Easter Sunday: Resurrection by Chocolate Overdose

Easter Sunday hits the country like a bad trip, and I’m here to shove the truth down your throats until you choke on it. This goddamn holiday is nothing but existential dread in a bunny costume, a grotesque parade where the masses call their sugar coma “salvation.” I’m watching people in their Sunday best—ironed shirts and fake smiles—shuffling into churches like obedient drones, hands clasped in prayer to a zombie carpenter who’s been dead for two millennia. They’re whispering hallelujahs while the streets outside are screaming with gigantic billboards, covered in promises of sugar-coated resurrection kits for your spoiled brats. Buy now, ascend later. What a deal.

Let’s talk about those chocolate eggs, shall we? Ovoid little fertility symbols, straight out of some ancient pagan wet dream, now repackaged by megacorps to keep you fat, docile, and distracted. They’re not even food—just waxy, chemical sludge that tastes like despair and profit margins. This whole farce is a fertility rite with a side of Christian guilt, slathered on so thick you can’t even taste the irony. And nobody blinks. Nobody fucking blinks.

Meanwhile, the transient enclaves are out there, digging through the City’s discarded pastel baskets for scraps, their fingers stained with cheap dye and desperation. The air reeks of synthetic lilies and corporate piety, a stench so thick it could choke a dead rabbit. Easter Sunday is the day the country pretends it’s reborn—new suit, same rot. I see through the veneer, and it’s all just decay with better lighting.

So here I am, sitting on a pile of this corporate chocolate garbage, shoving it down my gullet until I pack on a stone. I’m sucking on an ‘Easter egg’ flavoured vape—tastes like chemical regret and broken promises, with a hint of artificial vanilla. Fucking hell, what have we let society become? A neon dystopia where we worship sugar and smoke our own delusions, where salvation comes in a sweet wrapper and the only thing rising is our collective blood sugar.

Happy fucking Easter, you brain-dead sheep. I’m Spider Thompson, and I’m here to ruin your holiday with the truth.