5 Times the White House Easter Bunny Asked To See My Papers and Ass

This year, I had the unfortunate privilege of securing a press pass to the 2026 White House Easter Egg Roll. I had never possessed any intention of actually attending the event, but mushroom chocolates have a way of taking you to unexpected places.

While the celebration was overall very entertaining, the evening presented one challenge that I could’ve done without. I was, in a word, deeply disturbed by the official White House Easter Bunny’s incessant requests to see my papers and ass.

“You mind showing me your papers, pal?”

What started as an innocuous run-in at the White House Bunny Bar Presented by Rolling Rock came to a screeching halt. The Easter Bunny cocked his head, awaiting my reply. After recovering from the shock of the moment, and not without some huffing and groaning, I presented my press pass and Police State-Certified RealID to the wine-stained mascot. He was not satisfied.

“And while you’re at it, let’s see that ass.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Already this bastard is pushing his luck, and now he wants to see my ass? A line had to be drawn. I frantically scanned my surroundings, but found no help among the blotto bureaucrats infesting the proceedings. Thinking quickly, I faked a phone call from my editor and hurried away. I thought I was safe. I was wrong.

“Hey, seems like we got cut off earlier. Did you wanna show me that ass?”

Now, I was beginning to consider worrying. Has he been following me around? We talked like 2 hours ago and now he just happens to run into me during Secretary Leavitt’s reading of The Lorax? I didn’t even respond. I couldn’t. I just brushed off the remark and made way for the Meta AI Creativity and Assimilation Station.

“Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met before. I am the Easter Bunny, and I’d like to see your papers and ass.”

This time, the ardent hare employed a surprising strategy. The bunny seemed to believe that using kindness, and pretending we had never interacted prior, would be more likely to curry my goodwill. He was mistaken.

“If I make this putt, you have to show me your papers and ass.”

I punched him. I didn’t care that there were three families waiting behind us at the Monumental Mini Golf, courtesy of the President’s Council on Fucking Off and Playing Golf. Plus, Secretary of Drunk Hatemongering Pete Hegseth had decked six interns already, so the move had Executive Precedent.

I saw a lot less of the godforsaken rabbit after that, which pleased me greatly. I finished off my afternoon, undisturbed, exercising my first amendment rights to scribble “bella ciao” on some unsuspecting kids’ beautifully-dyed eggs.