Give real Easter eggs, or give up parenting

Easter eggs should be made of chocolate. Not carob. Not hard candy. Chocolate.
Easter eggs should be made of chocolate. Not carob. Not hard candy. Chocolate. 

Some people just shouldn't be parents. No, I don't mean anti-vaxxers. Natural selection will take care of those maddies. I mean the habitual child abusers who yearly on this vigil try to convince their little ones that Easter Eggs are made out of anything but chocolate. These people are history's greatest monsters.

They fall into three broad categories of the appalling and the insane. For once, vegans aren't among them. They won't eat milk chocolate of course, because they hate life, but they can work themselves into quite the tizz over 'pure' chocolate and so for once they get a pass.

But their cousins, the stupid hippy carob nazis are, for my mind, the second or maybe third worst offenders. Not only do they force their offspring to eat a chocolate substitute that tastes more of death and toilets than the wholesome life-giving joy of Easter, but they pretend that their despicable carob animals – always Bilbies, never bunnies – are somehow more natural and thus more 'real'. Just contemplating the ruination of so many childhoods at their hands makes me bleed through my eyeballs.

Worse than them, of course, are those punishing lackwits who prefer hard candy eggs to the real thing; the real thing being chocolate eggs, not real eggs, which abomination we will come to in due course. There is nothing more disappointing to a child than waking up on the morning the Easter Bunny comes back to life after a year in retail purgatory to find their little bunny basket piled high with teeth-cracking candy eggs. Not the loss of a favourite toy. Not the death of a much-loved pet. This, this is the nadir of a childhood gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Unless of course the poor little bastard has been unfortunate enough to be born into one of those nut hatches with parents who insist on hand painting actual hard boiled eggs and scattering them around the garden like broken promises and the inevitable manifold sorrows of adulthood. I mean, sweet suffering Jesus, why not just give the kid a rotten brussel sprout from the bottom of the compost heap and be done with it.

I don't like to offer advice to parents, but parents, heed my advice. If you or the Bunny does not deliver the good stuff this Sunday, you will have failed and your children will run away to Africa to join up with the first warlord who offers them a half chewed Freddo.

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