schplog

Ever had a mad craving for an omelet? I came home from work the other night absolutely famished. And I’d been thinking about that damn omelet all day. How I was going to slice up some chives and sautee some mushrooms and make me a big ole piece of toast to go with it. I started pulling out spices and chili peppers and everything when I realized there weren’t any eggs in the house because my inconsiderate roommate uses them all up and then conveniently forgets to pick up more.

So I got on my bike and rode like a crazed, muttering, egg-obsessive lunatic towards the store and when I got there they were just closing. I yelled “My eggs! I need just three eggs! Pleeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaase!”, but it totally didn’t help because like I said, they were closing already and didn’t care.

After my temper tantrum was over, I got off my bike and crossed the street. I heard a noise and then I noticed a window opening four stories up from an apartment building and a rope came down with a basket attached. The basket was slowly lowered down to street level. I couldn’t actually see anyone at the window but I knew there was a message for me. When I picked up the basket there were three beautiful eggs in it. And there was writing on the eggs. One of them said “just”, one said “for” and one said “you”.

So I yelled thanks and went home and made the best &^%$#@! omelet you ever had.

Dude, talk about Deus Eggs Machina.

Why did the chicken cross the road?

To network with the chickens on the other side.

(She’s an eggstrovert)

My great-aunt makes this totally over-the-top egg salad with about a thousand ingredients. Pickles, bean sprouts, marshmallows, bread crumbs, bacon bits, cabbage, you name it. Some people think it’s too much, and they’re right. But she doesn’t care. So what, is what she thinks. Life is short. Live a little.

Who cares if it’s a little eggsessive?

Word on the street is:

Party-hard eggnog molotov cocktails are all the rage this season.

They’re totally eggs-plosive.

Back in the olden days it used to be that eggs (or was it chickens?) were tremendously costly and only consumed on special occasions.

Hence the old-timey proverb:

A young hen is quite the bargain,
an omelet is worth the eggs-pence,
but chicken fricassee is just plain eggs-travagant

What kind of egg salad does one eat at a sunrise picnic on a plateau in Mongolia with a beautiful wandering South American princess who, stricken with amnesia, does not recollect that sharing a woven tablecloth with you and your pet python is actually beneath her station?

Eggsotic

My cousin Roberta made a holiday to the castle in the hopes of seeing the king and bringing him an offering of some eggs from the farm house. She had great anxiety that the king would not deign to receive such a lowly gift from a humble farm girl. She needn’t have worried. The king was so afraid of commoners bearing gifts that he had attempted to flee despite warnings from his advisors to stay — and actually turned into a pillar of salt, so she didn’t have to curtsy or converse with him at all.

Though she did deposit the eggs at the door, bow in his general direction and remark humbly that he seemed most egg-salted.

If one were to more closely examine the blithe yet not unpleasing discussion of the increasingly pivotal role of the Egg within the postcolonial hegemony offered by Friedman et al, the infrastructural convivialities of which cannot be divulged at present but which shed something resembling luminescence, if you will, on the formerly predominant historiographical discourse on the topic at hand, it would gradually become clear that a great need and desire have emerged that justify the taking of a highly critical look at these original texts, which in and of itself has led to the promising proposal by lesser authors than this, and indeed the writer of this piece concurs that they are indeed lesser, that what is needed is nothing less than and nothing more than a close reading and interpretation of the textual nuances that have yet to be uncovered and unpacked.

What is in order is nothing short of an Eggs-egesis.

Have you ever noticed how difficult it is to inhale properly while making devilled eggs? It must be the chili peppers.

It’s really quite eggsaspirating.

When George Bush was just a lad, the chickens he raised for the county fair were cursed with a bizarre acne problem — it was a puzzle he just couldn’t solve, and one whose peculiar echoes dog his political footsteps even today.

Then, as now, he lacked a clear Egg-zit Strategy.