At 9:02 a.m. on Easter Sunday, a bunny hops down Madison Avenue. He’s a little bigger than most of the typical rabbits spotted on Grounds. His floppy, fuzzy ears bump some low-hanging tree branches as he meanders down the road. He dresses differently compared with most of the furry mammals around Charlottesville too. Unlike Mr. Jefferson’s squirrels, who are in a constant state of streaking the Lawn, this bunny dresses like a true Virginia Gentleman. He dons a pastel polka-dot bow tie with seersucker pants and a matching vest (clearly no one told him Foxfield happens in April). Most noticeably, however, he carries a bulky woven basket – not a North Face backpack – filled with colorful candies. Like a true Wahoo, though, his basket features a monogram with the initials “E.B.” printed in swirly orange script.

E.B. skips down the road, appearing quite puzzled, because he sees no Easter eggs, children playing, or even people awake. He came here because he saw a street of large houses with colorful objects littering the lawns, so he assumed he would find lots of toddlers eager to begin an Easter egg hunt. Undeterred, E.B. saunters over to one of the houses to investigate. He discovers the bright objects are actually cans and cups of foul smelling liquid and that giant letters in a foreign language hang from the roof. Uncertain of what to do, E.B. thumps on the door.

After the second thump, the door cracks open and E.B. cannot believe his eyes. He stares in awe at a lanky man in sandals with a scruffy beard. E.B. knows it’s Eastertime and miracles are possible, but he cannot fathom that he is encountering Jesus Christ in the flesh.

That is, until E.B. hears, “Dude, why is there a rabbit in a bowtie sitting in our yard?” followed by “Shut up, Dave. Just sleep it off” as the door slams in E.B.’s face.

As E.B. processes that who he thought was Jesus turned out to just be an unkempt guy named Dave, he decides he ought to get moving if he wants to stay on schedule. E.B plops a grassy green egg bursting with caramels, chocolate, and marshmallow goodness on the house’s porch before bouncing on to his next stop.

E.B. thinks the home next door looks more promising. It still features strange big letters, but the yard is clean and even includes a bench and flowers. E.B. spots no odd cans or Jesus doppelgangers, so he jumps to the door and thumps away. Following the clicking of heels – or iPhones? – the door swooshes open.

“That bunny has on a bowtie and I can’t even!”

“This has to go on my Snapstory!”

E.B. gawks at a row of the prettiest pastel Easter presents he has ever received: a line of leggy blondes in patterned pink dresses. He sheepishly hands each of them an Easter egg, blushing so deeply that his cheeks now match the vibrant hue of the girls’ dresses.

“Thanks babe,” one girl tells E.B., “but I don’t want to feel bloated before brunch!”

E.B. has no idea what this gibberish phrase “brunch” means, but he has by now accepted that the people in this neck of the woods have no conception of typical Easter activities. Like a true UVA student, E.B. abandons his Easter mission in favor of the mythical promise of brunch. He drops his basket at the door, loosens his bow tie, and heads to brunch with two girls on each arm.