By Bruce Hirsch

Just what exactly is the nature of that deal between the bunnies and the chickies anyhow?

It would seem to me that it’s the poultry families who are getting the short and greasy end of the stick here, bravely sacrificing up the children each year, just like little feathered Abrahams offering up their firstborn to those big-footed, flop-eared Wascally Wabbits, some of whom are acting out the role of God in this extended crypto-biblical gothic-charnel-house scenario, where the embryonic journey of those “preemie” shell creatures leads them to be boiled alive while still ensconced within the supposed safety and serenity of the only one-bedroom starter home they’ve ever known, the at once protective and suicidally confining maternal shell, and even more hideously to have these little mobile homes painted up like the abodes of preadolescent streetwalkers in “gay” commercial colors and “festive” dyes, and then to be hidden all over the neighborhood by fantastically garbed, heavily furred hopping hare harbingers (who are notoriously rumored to be committed vegetarians, I might add) without benefit of a decent interment, only to get snatched up by the chubby little hands of the greedy spawn of yet another species, and thence thrown in together with “Peeps” (crudely fashioned from sugar to resemble the extended family members they’ll never know) and those ubiquitous “jelly beans” horrifically resembling the youngsters themselves, in an especially cruel and ironic twist of fate, in a temporary group home, a flimsy container lined with military-industrial-complex-spawned long-chain-molecule-based artificial grass, an organic basket-shaped device, just one more fashioned in an endless assembly line by starving, poorly clothed third-world non-union artisans, each ersatz nest painstakingly assembled by hand from the dying remnants of chlorophyll-based life-forms gathered from the receding swamps and vanishing global wetlands, to remain there for an uncertain but certainly temporary period, and finally, after proper display, to be ripped gleefully open and wolfed down with salt or combined with a few perfidious condiments, oils, and herbs and thereupon to be turned into a lumpy monochromatic salad while their still-colorful outer raiments are discarded and rendered into a molecular mulch for the nourishment of ravenous microbes, while the once embryonic children wind up passing through vitreous china plumbing and are ultimately piped into solid-waste recycling plants, and those unfortunate enough to be consumed in southwest Wisconsin may be sold yet again into hideous proto-slavery, being bagged and labeled as “Milorganite” and strewn into urban and suburban gardens as brunch for the worms, why, the food chain is very nearly just too hideous to contemplate.