I looked it up, and the correct way to spell the phrase that follows “I am the walrus” is…

WAIT! Think about this. If you would like to go on believing that the correct spelling is “koo-koo-kajoo” or whatever your brain has idly cooked up, do not click the link below. This is a life-changing decision; don’t be too hasty.

I am the walrus, I am the walrus… show

No, seriously. I checked like five lyric sites.

What did you idiots think it was, “coo-coo-kachoo?” That’s just stupid. Ha-ha, ha-ha, heh…

Ahem.

Oh, and before you scoff at me for not having known this, and inform me that you’ve known the correct spelling since you were old enough to write, I would like to point out that that makes you the freak, not me.

Every year, around this time, exciting red and blue and green packages appear on the shelves at my local Albertson’s. And every year, around this time, I buy one of those shiny foil-covered boxes, remove one of the contents, and eagerly eat it.

And every year, around this time, I spit the contents of the box out of my mouth and say, “Motherf*cker! Gross!”

That’s right. I’m talking about Cadbury eggs.

I don’t know how it is that I manage to forget every year how disturbing these little candies are. Maybe it’s the bright primary colors, designed to disable my higher brain functions and replace them with a craving for pretty candy.

Candy eggs. What a hellish concept that truly is. Candy eggs. The unfertilized offspring of a chicken, only made out of chocolate and sugar.

Sugar yolk. Yolk that tastes like sugar. Sugar that looks like yolk. It is a fundamentally skewed concept. Yolk. Made out of sugar. Need I say more?

I need not, but I will anyway.

The Cadbury Egg is merely a symptom of a larger social distortion: The Easter holiday. Here is a holiday in which we celebrate the crucifixion and resurrection of a religious figure by hiding chicken eggs from children and encouraging them to eat baby chickens* whole.

Setting the religious/secular discrepancies aside, the holiday is bizarre. The concept is that a large, invisible bunny makes his rounds every year in order to stick a bunch of chicken eggs in bushes, or around your house.

Wait a minute… a bunny that hides eggs? Bunnies don’t even lay eggs. Where the hell is this rabbit getting all these eggs? Does the rabbit run a chicken farm? Does he sneak around rural Illinois, violating chickens and stealing their eggs? ‘Cause if so, I don’t want that damn bunny in my house. That bunny has some serious sociopathic tendencies.

I had a bunny once. And it hid stuff in corners, all right. But they weren’t painted up, and they sure didn’t taste like candy.

*made of puffed sugar

Does anybody else ever feel like they’re performing the Jedi Mind Trick on those things?

In honor of Smivey: Electric-eye paper towel dispensers, you suck.

What else is a cake used for? If I can’t eat it, why would I want it in the first damn place?

Unless, of course, the maxim means “have” in the carnal sense. In which case I can’t imaging wanting to eat the cake after I was done “having” it.

But I don’t find confection to be a turn-on, much less a sexual partner.

Odd.