Lord have mercy, look at them. Like a pack of colorful, sugar-crazed locusts descendin’ on a freshly mowed lawn. Honestly, if these kids put half as much effort into findin’ their shoes in the mornin’ as they do chasin’ down a plastic egg filled with three stale jellybeans, we’d have a much quieter Sunday.

Now look at Brenda over there—honey, you’re forty-two years old, standin’ on the sidelines practically pointin’ a laser pointer at the bushes for your grandson. Let the boy look! If he can’t find a neon pink egg in a patch of clover, he’s never gonna find a steady job or a wife who’ll put up with him. It’s character buildin’, Brenda. Or it’s just heatstroke. One of the two.

And don’t even get me started on that ‘Golden Egg’ nonsense. They’ve got a five-dollar bill tucked in there and these parents are actin’ like it’s a deed to a condo in Destin. Look at Bill trippin’ over his own loafers tryin’ to nudge his daughter toward the birdbath. Have some dignity, William! You’re sweatin’ through a seersucker suit for the price of a chicken biscuit.

Oh, here comes little Tommy with a basket full of that plastic grass. The devil’s confetti, I call it. You’ll be findin’ those green strands in your floorboards until the Second Comin’, and for what? A hollow chocolate bunny that tastes like wax and disappointment. I’d rather have a nap and a glass of ‘medicinal’ tea, but no, we’re all out here committin’ cardio in the humidity because it’s ‘tradition.’

Bless their hearts, they’re done already. Thirty minutes of prep, four hours of hidin’, and it took those children six seconds to strip the lawn bare. Now we get to spend the next hour listenin’ to the sugar-crash tantrums while we wait for the ham to dry out. Honestly, the only thing I’m huntin’ for now is my spectator pumps so I can beat this crowd to the buffet before the rolls get cold.