue about any of the myths set forth in the book which mysteriously seems to always know what hotel room I’m staying in (it’s like being stalked by the all-time No. 1 bestseller), I asked someone who I knew if they knowed of what I thunk.  I inquired of this mythologically knowledgeable source if this Friday was that day when you’re encouraged to either eat Palm trees, cut them down, or do something with them.  “No, this Friday isn’t Good Friday” I was told in a succinctness that allowed me to move on without any second comings of thoughts.  And then the explanation bow broke, and my cradle was rocked with a bunch of Biblical knowledge that confused me into thinking it was Sunday.

Some of the actual highlights I remember were something about him carrying his own cross, some dude selling him out, people fucking with him on the cross, his being taken into some cave, some chicks showing up to do something, and being freaked out when they found he was gone.  I heard a “shant”, some kind of religious chatter I could only equivocate to “Hey batter, batter, swing batter” and then finally the shedding of tears.  This is obviously the Cliff Notes version of Easter 101 I was unaware I enrolled in.  The seriousness of the tone, rapid fire factual assertions and constant eye contact of this whole thing freaked me out.  It all started with a simple question, and turned into an episode of The PTL Club.  I fully expected to be hit in the face with a coat to heal my many medical maladies.  To attempt to get it to stop, I emptied the contents of my wallet onto a plate and tried to hand it over.  This was to no Holy Grail.  This guy was determined that I was going to be learned some Easter Goddamnit!

I busted up in Wikipedia’s trailer afterwards to try to find some specific stories and theories behind whatever it was I was told.  I’ll be honest with you, after looking at that page, I had even less of a clue about Easter than Columbo trying to solve a case without his rain coat.   I can’t make Jews or Gentiles out of the shit.  There are more versions and takes on this whole theory than the ruminations on Young Elvis v. Fat Elvis – I was somewhat surprised to see Elvis wasn’t mentioned in this whole affair.  I thought I had previously heard they had fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches at the Last Time Jesus Ate.

Apparently the whole Palm Tree worship goes down on a Sunday.  This makes sense considering a lot of very religious geezers migrate to Florida every winter.  And you thought it was just for the weather and tax breaks.  The Thursday, Friday and Saturday following forestry Sunday are all considered to be “Holy” days.  I hope to fucking God this doesn’t mean you have to watch that terrible Eddie Murphy movie ad museum.  If this is the case, and it is put on one of those never ending loops on TBS, I’d probably find myself praying to George Steinbrenner to kill me.  So what you’ve basically got here is that those keen on Jesus either didn’t really like to work, or wanted to force their beliefs straight down the gullet of everyone, because they take up a whole week with this shit.  I buy into the theory that damn near every Friday is holy in some sense of the word, because it signifies the end of the theoretical work week.  Thursday was kinda holy in college and law school, cause it meant you were going out, getting drunk, and probably failing at getting laid.  Wednesday isn’t even ranked in the latest Bible Weekly/Pastor’s Top 25 Poll, because there ain’t no good t.v. shows on; you’ve got to go to work on Thursday, and getting people to show up so they can be yelled at twice in one week is a hard gig to pull off.  Nobody in their right mind has ever accused Tuesday of being holy.  Tuesday only reminds you that you stayed up too late, got too drunk, and probably lost money on Monday Night Football.  Due to MNF, some have said Monday is worthy of being a holy of holies.  Whereas this assertion seems to have some merit, it also fails in that MNF only occurs for approximately 5 months out of the year.  If Hank Williams Jr, with his blue blockers and airbrushed beard, isn’t rehashin’ the same Goddman song he’s scattered, smothered, covered and chunked over the last 20 fucking years, then Monday ain’t worth a fuck.

I’m still that chic from Aerosmith videos over how the whole egg thing factored its way into this Easter equation.  I’ve never read nor been schooled on any reasoning as to why Jesus, God or anyone from Arimathea chose this.  Who would have thought jelly beans, chocolate rabbits, candied eggs and other assorted diabetic-inducing tastiness on a bed of faux grass nestled comfortably in an extra-large Chianti basket would further drive home the point that Jesus was back in town, and you better get your shit together.  Or, Converse-ly, why in the hell would any of these believers or Gospel singers want to hide eggs or any other type of sustenance from a motherfucker who just woke up from a three day dirt nap?  You know he was most likely hungrier than the real fat stoned guy who orders a pizza at every party he shows up to in college.  If eggs really do have some significance to any of this, when did the coloring become in vogue?  Was white, or farm house brown just not festive enough to celebrate some somebitch rising from the dead?  If you saw a motherfucker previously thought to be pulse free stroll back into town and belly up to the bar, do you think you’d be worried about putting makeup on the dozen Grade A Jumbos in your icebox?  Nah.  I doubt it.  Upon first glance, you’d be runnin’ out into the street, asking him to turn that 5 gallon stone jug of water into whore bait so you could plan yourself a sexual revival.  At least, that what I think a normal, horny, erectilely functional single cat back in the tunic and Birkenstock sportin’ years would do.

I dug Easter growing up, still find it enjoyable now, and am glad my son gets all Easterfied when this time of year comes around.  However, like I dug it, my father before me dug it, and his father before him was too drunk to realize it, I like the whole candy and gift giving version of it.  When I see a Cadbury Cream Egg, I don’t want anyone telling me the tasty cream filling and outer chocolate shell is representative of the first egg whoever ate after turning their life over to a proofless theory, or anything else similar.  I just want to be reminded that it fucking sucks these damn things only come out once a year, and I should eat as many of them as I can before they disappear until next year.  Unfortunately, these damn Cadbury’s aren’t like the bi or tri seasonal McRib.  You only get one chance, and you better make the most of it.  Jelly Beans shouldn’t be indicative of some kind of bean that some overly tanned and thirsty sufferers of something tried to plant only to have them grow into four course meals.  That’s all well and good if you want them to mean something, but a fucking jelly bean isn’t gonna change anything more than my blood sugar level.  I can’t think up any type of symbolism someone could get out of that environmentally hazardous, stringy plastic faux grass shit.  Unless Jesus had a jester, or some A.D. version of Bozo the Clown.  I personally think that shit was just invented to get rid of the remaining shreds of highly secret government evidence related to Studio 54 and aliens.

Well, I’ve got to go to hell now.  I think I’ve probably just secured a front row seat with a backstage pass.  At least I won’t have to stand in line with assholes like your average murderers, child molesters, and Kenny G.  I just hope I don’t get seated next to the dude who killed all those women in Florida.  I can never remember his name, it’s either Al or Ted Bundy.

Love, peace and Easter sweets…