Well, Easter is nearly upon us. I can tell because one of the supermarket aisles is now unduly pasteled.

It's not so much that I was "raised Catholic" as that a few charming attempts were made to inculcate me in the ways of a preposterous ancient cult and then abandoned in exhausted futility. My parents' religiousness was a little on the perfunctory side, so all I really remember is a little clammy iconography here, short-lived catechism there. I was a lil handful in Sunday school, for those few months I was made to go. I remember lots of rote memorizing of verses, and, bafflingly, the ceaseless construction of dioramas of bible scenes. For some reason my artistic creations weren't fully appreciated, especially when I depicted Jesus rampaging through the Garden of Gethsemane on a plastic Brontosaurus. Nothing cures a moment of spiritual doubt like riding an angry dinosaur.

On Easter, we joyously celebrate the risen Christ by pointlessly hiding and then finding boiled chicken ova garishly painted like squat tiny whores and placing them in wicker baskets, while simultaneously fleeing in terror from a giant anthropomorphic rodent. Makes perfect sense to me!