Oh, no! Did I miss Palm Sunday again?

Well, at least it’s Easter Sunday, despite the times being too scary to think about colored eggs, bonnets and baskets and chocolate bunnies. But I do.

You can talk to a little girl in a party dress searching for eggs about the true meaning of anything. For her, bless her braids, it’s the next egg and the next and the next.

Grownups’ baskets are full of the same rotten eggs: Ukraine, killer caterpillars, Omni this, Omni that, long COVID, short COVID, and the new boy on the block, BA.2. Did I get that right?

Stop it. Of course I know what Easter is really about; I was an altar boy before most of you were born. Rosemary De Branco and I colored eggs together and then hunted them after dark. Those were great Easters. Thank you, Rosemary, wherever you are.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking, but I’m reluctant to get Jesus involved right now. He’s got enough on his paten this Easter.

They say that the art of sarcasm and satire are out of place. But satire and a glib tongue are the tools of my trade. I’m Irish, don’t you see, and I really don’t know how to do anything else.

I come from generations of old men who stood at the bar in pubs from Galway to Chicago, and made the other drunks laugh. I don’t drink Jamieson’s Irish anymore, so let’s put on a happy face and keep dancing through the news.

Yesterday, full of patriotic fever, I interrupted my Zoomed senior kickboxing practice, to watch the newly appointed SCOTUS member, Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson, take her place in history books — except in Texas.

The tiny Judge Jackson and her gorgeous family seemed so out of place among the political glitterati scattered about the South Lawn like ornaments, didn’t they?

If you had a bitcoin for every Republican there, you couldn’t buy a latte at the local Starbucks.

It was like one of the old-fashioned New York debutante balls where “all the very best people were present,” except for Hollywood’s Will Smith, who was home busily punching the Bozo Bop Bag, that keeps bouncing back.

As my childhood friend Lorenzo White might have said, “Sumpin’ is goin’ around,” and everyone in D.C. is coming down with it.

The usual suspects include Adam Schiff, Joaquin Castro, Merrick Garland, and sweet Nancy Pelosi. Where’s the list of Republicans? Where are they hiding it?

Omicron fell on the White House staff’s cooks, waiters, lawn mowers, sou chefs, the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker.

Wait a minute, hold on here. Do they employ a candlestick maker at the White House?

Of course, they must. The White House uses more candles than Christmas Mass at President Joe’s Holy Trinity Church.

Of course, they can’t just send Merrick Garland over to the American Candle Shop at the mall in Washington Square, can they? But then why not? What else does he have to do?

Go bite the ears off a chocolate rabbit. Happy Easter.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer. 

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