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I had eggs today!

Oviposited on April 18, 2010.

I had eggs for breakfast today—actual, genuine chicken eggs, too! Eggs with some ham, sausage, bacon, Canadian bacon, Austrian bacon, Australian bacon, Norstrilian bacon, pepperoni, peperoncini, black pepper, white pepper, green peppers, red peppers, Brian Peppers, bell peppers, and Hell peppers.

Why, you are bound to ask, was my feasting upon a crate of eggs this morning so important? Well, you see, dear reader, I’ve been waiting on these eggs all week: So naturally, the fact that I had eaten eggs this morning—real, live chicken eggs—was, in fact, highly notable. Allow me to explain…

On Monday of this week, when Monday rolled around and reared its baleful, egregious head, I woke up in the morning with the intention of having an early breakfast. No blunch this time, but an actual breakfast in the actual morning. I galloped to my refrigerator as only I can do, opened the door, and found… not a single bit of breakfast food in sight. Having had my heart set on eggs ever since the dream I had awoken from hours earlier (a nightmare involving a 12' chicken laying enormous eggs on my head, drowning me in their yolky goodness), I was set—nay, dead-set, you may say—on having my eggs for breakfast.

Then, I hit on a plan: I had ducks. Not only ducks, but an entire pair of ducks that I had so parsimoniously pilfered from the local duck broker shortly before pi day last month. I went to find my ducks, and sure enough, upon arriving at the room in which I kept them, I found them right where I had left them, swimming casually in circles in a small rubber bucket. One duck looked up at me and quacked a greeting; I quacked back happily.

Of course, I ran into a problem immediately: Neither of my ducks had laid any eggs yet. Not to be stopped by such minor details, I quacked a few times more, ordering the ducks in no uncertain terms to lay some eggs at once. At once, damn it, for I was hungry. Again, the ducks just looked at me. I quacked again, a bit more insistently. The ducks reacted barely at all. I growled, realizing my secondary plan, to procure some duck eggs from my pair of ducks, was quickly becoming hopeless.

Then, I hit on a second plan: I had a stuffleupagous. And not just any stuffleupagous, either, but one of the egg-laying, buttock-dwelling kind! I immediately summoned that curiosity-breeding little joker from my buttocks, and demanded it lay me three eggs at once. At once, damn it, for I was getting hungrier, and images of roast duck—or perhaps stuffleupagous filet—started invading my cranium. But alas, my stuffleupagous just sat there looking at me with its beak in the air. I realized I didn’t know how to speak stuffleupagese, so I had to resort to quick, forceful gesticulations to try and get my point across. My poor stuffleupagous didn’t get my drift, and when I lunged in the air and pointed at my own ovipositor in a desperate bid to indicate that I wanted it (the stuffleupagous, not my ovipositor) to begin squeezing out eggs right this minute, I accidentally spooked it (the stuffleupagous, not my ovipositor). The ugly creature took to the air on its bony wings, crashed through the window (after pecking my eyes out), and flew away.

Now, what was I going to do…? It had all worked out exactly as Thomas Jefferson had foretold…

The only thing that cheered me up was the realization that I had now outlived Oswald of Northumbria by a few days. That, and the skrælings dancing naked upon my forehead.

But then, I hit on a third plan: My incantation of the word “stuffleupagese” reminded me that I had, in an earlier life, possessed an entire flock of geese! I immediately telephoned Genevieve von Sträsmussenbörg, the actual owner of said geese, and inquired as to whether or not I might be able to borrow them for a while. She said no, so I then asked to speak with her mother, Regina Maria-Theresia Louisa Ilsa Ollanthorpe, the Countess-Prelate von Sträsmussenbörg, the most powerful countess-prelate this side of Gnomesylvania. When her mother answered the phone, I asked her if I might be able to borrow her daughter for a while, to which she answered yes: She remembered me and all our crazy adventures well. I thanked her, and pretending it was an afterthought, asked if she could ship me Genevieve’s flock of geese along with Genevieve herself. Again she agreed, and again I thanked her. I hung up, and immediately went on a pwee-pweeing spree out of sheer glee: I would finally have my eggs, and I even had a countess-prelate’s daughter to play with, too!

It only dawned on me as it was getting dark that shipping a flock of geese, and a countess-prelate’s daughter, might take a day or two. As this realization struck me across the temple like a bat out of northern California laden with lead shot, I was crestfallen. I was so crestfallen, in fact, that my crests had fallen all the way off, landing on the floor with a sickening kerpliggle! and skittering off under the refrigerator.

Tuesday came and went: There were no eggs, and there was no Genevieve either. I moped and pumbled around my house in the depths of eggless despair, resolving that if I didn’t receive my eggs by Wednesday, I would surely commit Pnårpicide.

Wednesday came and went: Still, there were no eggs, and there was no Genevieve either. While preparing to commit Pnårpicide as I had promised myself, I idly wondered if the spoon gnomes had perhaps gotten hold of them, and if I would have to mount a daring rescue deep inside Gnomesylvania. I like spoons. Spoons are good. Spoons are shiny. Spoons are little pieces of metal you use to pick up things! Hee-hee, I love spoons!!

So, as darkness fell on Wednesday, I crawled into a hole in the ground again, and waited.

Thursday came—but before it went, the UPS man came and delivered forty boxes to my very doorstep! Thirty-nine of them contained geese: Rip-roaring angry, spitting, honking geese. After a mistake with the first crate that left me with my nose nearly bitten off, as I opened each crate, I quickly grabbed each goose by the neck before it could react, and manhandled it into my palatial home, where I introduced each to the gang of gorillas, who immediately established their dominance over the geese. My home rapidly filled up with geese… hundreds of them. (UPS can sure fit a lot of geese inside a single crate!) Lastly, I cracked open the crate containing Genevieve von Sträsmussenbörg. Not wanting to take any chances here either, I quickly grabbed her by the neck before she could react, and manhandled her into my palatial home, where I introduced her to the gang of gorillas, who immediately established their dominance over Genevieve, too.

Geese secure, I went about trying to persuade, cajole, or coerce eggs from each of them. Alas, this was not to be, either. After their traumatic, boxed-up trip across the country, the geese were so rip-snorting angry—madder than a wet hen under the noonday moon—that it was impossible to get any of them to lay any eggs. They wouldn’t even listen to me, in fact.

The gorillas proved to be equally unpersuasive.

But that night, as I was running in circles around my front yard out of anger and frustration, it struck me: An entire crate of hen eggs that had fallen out of an airplane 30,000' above. Fortunately, my squishy corpse made the perfect cushion; the crate landed unharmed. Not a single egg cracked. (I, however, suffered 47 broken bones, an impacted cornea, and a bent penis. But that’s another story.)

So that, dear readers, is how yours truly came by an entire crate of eggs to nosh on this Sunday morning!

[Feetnote: With Genevieve von Sträsmussenbörg and her geese still resident in my palatial home, I was determined I would have fun tonight—I even planned, dare I say it, to wang chung tonight…]