Oh, look, here I come, Peter Cottontail, hoping down the damned bunny trail! Hippity, Hoppity, on painful corns all the way! Corns, I should say, that are the size of grapes and brimming with purple-tinted puss. Is that magical enough for you bastards?
Santa has a magical sleigh to get around the world, I have size 12 clompers with size 15 calluses and ankles bloated up to the size of tractor tires. All to deliver brightly colored eggs to a bunch of hyperactive brats who afterwards will run around the walls of their houses like one of those redneck motorcycle cage acts at the county fair, just with less wreckage raining down on some 40 year old woman in a bikini.
And do you have an idea where those eggs come from? Let's just say I make them ... personally. That's all you need to know. After Easter, I can only sit down with the aid of a donut shape device, and some years it requires a lot of stitches with some reconstructive work that uses medical-grade pipe cleaners.
Oh, but you need your sugar, you little monsters. I hope you choke on that candy bar!
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