You’re mummah. You’re a fluffy mummah. You have five pretty babbehs. They’re all widdwe chiwpeh babbehs, and you love them all. One is a pink pegasus filly with lavender fuzz where her mane and tail are starting to grow in, one is a yellow and blue earthie colt, one is a sky blue pegasus colt with bright green fuzz where his mane and tail are growing in, one is a fat purple and blue earthie filly like you, and the last is a green and orange unicorn colt, like your special friend.
You miss your special friend terribly. He was bringing back nummies for you while you were a soon-mummah, but a metal munsta gave him fowevuh sweepies just as he was entering the alley where you hid. You were so fat and heavy with tummeh babbehs that you couldn’t move to help him, and you had to cry for days looking at his nu-move body just a few feet away from you; the smell was awful, but having to look at him and the expression on his face every day was worse.
But then you had your babbehs and could move again, and you searched for a better safe place with more nummies so you could give your pretty babbehs the bestest miwkies. You wiggled under a big fence and found yourself in a place so beautiful and covered in green gwassies that you stared in awe. But it was too open and exposed, a birdy munsta could swoop down and steal your babbehs, and if another munsta saw you you wouldn’t have anywhere to run or hide. So you followed the perimeter of this beautiful gwassy place until you found some nice bushies to hide under. You weren’t really up to digging a den for the babbehs, after having biggest poopies and then walking so far with them, so you just scooped a shallow spot in the dirt, pulled out some of your fluff to make it into a soft nestie, and laid down for nappies with your babbehs.
Then the big, scary munsta came, making loud noisies, and woke up you and your babbehs. The munsta must have heard you crying, because the noise stopped and you could hear it rustling around in the bushies, trying to find you. You tried to shush your babbehs, but they kept chirping in fright from the loud noisies that woke them up.
Then the hoomin munsta found you and your babbehs. You screamed and begged for it to let you go, but it grabbed you just the same and took you and your babbehs into a small housie.
Then the hoomin munsta gave you bad wawas and you thought you would drown, but instead it made you smell pretty. The hoomin munsta dried you off with a big fuzzy not-fluff, then put your babbehs in the bad wawas.
“Nuuuu! Wawas bad fow babbehs! Nu huwt babbehs! Pweeeeaaaase!”
He just said some things you didn’t understand; you weren’t even sure they were words. But your babbehs came out of the wawa smelling pretty like you did, and soon they were dried off too and nestled in your fluff.
You were so relieved to have your babbehs back safe and sound!
But then the hoomin munsta took your babbehs one at a time and put pretty things around their necks and stuck them in a nestie full of crinkly green stuff. Then he took the nestie away with all your babbehs inside it and left you trapped in the small housie!
“Nuuuuuuu! Nu take babbehs! Dey tuu widdwe! Nee mummah an miwkies! Nuuuuuuuuu! Babbehs! Baaaabbeeeeehs!”
You’re Miles Farnsworth III, rich banker and all around sleazy, underhanded member of the 1%. You sip the last of your fifty year old scotch, then stick a Cuban cigar in your mouth and walk out of your study.
Your beautiful blonde trophy wife, twenty years younger than you and a former model, smiles at you in her silk pajamas, ignoring the smell of alcohol on your breath. She won’t give you shit about drinking so early in the day around the kids, but if you’d had the audacity to light up your cigar anywhere but your study or out on the porch she’d bitch and you’d never hear the end of it.
Your son, ten years old, and your daughter, eight years old, are also in their pajamas, bouncing up and down with joy. You bend at the knees and grin around your cigar as you meet them at eye level.
“Hey! Wanna see what the Easter Bunny left you?”
“YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAH!”
“Yay, Eastew bunny!”
You open the door to the living room and the kids are totally losing their shit at all the Easter decorations festooning the room. Pastel ribbons and paper eggs decorate the walls and ceiling, feberge eggs decorate the fireplace mantel (including one authentic feberge egg that had originally been a gift for the Russian Tsar), and baskets heaped high with colorful candy and chocolate rabbits.
The kids start to tear into their candy, but a sudden noise stops them.
Three baskets are on the table behind them. Each is filled with the fake plastic ‘grass’ every Easter basket is required by law to have, and a couple of festively painted eggs. The first basket has six yellow chicks in it, all nestled together for warmth, peeking through half-closed eyes sleepily. The second basket has four baby rabbits, all soft shades of brown and white, still asleep and similarly huddled together for warmth. The third basket, the noisy one, is filled with a riot of color, five fluffy foals huddling together and cheeping for their mother. Each baby animal, whether chick, rabbit, or fluffy, has a pastel ribbon tied into a bow around its neck.
Your son immediately tears into the candy, stuffing his face, and looking at the baby animals curiously. Your daughter bypasses the candy and grabs all three baskets of animal babies and tumps them out on the floor so she can start playing with them. After a while, your son joins in the play.
Baby chicks peep and waddle about awkwardly, and your son amuses himself by herding them back and forth. The bunnies hop around, nibbling on your daughter’s pajamas and making her giggle. The fluffy foals just lay in a fluff pile, hugging each other, and chirping incessantly. The noise is kind of annoying, but you tolerate it for the joy the animals bring your kids.
Your daughter picks up a pink foal with tiny wings and bounces it up and down, exclaiming, “she’s so pretty! And so soft!”
“Chirp! CHEEP! CHEEP! CHEEEEEEEEEEEEP!”
“Eeeeww! Daddy, it pooped on me!”
She quickly drops the foal back into the pile the others have made and runs to wash her hands. You send your son to follow her and get washed up for breakfast, then scoop all the animal babies into a basket together and tump them in the trash.
“Miles, really?”
“Well, they can’t keep them! You want a bunch of chickens running around the house clucking at all hours of the day? Fluffies shitting everywhere and screaming for linguini or whatever the hell it is they’re so obsessed with? The kids have had their fun, now let’s get rid of the damn things.”
“But the trash?”
“Who cares? They’re just animals. And I don’t need the little bastards making noise and stinking the place up when the CEO of MegaCorp comes over for negotiations. Enrique! Enrique!”
Your gardener pops out of the kitchen and you gesture at the trash can full of cheeping, frightened baby animals.
“Get rid of that, would you?”
“Si, Chingado.”
Your eyebrows wrinkle. You don’t mind the random Spanish that peppers his speech, but you don’t like not understanding terms he uses to apply to you.
“Enrique? Just what does that mean, anyway?”
“Chingado?”
“Yes.”
He shrugs as he lifts the chirping trash can and replies in his lazy idiom, “Joo know jefe means ‘boss’, si?”
“Yes.”
“Chingado is like dat, but more importante. Thee beeg boss. Like el presidente. Ees term of reespect for very eemportant, powerful man.”
“Huh. Ok. I was just curious. Take care of that, and take the rest of the day off.”
“Si, Chingado. Thank joo very much.”
Enrique disappears with the trash can full of annoying little shits and you step back into your study to pour yourself another glass of scotch. Lighting your cigar with a wooden match, you look out the window at the rolling acres of beautiful grass Enrique and his family tend for you and smile.
It’s good to be the king.
You’re Enrique. As soon as the boss is out of sight, you set the trash can down and scoop out the baby animals, counting to make sure you got them all before dumping the trash into the compactor. You set all the chirping, wriggling, upset babies into a laundry hamper and carry them out to the servant’s quarters.
The servant’s quarters are roughly the size of the boss’ living room, but they’re bigger and much nicer than the house you had in Mexico. It irritates you that he treats you like the wetback trash that used to mow his lawn and tend his garden for him; you’re not like them. You immigrated legally. You have an education. You don’t drink, do drugs, or prostitute your daughters. You’re not a thief, and you’re not a parasite living on welfare. You worked hard to immigrate, saving your money, learning English, studying and putting yourself through school, and once you got here and earned your citizenship, which took many years of patience and sweat, blood, and tears, you worked harder still. You worked hard and earned a reputation as one of the best lawn care specialists and gardeners in town, and when this prime job became available you jumped at the opportunity, because you knew a better one might not come along.
You’re not rich, but you have a nice house you don’t pay rent on, your children can go to school and hopefully one day go to college (the first in your family to do so) and have better lives than you and your long-suffering wife Maria.
You can’t stand it when the boss has the television or radio on, because all he listens to is political stuff, and half of it is about the Democrats or Republicans trying to give free citizenship to the illegal aliens in exchange for votes. Pendejos! You struggled your entire adult life to earn your citizenship the right way, followed all the rules, and worked hard to EARN what you have! These chingada madres sneak across the border illegally, get jobs under the table, violate every law on the books, most of them are on welfare (thanks to identity fraud or political pandering to illegals), many of them are gang members or loosely affiliated with the drug cartels, and every neighborhood they occupy turns into the same fucking third-world hellhole you worked so hard to get away from! And those cara de mierdas want to just GIVE them citizenship and all the benefits that come with it for free as a reward for breaking the law and spitting on the culture they’re sponging off of! It pisses you off. It’s an insult to you and everyone else who did things the right way.
And your boss, that fat hijo de gran puta, is one of the bastards. He treats you like an illiterate ignorant just because you have an accent and occasionally slip into Spanish, and thinks you’re lazy, dishonest, and a thief like the criminals he wants to give amnesty to! Chupa verga un burro! The man has no heart. You look at the wriggling, helpless, frightened babies in the hamper and shake your head. Well, one problem will soon be fixed.
Unlike the boss, you only got your children a little candy for Easter. You don’t want them to get sucked into the commercialized consumerism that the holiday has become. Your wife, Maria, is cooking up a wonderful breakfast and your mouth waters as you smell the papas fritas and chorizo wafting out of the house. You set the hamper down and start with the chicks.
All six are clean, despite having gone into the trash, and you quickly remove the ribbons from around their necks. You were very careful to tie the ribbons into perfect bows that wouldn’t tighten around their checks and choke them, and you made them easy to remove as well. You deposit the chicks into a shoe box the boss’ wife discarded and look at them proudly.
Five will grow up into fat little hens, living in your shed, and provide your family with fresh eggs. The sixth will grow up into a fine rooster and give you more hens in the future. When the boss told you he wanted chicks and rabbits for Easter, you took his credit card to a farm supply store and found what YOU wanted as well.
Next, you scoop out the four baby rabbits, brushing a piece of candy wrapper off of one. These are mohairs, three female, one male, and you can card their fur to make soft, beautiful clothing from and enjoy fresh rabbit meat, just like your mother used to cook for you. You remove the ribbons from their necks and stick them in a cigar box.
Finally, you pull out the five fluffy foals, all of them chirping desperately. You found them and their mother hiding under the shrubs while you were trimming them and, struck by spontaneous inspiration, you snagged them, cleaned them up, and stuck the foals into a basket as decoration. Their bright colors matched the commercialized Easter decorations and the boss thought they were a brilliant addition. Four of the five are covered in their own feces, and you carry them into the work shed where their mother has been locked up to wash them off.
“BABBEHS! PWEASE GIF BABBEHS! DEY TUU WIDDWE, NEE DEY MUMMAH AN MIWKIES AN WUV! HUUHUUHUUU! PWEEEEEAAAASE, GIF BABBEHS!”
You pat her on the head, which doesn’t seem to calm her any, and wash the foals again. You leave the ribbons on them and give them back to their mother, who immediately gives suck to her babies. She tugs at the ribbons around their necks with her teeth curiously, but desists when you flick her nose. A larger ribbon, carefully tied so it doesn’t get any tighter on her, goes around her neck while she nurses and she scratches at it with one hoof, whining about how she doesn’t like it.
“Hey fluffy, joo wan a new home?”
“Nyu hum?”
She looks at you in confusion, then suddenly perks up.
“Nyu daddeh?”
“Si! My wife and cheeldren, dey will love joo very much! We weel give joo mucho love, and hugs, and yummy food! Joo like?”
“Yeh! Fank yoo, nyu daddeh!”
She looks down at her foals, all of them starting to nod off from a combination of full bellies and their strange adventure in the house, and nudges them excitedly.
“Babbehs! Fwuffies haf nyu daddeh an nyu hum!”
You set the foals on her back and she sings happily as she follows you from the shed into your house; you stop to pick up the boxes full of chicks and bunnies on the way.
Your children love the new animals and promise to care for them responsibly. Maria smiles as she sets the table, and after the chicks and rabbits goes into their new hutches you set down a bowl of fried rice and papas fritas for the fluffies and sit at the table with your family. You nod toward the crucifix over the fireplace, and your entire family folds their hands together to pray over a wonderful meal.
“Let us remember what thees day is truly about.”
“Happy Easter, papa.”
“Happy Easter, Lupa. Let us pray.”
“Chirp!”