Easter

We went up to West Virginia with my folks for the Easter weekend.  The kids get to play outside, the men get to talk about chainsaws, the women get to talk about the men – it’s a good place for a Big Ugly Man Doll.  So there we were, discussing the discrepancies between the gospels of Mark and Paul, the merits of Aku-Aku, and the origins of the heads on Easter Island, when it hit us:  There were only four beers left.  This was going to require some divine intervention – maybe even an Easter Miracle. 

Luckily, my mother needed to go into town for some paint, which may be a euphemism for “getting out of the house for an hour,” but since she did actually buy some paint, we’ll give her the benefit of that doubt.  I went with her, and we were able to find some beer, along with some “West Virginia Mountain Moonshine,” which can’t be authentic (since it’s sold in stores).  It’s tasty, though, and can be used to thin paint in a pinch.

Returning with our “paint,” we found the debate had moved to the disconnect between the theory and practice of Easter.  In theory, we’re celebrating a somber occasion marking the anniversary of the death of Jesus and his eventual resurrection.  In practice, we’re dying eggs that come from chickens with inks that come from plants and telling kids they come from rabbits.  Then we’re hiding the eggs, waking up and pointing out where the eggs are to those same kids so they can “find” them, and eating roasted pigs and chocolate candy.  My friend Bill read the bible once; he didn’t find the words “bunny” or “chocolate” in there anywhere. 
 
On a great side note, we were able to save a lot on dyes this year – SOBUMD was taking medication that turned her pee Smurf blue.  I took my multivitamin and got neon lemon yellow; between us we had green.  She figured she could use another pill that would turn hers red; the overlap from the blue would give us purple.  What?  Don’t laugh.  Do you know what part of the chicken those eggs come out of? 

Anyway, the whole rabbit thing I dunno, I was thinking we could do better.  And then, just as I thought we needed a new Easter story, what should happen but my father’s tractor cart had a flat tire. 

Stay with me now.

The tire is flat – very flat, the kind where you can see the wheel inside because there’s no bead on the rim.  It’s just rubber hanging loose on the wheel, like the time you tried on one of your older brother’s Trojans, but didn’t know what they were for other than balloons.  Dad tried the electric compressor, but it didn’t have the oomph to get the rubber on the rim.  Without the tire, there is no cart, and without the cart, there are no rides in the cart for the kids – and the angels will weep.

Remembering that my crazy neighbor told me he saw this on TV once, I grabbed a lighter, poured a little West Virginia Mountain Moonshine into the wheel well behind the rubber tire, and set it on fire.  “Oomph!”  I popped the compressor back on the nozzle, and Hey Presto, the bead sealed on the rim and the tire filled with air.

No, no, that’s not what happened.  This was EASTER!  The flat tire was dead, and therefore flat, on account of being dead.  I used the power of the spirit(s) to baptize the wheel in holy fire (and I assure you the word “Holy” was, in fact, one of the two words my dad yelled when I did this), and then the wheel was resurrected with the compressor of faith.  The new story of Easter!  “Jesus: He’s Here To Pump [clap clap] You Up!” 

And the kids got their rides, and the angels danced on their pins. 

Come on, you have to admit it makes as much sense as a rabbit with a fetish for chocolate and eggs.

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