I Hate Easter

Did I seriously write about my experience with a shiny Munna in Pokemon Black?
Yes. Yes I did.

Wrote this on May 11, 2011.

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[I Hate Easter]

That little bastard brought about the purge.

I will always remember that day. The trainer accessed the PC with a wide grin slapped on his face. He logged in and took a glance at the eight of us sitting in the box. I wonder what he saw through his eyes? Eight weak bobbing flower-stained pink blobs? Numbers to increase probability? Failed hatchlings left to be forever alone? I can assure you, reader, that he did not see us for who we really were: the potential dream-come-true for a starting child.

We are Pokemon, not spoiled berries. You can't just throw us away.

But he did.

We all turned our heads at the sparkling yellow blob-of-a-Munna and just stared. His green flowers created a fairly nice blend against his yellow body, surely less embarrassing for a male compared to the average Munna. And his name was Easter.

Now--what the hell? You don't just go around naming Munnas stupid shit like "Flower" and "Buffs" and then pull a holiday name out of your ass. Nor do you start assigning random "people" names and mainly hand out ones considered stupid by sniggering teenagers. Like my own name, Gilbert. You just don't go around doing that.

I'm going off on a tangent. Anyway.

So the trainer gently placed this sparkly bright mess in the box (carefully named "MUNNA," mind you) right next to the cutie pie named Hope. Hope. Yeah, kid, Hope sure became a useful tool for you.

Again. So he placed this strange Munna in the PC, and he flat out started wailing and flailing his arms around. He flat out started giggling and squealing with a brightly red face. He flat out started swaying and clapping his hands like an amused human baby.

Hey, I may have a pink body, purple flowers, and eyelashes--a look shouting GIRLY--but at least I don't act like a fuckin' pansy like that teen boy. And I doubt a girl would act that way over a Pokemon, either. What the hell, man?

Then the now nine of us watched the trainer calm down and look at his current two eggs. He shrugs, shoots a smile aimed for fuckin' Easter, and leaves the Pokemon Center.

Easter just looked at us, blinking with his newborn eyes. I can assure you, reader, that none of us talked to that Munna, not even Hope, who probably aided (somehow?) the shiny Munna's existence. He gave off the aura of the fuckin' plague, I tell you!

Minutes later, the trainer came back and plopped two more Munnas in the box, one whose name as FRIDAY. WHAT THE HELL. THAT'S WORSE THAN A HOLIDAY FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.

The trainer yawned and said goodnight to us with an additional wink for fuckin' Easter. Because riding around a city on a bike watching miracles happen is serious business. I remember wishing he would never come back.

But of course with Mister Look-At-Me-I'm-So-Shiny-Kiss-My-Ass, the trainer was bound to run back like a human child at a freakshow.

More than twelve hours later of silence among my comrades (and shiny-pants), the trainer returned. WITH MORE EGGS. What, it wasn't good enough having one special snowflake, he needed more now?

And at that point my face burned red, my beady red eyes glaring at that son of a bitch. I saw his plan now! He was using us! And to feed his sick satisfaction he was giving us even more stupid names (I am not kidding you, he named two Munnas "Rebecca" and "Black." That's just wrong, man!) and especially tortured the males. Yeah yeah, we're hilarious because we are pink. Real men wear pink.

For the next hour he plopped off more ludicrously named Munnas (for examples, "Pansy" and "Hilbert" and "Helga" and "Daffodil"). In that hour, he managed to fill all thirty box slots.

And that's when the bastard trainer finally did it.

He gathered us into Poke Balls and sealed us away from the world. And goddamn, those balls are hard to get used to.

In a matter of minutes the sun hit my face again, and I floated above the ground next to twenty-nine weak bobbing flower-stained pink blobs. My little eyes widened as the trainer held a small frown on his face. A small dose of sympathy poked me, but then the trainer waved his hands way from us. Tilting a bit, I turned to see where we were.

The Dreamyard. The home of Munnas.

I knew it I knew it I knew it I KNEW IT. Do you see now that the names I called him were true? That he's an ungrateful brat that only wants the best, which are apparently oddities and rare mutations?

I snapped.

I ran (above ground) to the opening and into the wild grass, little beads of tears flying out. I heard the whimpers of the other Munnas behind me as we all stumbled into the grass. Other Munnas roaming about glanced at us and just blinked, but they didn't attack us. I didn't care if I was crying, I was a fucking baby at level one! If anything, I wanted to be surrounded by mama and papa and bros and sisses. That's what infants want, right?

But nope, that trainer was forcing mama to sleep with a German duck-thing and popping out babies like heated corn kernels. To think my dear mama Musharna's children were forced away! I remember crying myself to sleep for days knowing she never saw her babies and her babies never saw their mama.

Before I head off with my twenty-nine strong brothers and sisters to raid Striaton City in search of our ex-trainer, I will make this easy and sum up the story of my life up until now and surely for many years after today.

I hate Easter.