I know what you’re thinking, and yes, airports do indeed have holding cells. I imagine they routinely contain those passengers who live for a little aerial chaos- those who sow the seeds of cruising altitude rebellion.

I never thought this cell would hold a man whose chief motivation in his task…nay, his life, was Easter joy.

All I wanted was for the children of the airport to have some innocent fun as they hunted for day-old dyed eggs. Yes, there were things required to make this happen, things that on a normal day would probably make other people look twice.

Can I pay bail with frequent flyer miles?

Did I buy a one-way ticket after uttering the phrase “cheapest one you’ve got” while cradling several duffel bags worth of hard-boiled eggs? Yes. Did I thank the ticketing agent while also clutching the head of the bunny costume I wore? Sure.

And I’d do it again.

Small price to pay for Easter confection consumption

These are the actions not of a madman plagued by delusion, but of a man committed to bettering lives in one of the most miserable places known to humanity- the airport, and I will never apologize. If a spectacle is what it takes to put a smile on the faces of those who hurtle through space and time as they defy gravity and the very laws of God herself, then so be it.

You’re fine buckling 150 people into a sardine can and launching it into the sky, but I can’t hide a few eggs for children to find as they wait to be locked in a flying cylinder of misery, or as they hobble toward baggage claim post flight? Who made you this way?

This next part goes out to airport security. Not counting the eggs I pelted you with in my attempt to escape, I was utterly defenseless- the tasing was gratuitous and unnecessary. Your mothers must be very proud.

I was not in the way of the agents- they clearly loved having me there to smooth over inevitable seat squabbles by passing out Peeps before boarding. I had no idea that the bird marshmallows were made on equipment that touched peanuts, but that kid had an Epi-pen. It was fine. If he didn’t know it was safe then why did he eat it? 3-year-olds are more than capable of making their own decisions in regards to what they put in their bodies, and frankly, I’d argue if you’re living a life sans Peeps, you’re already dead.

That group of children was running in excitement to find the eggs, not fleeing in terror as I hopped from gate to gate shoving hard-boiled treasures in seats and ticketing counter corners. Their parents made it weird with their invasive inquiries, not me. “Who even are you?” “Why are you here?” “Was this organized by the airport?” “Are the eggs supposed to smell like that?” “Is Chris Hansen about to tell us we’re on Dateline?”

Silence you hobgoblin thieves of Easter joy!

You say “rotten”, I say strategically aged

Also, Hudson News LITERALLY sells hard-boiled eggs, so the fact that they were the ones who made some of the biggest stink about…well… the supposed stink? I find their blatant hypocrisy repugnant, and in addition to a lawyer I demand Mr. or Mrs. Hudson extend a personal apology in the form of 47 bags of Combos, preferably pizza flavored. Lastly, I was simply trying to hide an egg in the register drawer and the $50 fell out, it could have happened to anyone.

In addition to my immediate release, I think you all need to take a good hard look at yourselves and your choices; who is the real monster in this cell with us? Is it me, the bearer of mildly rotten eggs in the name of frivolity? Sure, you’d like that wouldn’t you- the easy to spot villain with a foul stench wrapped up in a strangely unnerving furry costume that yes, some have said is vaguely reminiscent of the costume worn by the murderer in a Bunnyman horror film. I’m not here to question why my bunny suit was on sale (the misalignment of the beady eyes most likely)- I was far too focused on spreading Easter cheer among the toiling traveling masses.

I hope you’re pleased with yourselves, ladies and gentlemen. For today, you have thwarted a cotton-tailed harbinger of hope. Woe be to you who impedes the return of my costume to my person, and best of luck for I have no idea where I hid all those eggs. I hope with every reeking find, you remember I didn’t hide them for you. Never for you. Hoppy freaking Easter.

Love always,

The Easter Bunny of Terminal 3