Someone needs to call an exterminator. Their shoehouse is filled with rabbits.

Rabbits, or mice. I’m not sure which. The ears say rabbit. The body and thin whiplike tail says “mouse.” The hooked clawlike hands really say “gargoyle,” or maybe “Nosferatu.”

Theory one: balancing an Easter egg on the point of his nose. Theory two: Nasal cyst. Do note the doughlike foreleg. This is clearly some sort of extruded, quick-rise life form. The unbaked “Pillsbury Doughboy” of the rabbit set. Yum.

Good lord, it’s got bunnies coming and going. Ever since they installed a pet door on their size 175 extra wide, they can’t keep the vermin out. They act like they practically own the place.

Do lips normally roam freely about the body? I didn’t think so. And yet, definitive proof, if of course you take “painted on the back of a ceramic boot” as anatomical canon. Shoe bunnies have detachable mouths that can drift around their faces and land somewhere below their chins. I assume this is going into a child’s room of some sort–or was supposed to, I note that it actually went to Goodwill. I hope they weren’t planning on being a veterinarian when they grow up.

Goodwill on I35 and 290 near Walmart, Austin

Sooo…this was meant to be for Good Friday for maximum inappropriateness. But I got swept away in the frenzy of carrots. Mea culpa.

Bunnies–they pretty much symbolize innocence, right? If you ignore the “making more bunnies” angle, which, rest assured, the bunnies do not–they’re cute, they wiggle their noses, rarely pirate DVDs, seldom run for office.

So it’s sad when you catch them sacrificing their own in some sort of disturbing mountain-top ritual. But it happens. Apparently.

Call it context, maybe contrast, but those bunnies in the background really don’t look like nice characters. They’ve got those scary zombie eyes you get in certain kinds of ceramics, and coats that would do a lion proud. But mostly, they’ve somehow rammed a wick into a stunted, malformed smaller rabbit and have started rendering him. This, I think, makes them Not Nice Bunnies.

The poor thing :( Did you know it would end like this, little lumpbunny? Wick through your heart, vital fluids oozing down a cliff, as larger lagomorphs cavort fiendishly behind you? Of course, you are a weird fetal blob, like some reject from a Dr. Who casting call.

As the creamy nougat center of the rabbit slowly set in the west, we left the foothills of the Rocky Mountains with a sense of bittersweet insouciance, knowing next year we’d return to Alberta, but would probably leave our cameras at home next time.

Salvation Army on 183 near Metric, Austin

Carrots. Just … just give ‘em here. Really. I’ll stop any time I want to, no worries. Just three or four more. Six, tops. Maybe eight. Seriously, though, it’s not like it’s a thing, I just like carrots. I’m not hurting anybody or nothing, I just…look, buddy, just give me a bag of Bird’s Eye frozen nibblets and we can both get out of here, okay? I need the…I need the eyesight.

Oh, the fevered expression of a carrot junky. He’s double-fisting the things now. Look at those huge bloodstained eyes, the orange teeth…there’s probably a 12-step program for this.

Tragic. He’s already lining up his next hit.

Parents, take some time out this Easter to have a talk with your children about members of the Umbelliferae family. One conversation tonight can save five, even as much as ten, dollars at the grocery store.

Hey, it’s a cheap high.

Of course, the real question is who’s helping the neighborhood lops and chaudries get all these carrots? They’re a controlled substance, after all. Or at least it’s a pain for them to reach the counter at the grocery store, it’s a little high.

Sadly, many medical “professionals” are pushing root vegetables now, using their licenses to acquire prescription-grade carrots and passing them on to the youth. You can’t trust anyone. It’s “healthy,” they said.

Bunny Crack from the Goodwill on I35 and 183, Dr. Wiggly from The Goodwill near Anderson Mill and 183, Austin.

I love how terrified infants look exactly like a walk-on cameo from Alfred Hitchcock’s House of the Young. Particularly if Hitchcock dressed in an adorable little pink number with a high Empire waist. No-one can look shocked, indeed fatally affronted, like a 60-year-old Southern woman or a baby. Or Hitchcock…but.

But something is obviously terrifying this little girl. What is it? What could possibly so disturb an infant that she won’t sit still for an “adorable baby” photo besides, of course, loud noises, soft noises, sudden shifts in the Dow-Jones index, the photographer, or Wednesdays?

Holy shit. It’s Easter.

For the love of god, little girl! Wiggle! Wiggle like you’ve never wiggled before! Easter’s cresting the pillow and there’s murder–or chocolate eggs–in its eyes!

I actually walked right by this until my partner said “you know, you missed the Easter bunny about to eat a little girl in the art bin.” And, yeah, there she was, and there Easter was. Frankly, I feel this way about any major holiday. Thanksgiving, in particular, likes to wait until you’re in a state of false security before leaping–”You thought I was celebrated on the weekend, didn’t you?!?”

So parents: keep your children away from stealthy rainbow bunnies this Easter–or you’ll be paying for therapy 15 years later.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

…And then the Easter Bunny’s head exploded. Boom!

Sometimes you can get a clear view into the mind of the artist. Like with Devilbunny, The artist presumably really hated kids, and wanted to give them heart attacks. I don’t know what this artist was hoping to achieve. It looks a little like an abstract exercise in target shooting.

I hope that, whatever happened, it made a really great noise.

Maybe those aren’t cartoony detonations. Maybe they’re whiskers. In which case, the rabbit was probably in a better place with the explosions. Now it’s living its life in a state of blind confusion, unable to see past its nose, stumbling around behind a bad case of catastrophic whisker failure. If there’s one small grace, it’s that it’s got a clever decoy on its butt.

I think that Easter is 20% more festive with the regular sound of a bunny bumping into walls. Keep looking, bunny! The eggs are right in front of you!

Goodwill on Brodie in South Austin

And I would give it to him. Absolutely, in a heartbeat, if it would keep him as far away from me as possible.

The Goodwill “Blue Hanger” outlet store actually isn’t my favorite haunt, because honestly, “broken” isn’t the same as “funny,” and anything that isn’t soft and pliable isn’t going to survive long in the customer-ravaged binyard that is the Hanger. So I set my sights low, and were they ever exceeded by…this guy.

He’s six feet tall. He’s plywood. He’s DEFINITELY home-made. And he’s coming to your house for Easter.

Hippety…hoppety.

The only other critter I know with arms like that is a Tyrannosaurus, and frankly, I’d rather hug the giant lizard. I’m more comfortable with a known evil. Not this weirdly-proportioned monstrosity. It’s like a blasphemous hybrid of rabbit, street mime, and Butterball frozen turkey. At least it’s probably quiet.

Actually, that’s not at all comforting, I’d really rather know where it is. And what it wants.

For the record: Devilbunny is held together with pain. There are screws in his head and neck. Do there need to be screws in his head and neck? No. He’s plywood. They’re just there to tear flesh. Every part of him that isn’t a screw is covered with splinters. It’s like an affectionate saguaro. And the worst part is, he doesn’t even have a basket of Easter treats. No, he’s come for yours. And you better give him some. Or just throw him the neighbor’s three-year-old and run, run as if your life depended on it, which it might.

And keep telling yourself, I don’t believe in the Easter Bunny. I don’t believe in the Easter Bunny. I don—

Blue Hanger on Burleson near Highway 71, Austin

Gentle readers, we ask you now to lower your standards, just a touch, as we lean back and try to get away from this tribute to Easter. Do these guys look just a bit deep-fried, puffy and golden to anyone else? Is it just me? It might be.

Easter is nothing if not scantily clad and maybe just slightly blotto. If the mall Easter Bunny dressed like this, someone would press charges. Unless they were really into rabbits. In which case, they might like the next guy/girl/rabbit. Who frankly strikes me as just a bit whorish, in that special 1980s self-promoting singer sense of the word “whorish” rather than someone who actually trades Cadbury creme eggs for favors. That would be wrong. I’m not sure what we’ve achieved here, but it’s definitely less wrong than that.

I didn’t know that corn dogs came in designer colors. Or that the Easter Bunny coyly hides his basket behind a bouquet of said designer corn-dogs and barely-concealing ribbon. Is this appropriate for children, or a high religious holiday?

Gods, this rabbit just let himself go. We’ve got the weird beer gut, crazy “Lady Godiva’s Had a Few” ribbon wrap, and now he’s stumbling out to pass out vodka-filled eggs to the kiddies. Won’t they be surprised! This has the disreputable edge of “bunny after a serious toga party,” and that’s not a look I’m comfortable with.

The angel wisely turns away from this shameless and prurient display, as should we all.

Goodwill near Anderson Mill and 183, Austin

Hi!

There is a fine line between “mascara” and “war paint” and I fear that little bunny Fufu here has not only crossed the line, but gave it lush and full and possibly water-resistant lashes. I would never call the Easter bunny an icon of masculinity, but we’re playing some strange gender games here. That necktie in particular isn’t helping. It says, “Let’s accessorize with zinnias!” And that’s the beginning of a strange downward spiral that ends up in a “Peeps” sweatervest and a giant egg-shaped wheelbarrow.

For example.

And now we’re in some sort of Kafka/Gilliam-inspired scene from a Rankin/Bass “Tragedy of the Working Easter Bunny” movie. It’s a bitter film about a rabbit who, unappreciated by his superiors, for reasons no-one can remember, slogs wheelbarrows of eggs day after day until, finally, he dyes.

(crickets)

We’ll take another running charge at that joke later, and go back to the mascara. My god, it’s like the forbidden art of matsuge abunakkashii, or “fighting eyelashes.” Some practitioners were able to decapitate a man by standing behind him and blinking suddenly. Not that this rabbit would ever do that. Of course, I have no idea what’s in that wheelbarrow. Could be heads. Probably not, but could be.

Goodwill on Lake Austin Boulevard, Austin

Please stand and say the pledge of allegiance to the shirt.

I have to assume this was yanked off some poor teacher. Oh how she must have struggled. “No! NO! It’s educational!” It was probably freaking out the third graders–the way Mrs. Klapham had Uncle Sam staring at them from over each boob, his tangled beard covering her ample breast in a cascade of wool. Setting up weird associations between Americana, Santa Claus, and mammaries that would, later, send many of them to a marriage therapist when their partners refused to wear the “lady liberty” to bed.

You have to side with the Parent Teacher Association on this one though. Really, there’s such a thing as too much weirdly-placed patriotism. This one was worse than the “Old Glory” sarong.

Not that I’m really a part of that particular subculture, because they never hold late-night, throbbing-techno dances in “Salvation Army,” and if they would I would be there in a heartbeat, but this doesn’t really speak “rave” to me.

But, there you go. As the raver generation ages and buys minivans, this…THIS is what you get. Dreadful.

…and bunnies. USA and bunnies. If there was an angel of America, yeah, she’d have that hair. She’d have bag-lady hair, and a D-ring suspension point embedded in her chest, because she’d be totally pro-bondage and anti-conditioner. But she’d have a soft spot for cute, fluffy things. And nice hips, but no feet. Because that would symbolize…something. Probably victory. Or determination. Or shopping. I don’t know, one of those.

Hi, George!

Awesome pants, by the way! I can see you’ve got your entire life wrapped up in this one iconic image. You’re probably holding the Declaration of Independence, there. And an apple, because you discovered gravity. I didn’t know that, but it was on Wikipedia. I’m not sure about the leg-warmers, though they’re a very forward-looking fashion statement, and would have been a great boon when crossing the Patomac. Maybe this is actually BOY George, but I don’t think he’d be caught dead in a dusty blue muumuu. And the make-up’s a little too subdued.

If there’s anything more patriotic than a furry holding a lot of fruit, I am not currently aware of it. Those are truly awesome pants. Not everybody could pull those off. Most people wouldn’t try, I’m guessing. I’m not sure about the hat, though. Maybe you should give that to George, he needs a little more color in his life.

Uncle Sam Rave Shirt from Salvation Army on South Congress near Ben White; American Angel-Peg from Goodwill on 183 near 620; “George” and Patriot Bear from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar. Happy 4th, y’all!

There is some thought that two weeks of bunnies is…maybe…a little bit much. So we’ll wrap this up and move on to other, greater things. Kittens, maybe. Or amorphous blobs. Maybe we’ll start with an amorphous blob, right now.

With apologies to my friends from the Thrifthorror livejournal community, I do think I’ve included this guy before, but…I couldn’t just throw this guy into the dustbin. He needs to live. In fact, I think he needs to be a holiday tradition. Every Easter, tell your children the story of the Little Bunny Who Wanted to Be Bert Lahr. They may look at you strangely. They may struggle.Tell them anyway. These things are important.

I know that’s not a lady bunny. Froofy pink dress and lacy pocket aside, fetching bonnet and eyelashes notwithstanding, that is a boy bunny and is not convincing in a dress.The jowels are not working for him. The whiskers that look more like “five o’clock shadow and a cigar” than “Peter Cottontail’s Twitchy Nose.” These things take away from one’s drag queen presence. As does the beer gut, and the deep pits around his eyes. This is a bunny on a bender, and no dress is going to conceal that.

The artist’s sense of perspective adds to the challenge of a piece that is already challenging, particularly in terms of gender expectations. Everything takes place on a two-dimensional plane—well, except the bonnet—leading to a bunny that is simultaneously watering plants and becoming a part of them; a pocket bunny (in Japanese, Pokébun) staring upwards while receding back into the strange hole which, in a healthy life form, would be a shoulder.

Leaving frumpy drag queen Easter bunnies for now, we’ll go for physical humor. Or at least screaming pain, which can be kind of funny after a long day.

Another senseless Easter accident! Parents, please don’t let your children ram long copper tubes into their Easter basket and then into their mouths. And kids, just say no.

We’re clearly missing a part, some key element, but I’ll be hornswoggled if I can guess what it is. Maybe a giant fresnel lens that concentrates the light of the sun on her enemies, leaving a scorched patch of molten resin? Maybe another darn egg? The jury is out.

Are you looking at me? Seriously? That’s typecasting. Blatant stereotyping, in fact, and I am offended, sir, offended. Look at these innocent eyes. This is not the face of a lettuce-eater, this is the face of a lettuce-protector.I shall fiercely guard this lettuce, protecting it from boring beetles, snails, and vegetarians. This lettuce will stand for a thousand years. Beginning now. So move on, friend, this lettuce is safe. Come on. Just…head on out. Bye, bye. Go away now.

…and on that note, let us leave Easter for greener, less bunny-infested shores.

Bunny in drag from Savers on South Lamar; bunny with copper piping and a very bad day from Goodwill on 183 and Metric; “Who Me?” Peter Rabbit from the sadly defunct St Vincent De Paul’s in Round Rock; Drunk bunny from Goodwill on 2222, Austin.