Is the tattooed lady fixing eggs? Eggs? I mean, it’s Easter Sunday isn’t it? Problem is I’ve always had serious reservations about Easter, and the all too blatant attempt to combine a really gruesome form of Roman execution, and the near-prehistoric sacrifice of the boy king, with a good old pagan fertility rite, and then all the eggs and bunnies, lambs, chocolate, and confusion. Even as a kid, I found myself unable to buy the idea of Jesus coming to Earth and dying horribly to pay for our sins. It made no sense. It sounded like God was short circuiting his own laws and edicts and making his own technical loopholes. Why not just forget the whole impossible patriarchal judgment bit in the first place and stick to designing quasars and hedgehogs? On the other hand, in the illusion of Sunday morning, when all things are possible, the tattooed lady might be deep frying Cadbury’s cream eggs. (See below.) Is it true they scream when you drop them into the hot fat?
Click here for Elvis (a symbolic boy king if ever there was one)
The secret word is
Yolk
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