The Egg Of Perdition

Watching Master Chef and doing my best to hold back the tears. Such a touching moment in history. And I mean all of history, including the beginning of time (as opposed to just a moment in history, or some obscure event in the middle of time.)

Becky poached an egg, and she looked worried. “What’s happening inside this egg shall determine the rest of your life,” one chef murmured, like a death knell, as Becky crossed herself and broke down.

Cue the heart wrenching background music. Cut to a close up of the egg!

With the precision of a celebrity who played a doctor on TV once, the dour, ego-centric knife wielding middle popular chef sliced diagonally across that dubiously translucent albumen. The one that encased Becky’s entire future.

The music swelled and the timpani drums roared to crescendo as I reached for another Kleenex. God damn you egg! God damn your indomitable chalaziferious layer, your vitelline and your yolk.

God damn your hard boiled indifference.

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