Biting, scraping, and clawing for an opportunity to win a pair of diamond earrings at the annual Alpenrose Easter Egg Hunt, these women didn't appear to have missed many meals. 

othing inspires human misery like the holidays.  In November, we endure a procession of distasteful relatives on Thanksgiving.  We drain our bank accounts in preparation for December 25.  We risk death or paralysis when our neighbors drink too much and get behind the wheel to celebrate the New Year.  Easter is another strange occasion.  The rise of Jesus Christ from the dead would appear to have nothing in common with bunnies and eggs, but somehow the concepts are married.  Some historians claim the holiday was inspired by Pagan fertility rituals.  How we arrived at Easter is probably irrelevant, since candy baskets, chocolate rabbits, and dressing up for church will remain in vogue for the foreseeable future.

The annual Easter Egg Hunt at Alpenrose Dairy Farm was a sea of pain last Sunday.  Hundreds of miserable families braved parking hassles, 45-minute lines, and dreary weather for the opportunity to collect roughly a dozen dime-size chocolate Easter eggs.  We could have purchased a fifty cent chocolate bar at a local convenience store but were duped into joining the human zoo of families who came to Alpenrose in search of Easter fun.  "The stakes are high and the atmosphere is frenzied," according to an Alpenrose Dairy promotional leaflet, "So come join us for one of the biggest and most anticipated Easter Egg Hunts west of the Mississippi."

My godchildren Ashley, age 6, and her brother Ashton, age 4, were underwhelmed.  We missed the initial Easter Egg Hunt for children aged three to five when we could not find parking and were forced to walk roughly half a mile to the main complex.

The so-called “hunt” offered little suspense.  Thousands of tiny chocolate eggs were scattered onto a field and instantly retrieved by participating children.  The hunts were scheduled for 10:30am, 11:30am, and 12:30pm.  If you had children in more than one age category, you were forced to cool your heels for an hour or two in anticipation of the next event.

Men who were happy or satisfied with their lives before fatherhood often find themselves wondering what went wrong.  These men participated in a different type of Egg Hunt, something we associate less with Easter than with birthdays.

Since each egg race lasted less than five minutes, we invested 150 minutes—including time spent walking back and forth from the car—for ten minutes of entertainment.  With longer wait times than Disneyland, the Alpenrose Dairy Easter Egg Hunt was an unqualified disaster.

A Kiss May Be Grand
The mid-morning Egg Hunt excluded children, and was open only to mothers.  The participants were mostly middle-aged women, lured by the prospect of discovering a "special" chocolate egg they could redeem for a pair of diamond earrings.  The sight of several hundred slightly overweight women getting on their hands and knees to search for a diamond confirmed my worst suspicions about human nature.  Amazingly, no fist fights broke out, but visible bruises and bite marks were in abundance.  For anyone keeping score at home, behavior like this is why communism failed.

My Pretty Pony
To kill time between events, we visited with the ponies at the Alpenrose stables.  The stench of animal manure told us Easter had arrived.  Three lifeless ponies were trapped behind a barbed wire fence, waiting for the occasional feed bag that broke up the dreariness of their day.  We encouraged the ponies to approach us so we could pet them.  "Here pony, pony," called Ashton, whose previous experience with animal communication included cats, dogs, and a chance encounter with Lars Larson.  The pony obeyed his command and slowly approached.  A sign was posted on an adjacent wall that read "Warning: Ponies May Bite" in large red letters.  The ponies seemed gentle enough, but the warning put fear and doubt in our minds, prompting us to move away from the stable.  The pony stared at us longingly as we walked away, the look on his face communicating loneliness and despair.  "Free me," his eyes called out, "Remove me from this prison."  At the time of this writing, the pony is awaiting word on a potential pardon from Governor Kulongoski.

The Scary Rabbit
Adding fear to misery, someone in a giant bunny suit was patrolling the grounds.  Rabbits are traditionally furry, cuddly, and cute.  Despite their sex drive, they are innocuous creatures. Not this bunny.  More than a handful of children took one look at the rabbit and began to cry.  Why were they sobbing, you ask?  Were these children hungry?  Tired after waiting around all day for the next Egg Hunt to launch?  Cranky after a morning spent in a chilly, unfamiliar environment?  These are all possibilities.  We have to tread carefully here to avoid being sued, but my subjective assessment is that any child who greeted the bunny and began to cry did so because the bunny was extremely scary looking, with a giant buck tooth designed to rip apart human flesh.  If I had a shotgun, the bunny might never have left the dairy alive.

Ashton took one look at the cotton-tailed monster and let out a scream so blood curdling that years of therapy will not erase the memory.  My godson was traumatized.  While sobbing, he let his entire body go limp, not unlike the peace protesters downtown who tied up traffic a few weeks ago.  I carried him out of the Dairy, slung over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.  As I put him in the car, he drooled all over my leather jacket.  I was coated in phlegm and saliva, another reward for attending the Alpenrose Easter Egg Hunt.

Our confrontation with the rabbit changed our lives forever.  The children discarded their Trix cereal.  Ashley tossed her hardback copy of the Adventures of Peter Cottontail.  Every hip-hop album in my record collection was donated to Goodwill.  Last night, I turned on a Warner Brothers cartoon and found myself rooting for Elmer Fudd.

The Death March
The only thing scarier than the bunny this weekend was the expression on the faces of several dozen fathers who clearly did not want to be at Alpenrose.  Some men are not ready to be parents.  After a few minutes of pleasure, they find themselves grounded for two decades.  Life can be cruel.  One father, who bore an astonishing resemblance to Fred Flinstone, was pushing a baby carriage along a path while his daughter screamed and cried.  He appeared to have a World War II era Japanese soldier prodding him along with a bayonet.  He moved very slowly, any sign of joy completely exorcised from his body.  The scene recalled photos of American prisoners of war who participated in the Bataan Death March.  Another father, probably in his early twenties, was clearly not cut out to be a dad.  He snapped at his two young children repeatedly, though his speech was obscured by multiple piercings on his lips.  Metal rings lined his upper and lower mouth, creating a de facto speech impediment.  In a moment of self-loathing, he apparently opted to mutilate himself.  Men who were happy or satisfied with their lives before fatherhood often find themselves wondering what went wrong.  These men participated in a different type of Egg Hunt, something we associate less with Easter than with birthdays.