Wednesday, April 4, 2012

The day they killed the Easter Bunny

If it's Wednesday, it must be Morford. Given the title of his column, I thought he was going to go on about the upcoming 2000-and-somethingth anniversary of Easter, The P.R. Stunt That Stuck, but noooooo....

Do you know how to defile innocence? Do you know the best way to permanently stain a relatively clean soul, corrupt a vibrant imagination, molest a heart full of wonder and raw, unchecked power? I bet you do.

Let's see: You could drag said innocence to a GOP convention, or maybe Las Vegas, or let it watch five minutes of "Real Housewives" or "Brooklyn 11223" or "Doomsday Bunkers." You could hand it a rifle and tell it to blast a wild animal to death, have it attend an anti-gay rally at a Colorado Springs megachurch or Mormon temple, or plop it down at a One Direction concert. That would certainly do it.

But let's say you really want to mess it up, forever and true, tattoo it down deep with adulthood's most vile energy, a poison that's hugely common in the culture but is just shy of being actually physically abusive or illegal. Can you name it?

I can now.

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