I know everyone’s busy complaining about what they gave up for Lent (see my column from last week) but I think we are all really missing the point here.

No I’m not going to get, preachy on you. Jesus is my home-boy, but that’s not really your business.

The point of Lent comes in packs of four.

It’s Peeps.

Screw Girl Scout cookies. You can take your Samoas out of my face you snot-nosed brats. Those things are just gateway drugs. Tagalongs are to marijuana as Peeps are to heroin, and I’m only doing the hard stuff.

My life will end up like “Trainspotting.” I’ll be hung over the toilet like Ewan McGregor, ruing the day I bought some blue Peeps in that back alleyway.

Wouldn’t it be awesome if during this time of year, Peeps were just everywhere? They should be as readily accessible as water or No. 2 pencils.

I can’t imagine a greater night than sitting at the bar at Bogie’s enjoying some beer and Marshmallow Peeps. Jack could slide me another Bud Light and we could laugh and play chubby bunny as we watch people dance on stage to “Toxic.”

Unless, of course, the urban legend is true — then I don’t know if I could tempt fate that way. If Coke and Pop Rocks will kill you, imagine what beer and sugar-covered marshmallow poultry could do to you.

I would imagine it would look like some of those films from Hiroshima, where the entire world is demolished. There is probably some heinous chemical in those things that is only released when they come in contact with alcohol. Scientists have been praying for years that no one would be dumb or drunk enough to mix Peeps and beer, but they never factored me into that equation.

Or maybe, you just turn into a peep.

I can’t say that would really be that bad. I mean think of the pros here. You’re covered in granulated sugar — how great of a party trick is that? You can just lick your arm and it’s Easter morning, unless of course you are diabetic, in which case this whole column does not really apply to you.

Plus, if I was a giant marshmallow bird I wouldn’t have to date, and considering my success rate in the man department, this could be a huge draw to turning myself into a seasonal candy.

I would flap my marshmallow wings and live a more carefree lifestyle. I would probably still go to class because then people could say things like “Do you have class with the marshmallow chicken? She got an A on her paper, but I think it was just because she was a marshmallow chicken.”

But most of all, if I was a marshmallow chicken, I would still go to Bogie’s, because it’s the greatest bar of all time.