Don Juan Easter Bun

The Easter Bunny squeezed through the narrow aisles that now plagued his home. He could hear 2 girls fighting on Jerry Springer on his tv across the room but couldn’t see them because of about a million colorful plastic eggs piled high on the floor and furniture.

Bunny felt sad. He knew those chicks were probably ripping each other’s wigs off. And he was missing it.

He smooshed himself between a mile high pile of boxed Peeps and his kitchen counter. Reaching into a cabinet, he pulled out a can of Spam and cracked it open. Then he pulled his Lucky Strikes and a lighter out of the pocket of his ratty blue terry cloth robe.

The smell of chocolate bunnies and jellybeans in his home overwhelmed him, so as he chomped away at the block of meat and sucked deeply on a cig, he made sure to enjoy the hammy smoke scent sensation as it temporarily hung in the cramped air around him.

Every Spring, Bunny experienced stress to the Nth degree. Sometimes he wished he had never gone into the family business and taken over for his dad. But the old man needed a replacement, none of Easter’s siblings wanted the job, and God knows he spent his entire life just trying to get an ounce of his father’s approval.

So now, once a year, he had the hell of candy prep and one night world-wide delivery to contend with.

He was tamping his cigarette out on the counter next to hundreds of cartons of malted milk ball eggs when he heard his overnight guest attempting to come down his stairs.

“Easter?” she called out. “Where are you?”

“In the kitchen, babe,” he replied.

He heard all kinds of rustling around and muttering of swear words as his lady love walked the crazy candy maze.

Finally she popped into view.

Mrs Claus was pulling her sweater close around her shoulders, her weird little elasticized hat and eyeglasses askew. She straightened the glasses and looked at Bunny.

“There you are!” she exclaimed. “How much candy do you have in this place anyway?”

“You should be used to this kind of thing,” Bun said. “There’s a lot of good little kids out there, I guess…the little bastards.” He lit another cigarette.

Bunny and Mrs Claus looked at each other. In the background they could hear the people on tv cheering “Jer-ry! Jer-ry! Jer-ry!”

They smiled at each other.

“Would you like some Spam?” he asked. She shook her head.

“Cigarette?”

She shook her head again.

“Candy?” He held his arm out like one of those models on The Price is Right.

She laughed out loud.

Bunny cocked his head and smiled. She sure was pretty for an old broad. He liked when she laughed like that. He made a mental note to bump the chocolate rabbit in her Easter basket up a couple of ounces. He didn’t care if her old man noticed. He hoped he did.

“I gotta go,” she told him.

“Hey, I thought you might like to stay and help me assemble a couple million baskets of candy today,” Bunny suggested.

Mrs Claus looked at him like he was insane.

“Like I don’t get enough of that kind of crap at home!”

Bunny walked to her and pulled her into a hug.

“I was just kidding,” he whispered before he kissed her one more time.

Even though he kinda wasn’t.

The two of them wedged their ways to the front door. Before she left, he handed her one of those plastic toys that have a suction cup on the bottom that you stick on the floor and press down so it pops up into the air after a second or two. The character on top of it was in the shape of a bunny.

She took it and smiled at him then walked to her snappy red Mazda Miata parked out front.

And Bunny shut his door, turned on his big bunny heel, and promptly tripped over a bushel of Cadbury eggs in his hallway trying to make his way back to the kitchen to finish his Spam.

Soap Opera Satan

Satan walked out of his garage and sidled up next to the car sitting in his driveway.

Running an evil red fingertip along the shiny red hood of his 1983 Pontiac Fiero, the horned lord of the underworld felt a tingle run down his spine, through his tail and shoot out the pointy arrow at his end.

“You gorgeous bitch,” he whispered to the car as he settled his hefty red ass in the leather seat. Pulling his tail in next to him and tucking it around himself, he cursed the entire auto industry for never creating proper tail accommodations for demons.

He started the engine and glanced back to pull out of his driveway.

Oh…here came his neighbors Glen and Judy Clarkson and their grandson Connecticut walking down the sidewalk. That Connecticut kid was a hoot. He frequently came to spend time with his grandparents and drove those poor people to the brinks of their sanity. Also, Satan thought it was hilarious the kid’s name was Connecticut. What kind of name was that anyway? Plus, he had no nickname. It was like the longest weirdest name ever, especially for a kid who lived in Illinois.

“Hey buddy,” Glen called out. “Time to get the old Devilmobile out and about, huh?”

Satan smiled and nodded and waved the trio along so he could get going.

It was then he saw that little kid stick his tongue out and flip him the bird.

“Kids got some cojones on him,” he muttered appreciatively before shifting into reverse and backing the scarlet vehicular Jezebel out of the driveway.

As he tore down his tree-lined street totally ignoring the “Drive Like Your Children Live Here” signs, he turned up the band KISS on his tape deck.

“Knights in Satan’s Service, my ass”, he thought to himself. Those guys had lost all their power when they took off the makeup in ’83. And that Simmons guy was a real douche-canoe, flying around attached to cables and spitting “blood” that came from Halloween store capsules.

Poser.

Still, Animalize was a tuff album. There was no question about that.

Traveling full-speed with the tires burning rubber and the sound of leopard spandex rock-n-roll filling his head, Satan pointed a crooked calloused finger to the button on the dash of his hot rod. He pressed the “Hotter Than Hell” button in and a wave of bone-crushing heat suffocated a large portion of the lower 48.

“AH-hahahahaha!!!!” the demented one laughed maniacally, his evil deed fulfilled as he drove on with the knowledge that humans would be suffering even more than usual today.

Then he came to a stop at a red light. Suddenly, the air conditioner in his vintage sportster fizzled out. He pursed his lips and cocked an eyebrow and banged on the dashboard.

Nothing.

Great.

There was yet another expensive repair to take care of. You know, when he bought the Fiero he knew it might be high maintenance, but at the time the sleek hot chick magnetism of the car was all he cared about.

Did he have enough money in his checking account to call Leo at the repair shop?

Then he thought–Wait a minute. I’m Lucifer, ruler of the Lake of Fire and Eternal Damnation. What the hell do I care if my air doesn’t work?

Then he shifted his gaze to the right where he spied a beacon of delicious hope.

He guided the Fiero into the Dairy Queen parking lot like a Great White shifting quietly through the salt water of an ocean full of digestive possibilities.

“Diet be damned,” he told himself. “A twisty cone sure sounds yummy right about now.”

It was Monday, though. Not a “cheat” day. He pursed his lips again.

“Oh, what the hell,” he concluded as he parked the car, jumped out and ran into the ice cream store.

“I’d like a twisty cone, s’il vous plait,” he said to the kid behind the counter.

“The soft serve machine is down,” the kid said looking at the weird red man in front of him.

Satan sighed and figured it was a sign that he really shouldn’t cheat on his diet. Smirking at the kid, the Devil turned on his hoof and left the ice cream store.

As he went to get back in his toasty Fiero, he heard an uproar of laughter coming from a bar across the way. Twirling his keys around his fingers, Satan gave a moment’s consideration to his 6 years of sobriety. It hadn’t been easy, but after the intervention his minions held all those year back and by the grace of God and the help he got at the Betty Ford Clinic, he hadn’t touched the stuff in years and really hadn’t missed it until…well, just now.

As he walked up to the open doors of the place, he heard a tune playing on the jukebox that turned his blood ice cold.

What the hell kind of day was this, he thought to himself as he closed his eyes and took in the words to the beautiful love song “Look What You’ve Done to Me” by Boz Skaggs.

It had been “their song” all those years ago…

Satan walked in the place and all the patrons turned to see the return of their old friend.

And behind the bar, he couldn’t believe it, but there she was…

 

Anita.

 

The love of his life. The one who had broken up with him, crushed his heart, and left him a broken incubus.

Their eyes met across the 4000-degree room.

 

<cue organ music>

 

Tune in next week when we find out the answers to these questions:

 

Will Satan’s car’s air conditioning get fixed?

 

Will he fall off the sobriety wagon?

 

Will the flames of lust between the Dark Prince and Anita rise once again?

 

Will Connecticut’s grandparents tell their kids they aren’t going to babysit him anymore?

 

Will the soft serve ice cream machine at the local Dairy Queen get fixed?

 

And finally, will the heatwave over the eastern half of the US ever come to an end??

Next week on

SATAN OF SUBURBIA