Syria, Russia, Carter Page and the enemy-of-the-people press aren’t the only festering problems the Donald Trump administration would probably love to drop the Mother of All Bombs on. Another, more immediate flashpoint has Beltway veterans feeling unsure—once again!—about who’s really in charge. At stake—once again!—is this crew’s ability to so much as mimic a perfunctory respect for venerable American values.
We refer, of course, to the annual White House Easter Egg Roll, a tradition supposedly invented by First Lady Dolly Madison in 1814. Like a few things her husband invented—the Constitution, for instance—Mrs. M’s celebration is in trouble this year. The New York Times reported on Tuesday that the usual D.C. schoolkids haven’t been invited yet. Military bands have been hauled in to substitute for the A-list entertainers who normally get booked. Washing his hands of the whole thing Pontius Pilate-style, Trump himself will spend Easter at everybody’s favorite fountain of Christian humility, Mar-a-Lago.
That makes it more important than usual for us to know who’s going to be inside the bunny suit. Back in 2008, a then unknown Sean Spicer did the job for George W. Bush and Laura, who, to their credit, wouldn’t have dreamed of skipping the event. But this year, the White House Easter Bunny has a very good chance of being, however briefly, the most impressive, charismatic and dignified not-quite-human being to appear on the Executive Mansion’s grounds since Trump’s inaugural. Here are a few of our candidates for the big reveal.
She’ll have to be kidnapped, obviously—probably by Erik Prince’s old Blackwater goons, since she’d only do the job under duress. We all know how much she loathes and dreads Washington, although learning her husband isn’t actually on the premises could calm her down considerably. Her admirable worry about Barron doing the Home Alone bit in Trump Tower while she’s frantically semaphoring SOS with her oversized furry paws 200 miles away could be alleviated by giving him an audiobook called Kellyanne Conway Reads You Her Favorite Fairy Tales. Besides, if they’ve got any compassion at all, the Blackwater dudes won’t tell the First Lady until the last minute what her destination is or exactly what type of bunny costume is involved, letting her pathetically dream on until they remove the blindfold. Just like the rest of us, she’s always wanted to meet Hef.
Imagine how mopey she’s been lately. She’s out of the GOP’s limelight, Sarah Palin’s Gut-Shot Caribou Cookbook is tanking on Amazon and her kids haven’t beaten anybody to a pulp in months. On top of that, it must have been a real burn to get rejected for a post in Trump’s Cabinet on the grounds that she’s got too much government experience. Once Palin’s been reassured that it’s duck season, not rabbit season, she’ll probably be thrilled to traipse around the South Lawn in some mangy outfit borrowed from McLean High School’s production of Harvey, emitting muffled squeaks of “I can see Russiagate from here!” to uncomprehending, sullen tots. (In this scenario, the eggs haven’t shown up at all, which is awkward.) The downside is that she’ll undoubtedly quit the job midway through, but that’s our Sarah.
Why not? Not only has he had practice, but by now he’d probably give anything for a gig that lets him keep his face hidden. (That’s unless he’s too busy helping Ivanka work out the mascara ad for her new Holocaust Center cosmetics line: “When he looks at you three times, thank … Treblinka.”) Besides, if the kiddies turn on him, he can always claim later that it was really Melissa McCarthy inside the suit: “She’s the one you should have crucified, not me.”
Disney will almost certainly be on board with this one so long as the ritual gets renamed the White House Death Star Roll and he’s allowed to appear simply as Darth, his doomsday carapace augmented only by a pair of fluffy rabbit ears decorating the helmet. Trust us, nothing is more likely to make innocent schoolchildren squeal with delight than a gynormous, heavy-breathing cappucino machine in jackboots rumbling “I am your bunny” over and over as platoons of storm troopers hand out “Make The Empire Great Again” merch. If this goes over as well as we think it will, the White House will then feel emboldened to carry out its plan of privatizing ICE and putting him in charge.
Cellphone conversation picked up by the Deep State’s secret FISA wiretap and instantly transmitted to Obama’s secret Bond-villain headquarters under the Potomac:
“Mary Pat, guess where I am? The White House, baby! They finally found a job for me.”
“Honey, I can’t hear you very well. Are you wearing a suitcase over your head or something?”
“Um, not exactly.”
“Well, never mind. Will you be home for dinner? I’ve already killed the ox.”