Showing 1 - 9 of 9 posts found matching keyword: easter

Feast-er your eyes on this vintage Coca-Cola advertisement from 1958:

Every religious holy day goes better with Coke

I learned from Alice in Wonderland not to trust any grinning white rabbits.

But I'd still drink his Coke.

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After months of taunting the Red Bee and his one trick, he's finally proved that it's a pretty darn effective one trick. At least when dealing with children.

I suggest you shut your mouth

At the annual White House Easter Egg Roll this past weekend, the President was interrupted when a single bee buzzed the crowd of children. (He was reading Where the Wild Things Are. Oh, the irony!)

I'm sorry, Red Bee. You've been right all along. Nothing is more frightening than a lone bee. I don't know if it will stop crime, but it will certainly ruin a picnic.

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Easter is all about a man who came back from the dead, so naturally we must be talking about Superman. That description applies doubly to the statue now sitting beside my television.

This Superman broke his chains and his ankles

It was a gift from a friend. He had ordered it for himself from eBay, but when it arrived in a shoebox of broken parts, I got an unexpected gift. Years ago he gave me a cracked copy of the Jan & Dean Meet Batman record album. "Give it to Walter; he'll glue anything!" (This is probably why I can't have nice things.)

Fortunately for Superman, I could rebuild him. I had the technology. Don't tell Steve Austin, but a new tube of 2-part epoxy costs considerably less than 6 million dollars. After a week of wire, tape, glue, and touch-up paint, Superman may not be good as new, but he's much better than he was.

Now if you'll excuse me, I think I hear some peanut-butter filled chocolate eggs calling my name.

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No. Just no.

'cute' is dead to me

This is a fine example of why people don't like new traditions. The last thing my Easter needs is something that looks like it tastes like ass.

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A tisket, a tasket, a poodle with a basket.

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True story: on Easter Sunday, I was awoken by my mother who excitedly notified me that I had been visited by the Easter Bunny. On the counter in my kitchen was a 1.69 oz bag of M&Ms and a purple plastic egg. "Open it," exclaimed my mom while pointing to the egg. So I did. Inside I found... nothing. The egg was entirely empty. "Why," I asked my mother, "did you wake me up to have me open an egg with nothing in it?" Replied my mother with a frown, "I was going to give you cash, but I ran out of money."

It's like an O. Henry story without the irony. And now you can probably imagine what my Christmases are like.

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New for 2010: Easter poodles! The adorability of a bunny combined with the fun of decorating eggs!

Who needs eternal life when you've got poodles?

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In honor of Pope Victor (who first decided that Easter would be celebrated on a Sunday), I interrupt your Day of the Lepus celebration with the following long-form complaint about chicks.

Why does Victoria's Secret mail out catalogues every month? Who buys underwear that often? A quick web search reveals that they mail over 400 million catalogues each year. (A mere 33 million catalogues per month.) The population of the entire United States of America -- men, women, and children combined -- is slightly over 300 million.

I'm a little torn on this issue: I'm not opposed to free porn arriving in my mail box. (That old Sears catalogue and I had some good times.) But I do have concerns about the frequency and volume of these catalogues. I see more Victoria's Secret catalogues than credit card applications and "have you seen me" postcards combined.

I'm not the sort to lament the overgrowth of landfills (I hope everyone drowns in their own filth) or mourn the destruction of a tree (I hate trees, too). But it seems to me that mailing endless piles of catalogues with pictures so heavily airbrushed as to be considered paintings of impossibly-shaped people (we called you ugly in high school because you were, ladies) in order to market push-up bras to women concerned that their chests are too small could probably be a sign of the apocalypse (if one were so inclined to be looking for those sorts of things).

That is all. You may now resume your regularly scheduled pastel-tinted activities.

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Easter is tomorrow, which gives me the perfect opportunity to promote the movie Harvey. I love that movie. In fact, I love every movie with giant rabbits, from Donnie Darko to Alice in Wonderland to Who Framed Roger Rabbit to Night of the Lepus. Can you even make a bad movie with giant rabbits?

Come to think of it, I also love every Jimmy Stewart movie I've ever seen, from Mr. Smith Goes to Washington to Rear Window to Rope to The Flight of the Phoenix. Except for Vertigo. I never cared for Vertigo. The entire story -- a man becomes obsessed with a girl who looks remarkably like a woman he believes is dead -- makes me dizzy.

However, I don't generally care for films in which a major character is invisible. They all suck, from the original The Invisible Man to Hollow Man to Memoirs of an Invisible Man to The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. (It makes sense that the only film that comes to mind that I like with an invisible character is Mystery Men, in which the Invisible Boy is always visible.) The only advantage to being invisible is visiting the girls locker room and stealing shit. Hardly spectacular story devices.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Go see Harvey.

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To be continued...