Dear Diver,

What should I do with all of my leftover hard-boiled Easter eggs? My three kids made a big fuss about boiling and dyeing eggs for the holiday, and now I’m sitting on a dozen red, green and purple eggs. My husband won’t eat them, and egg salad has never been popular up here. What to do?

– Heather in Hesperus

Dear Heather,

Quite the conundrum you’ve conjured up. It seems you, like so many of your ilk, find yourself over run by the after effects of celebrating Jesus’ triumphant return as the Easter Bunny – tiny pieces of discarded foil accompanied by strand after strand of fake grass strewn about the living room floor; your children tearing around the house jabbering foolish nonsense and looking like the Tasmanian devil during the peak of a mean crack bender with just a pinch of angel dust thrown in to keep the eyes wide and the colors bright as they creep up the walls. These things tend to happen when children are served up a heavy dose of pure uncut American high fructose in the shape of fluffy little bunnies. And to top it all off, you’re left with a useless basket of psychedelic eggs. First and foremost do not, under any circumstances, allow your husband to eat them. The consequences could be dire. Lord knows the poor chap has suffered enough intestinal maladies after all the green eggs ’n’ ham and green beer you shoved down his gullet last month. My suggestion for the eggs, profit from them. In the not to distant future, a bizarre charade called Burning Man will descend on the Nevada desert with a disturbing horde of drug-crazed freaks riding awkwardly large bikes and setting things on fire during bouts of psychedelic freak outs – the perfect clientele. Calmly approach a group of these wild-eyed freaks and present your “magic” basket of eggs. Inform them that the eggs were made using an old recipe Ken Kesey came up with during the “Electric Kool-Aid test” days. You’ll be able to get $20 a pop easy, or start a bidding war and watch your wallet really start to bulge. If the plan fails, which is highly unlikely, put all the eggs on the end of long strings and set them on fire while you swing them madly around your body. I believe the discipline is called poi, and it’s hours of entertainment for the drug-crazed freaks. Beside what’s your other option, bedding down with a gassy husband? Enjoy the extra money and don’t forget the sunscreen. The Nevada sun can be brutal.

– Cazart, 2Legit Logan Austin

Dear Diver,

What’s up with professional wrestling? Are people actually sustaining pile-drivers and taking folding chairs over the head and surviving? Shouldn’t there be a little blood on the mat when the Undertaker head-butts Steve Austin? Does anyone out there believe this stuff is real? Help me out.

– On the mat in Durango

Dear “On the mat in Durango,"

Is it real? By far the most frequently asked question in the world of sports entertainment. Instead of getting caught up in some semantical argument about the definition of “real,” which could turn into a two-hour monologue on what the definition of “is,” is, let’s get down to brass tacks. Pro Wrestling is not “real” per say, it’s scripted. Think of wrestling as a play or live-action movie. Or better yet, a melodrama where wrestlers work together to portray a story. But this is no ordinary play or movie. Wrestlers don’t have stunt men. No one was there to finish the match for Triple H when his quad detached from his knee. Nor was there a stunt double for Stone Cold when the late great Owen Hart botched a pile driver that ended in spinal-neck fusion. Let’s face it, there is no way to pretend to hit someone with a metal chair or drive another man through a table. Sure, there might be ways to do these things that will be a little less painful. Now I know you’re asking, “where’s the blood?” More often than not, blood’s the result of a razor blade. Wrestlers cut themselves for dramatic effect, leaving puddles of real blood all over the ring. So “On the Mat,” the next time some skeptic asks if wrestling is fake, simply smile and slash their forehead with a razor, clunk them on the head with a steel chair and throw them through a table. Then reply “No, it’s scripted.” I think they’ll feel the difference.

– Sincerely, 2Legit Logan Austin