Talk to the bunny's hand!

Two days ago we celebrated the day when my peeps killed your lord. He was a damn rabble rouser, and we're renown for rejecting rousers of rabble. He seemed like a nice enough fella, but just wouldn't stop talking about the kingdom of heaven right in front of the centurions. Bad move, Nazarene. So we offed him. Technically, we outsourced it to the Italians and they executed the contract. Then they poured themselves a nice espresso and lounged about, waiting 1900 years for a damn train to show up.

Today - two days later - y'all get to stick it to my peeps (the first of many times throughout the intervening millennia filled with pogroms, inquisitions, and temptations) by celebrating the rebirth of your lord three days after his death. Two thoughts on this: first off, this is why you want a Jewish accountant; and this is why I don't support outsourcing. If Caiaphas had sacked up and done the deed himself, the dead might have stayed dead.

Anyway, this is as good a day as any to find your Jewish friends (not as essential as black friends, but you know you've got one or two around to defend you in court or treat your high cholesterol) and say "nyah nyah nyah!" That's how it was in my house growing up.

On Good Friday, pops would silently enjoy his salmon while moms was chowing down on a juicy steak. Between bites, she'd taunt him with peals of laughter and reminders that his lord was dead and gone. Come Sunday, while overindulging on chocolate, pops would blurt out "in your face" and "talk to the bunny's hand!"