In honour of the torture that I put my mother through each Easter, I have spent many seconds composing something worthy of her ire:
All around the burning bush
The heathens chased the Jesus
They tacked him up but three days in
Pop! goes the Jesus
Poor Mothra. Every year she falls victim to my retelling of the same old jokes, never remembers the punchline and is suitably horrified when I relate the following:
What did Jesus say while he was up on the cross?
Get my flats, these spikes are killing me.
And on and on.
I am a bad son. I'm good with that though.