Showing 1 - 10 of 11 posts found matching keyword: easter
Now Thomas, one of the twelve, called the Twin, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, "We have seen the Lord." But he said to them, "Unless I see in his hands the mark of the nails, and place my finger into the mark of the nails, and place my hand into his side, I will never believe."
Eight days later, his disciples were inside again, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you." Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side. Do not disbelieve, but believe." Thomas answered him, "Hey, wait. This is just makeup." Jesus said to him, "April Fools!"
Feast-er your eyes on this vintage Coca-Cola advertisement from 1958:
I learned from Alice in Wonderland not to trust any grinning white rabbits.
But I'd still drink his Coke.
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.
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.
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.
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.
No. Just no.
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.
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.
New for 2010: Easter poodles! The adorability of a bunny combined with the fun of decorating eggs!
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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.