Okay, so every Easter, my family does this thing called the Egg Roll Royale — and no, it’s not normal. Basically, after brunch, we all grab a hard-boiled egg, decorate it with whatever we can find (we're talking glitter, googly eyes, fake mustaches, whatever), and then we race them down the driveway.
But here’s the catch: you can’t touch your egg. You have to blow on it. Like, full-on, face-on-the-ground, puff-your-cheeks blowing.
It turns into this ridiculous scene of adults and kids crawling on the asphalt, getting lightheaded, chasing runaway eggs down the street. One year, Uncle Jeff’s egg rolled into the neighbor’s yard and their dog ate it. He still claims he won by "technical disqualification."
Winner gets the "Crown of Yolks" — it’s literally just an old Burger King crown we taped plastic eggs to.
And yes, we take it way too seriously. Like, there are official brackets. People train. It's a thing.
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