That Is A Very Strange Thing To Find In An Easter Egg, Luke

I'm sure you're familiar with my dear, dear brother, Luke Bea - excuse me, Luke Valerik. Or is it Luke Kire? Or Luke Tak? I'm still in limbo about the name, as you can see. Kire is Erik spelt backwards, a suggestion of the Ghost Host, and Tak is Kat spelled backwards. Many thanks to Ben, and you shall recieve an honorary set of Phantom of the Opera plushies if I use Kire. Well, that is, if they ever come out with Phantom plushies.

But anyway. I'm sure you're familiar with my dear, dear brother, Luke Valerik/Tak/Kire. That would be the Luke we discussed in Strange Conversations. The one with the Native American chants, who does not. . .think. Well, like many of you, I spent Easter (Ostara, Beltaine) with my family, which, like it or lump it, contains Luke. We went to a rather. . .strange party. When I say strange, I mean not strange like me, Max, Ben, or even Oscar Wilde. Strange like Whitney Huston, or Hugh Heffner. Why like Hugh Heffner? Because of the two pastel clad Playboy bunnies running around the party. Would I joke with you? Pastel clad Playboy bunnies, I tell you. Disturbing. My childhood is very over. In fact, my life as a civilized person may be over. My life in general may be over, because at any moment the authors of the books I distort in my fan fiction may find me and kill me brutally, with those things which are either sporks or foons, which I think Max and I are still fighting about. (It's a foon. Trust me.) But that's not the point. The point is that my childhood is over. And then there was the fellow dressed as the Easter bunny, but wearing some serious gold bling.

Now, are you wondering about the title yet? Just what, are you wondering, did Luke find in the Easter egg? It was not candy. It was not a life chick. It was not those chocolate centered eggs that you can use as lipstick if you lick them and they're red and you're really hard pressed for lipstick. It was not jellybeans. It was not the toy that he later recieved that gave rise to the following interesting exchange:

Kat: Luke, I think you mutated that bunny one too many times.
Luke: Damnit, it's leaking!

No. It was none of these. Instead it was something really and truly mad. Not mad like me and Ely and Erika, mad like Joel Schumacher. It was something so utterly bizarre that I really don't know what to say. It's like the bowl of shamrocks that Irish fellow gave Bush, just too strange to comment on. It was, of all things, of all modern world insane objects. . .

A thong. My ten year old brother found a thong in his easter egg. A piece of lady's underwear. A thong. A thong, my friends. A thong. Or have I mentioned that already? Am I frightening you? Don't be frightened by me, be frightened by the strange, strange people who stuffed these easter eggs.

That isn't to mention the enormous cake, which I thought was a flower arrangement until they started cutting it.

But really. Really. It was a piece, for God's sake, of underwear. Lady's underwear. Sexually suggestive, pink, cherry patterned, lady's underwear.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.