There is a national egg shortage and I should feel bad, but I don’t. I’ve never truly liked eggs. Only scrambled with a shitton of bacon. But now I don’t really eat bacon anymore. Maybe once in awhile; a few times a year. Maybe. I still like sausage. But I feel bad for the pigs. So I curtail my bacon and sausage and other pork consumption. I feel bad for a lot of things. I don’t know what it is. I have a big heart. Hopefully just “big” and not “enlarged”—that would be bad.

I am a lover, not a fighter. Though I get angry at other drivers on the road and curse them out and want to pour a gallon of rotten milk over them if they piss me off too much—you know the ones: heartless, idiotic, cut you off, tailgate you, change lanes unexpectedly without using their blinkers. Or the one fool who slammed into the left side of my car as he tried to change lanes into mine but didn’t see me. I stopped. He kept going. He was stuck at a freeway entrance lane. I ran up and got in his face (bad move on my part, but I was ANGRY, and I didn’t have a gallon of rotten milk) and said, “Hey! You hit me! You need to pull over so we can exchange information…”

He said, “I’m sorry sir.” And then he said, after admitting to his blunder, “I’m sorry, but I can’t pull over.”

His girlfriend was in the passenger seat cowering and covering her face.

I must’ve looked mean. And I must’ve been pretty angry. Many people have told me not to do that EVER again. I could’ve gotten hurt, killed, or maybe the other driver would’ve poured a gallon of rotten milk over my head…

So I will endeavor in this coming new year, 2023, to be more kind, loving and strategic in my dealings with other humanoids in their tin cans.

But I will not be eating any more eggs. Save the occasional scrambled with bacon. But I told you that already.

Who cares, right?

I just don’t see the fascination with eggs. Billions upon billions of eggs produced every year by these poor layer hens. Barely a day off, no health insurance, they don’t get raises or 401ks and they can’t even drive a car. And we eat roughly 280 eggs a person, per year. That’s almost one egg a day.

Can’t we find any other foodstuffs to consume? Can’t we eat more oatmeal? Or apples? Or tofu? Or meatless chorizo?

Or turkey bacon? Vegan parmesan enchiladas? I don’t know. I just don’t understand the rabid fascination with this little white thing that pops out of a fat little farm bird.

That’s just me.

I think it’s a “Henspiracy.” I think the hens are doing this on purpose. They’re secretly linked up on some kind of invisible “Hen Network” and they’re all agreeing to stop laying eggs.

They’re messing with us. The leader, the biggest hen in the bunch, is telling the other hens, “We’ll all stop laying eggs. Let’s see how crazy people get when they can’t have their eggs benedict. Or they have to buy crappy cakes from the grocery store, since they can’t make their own…”

But I could be wrong. I usually am. Most of the time it’s just a simple thing like some bird flu that’s killing off the flock. Yeah. Simple like that…

So for resolutions here we go:

I resolve to not start cursing out other drivers on the road until after I’ve been in the car for at least 5 minutes. From 1 minute to 5 I will be ultra-loving, platinum style.

I resolve to at least try one of the following (none of which I’ve ever had in my life, no kidding…)

• Hard-boiled egg
• Soft-boiled egg
• Over easy egg
• Deviled egg
• Egg salad sandwich
• Huevos rancheros

I won’t resolve to not gag. I will probably gag. That’s why I’ve never had any of the above. I gag when I smell eggs. I hate the smell of eggs. Especially egg salad. Gross. I don’t understand the fascination.

“Oh but they’re filled with protein…they’re good for you….”

Ok, but it still pops (or drops) out of a little “vent” in the chicken’s butt called the “cloaca”. Eggs are like little space capsules magically appearing from the rear ends of fat little farm birds.

You don’t think aliens are involved?

©2022 Bruce Palma. All rights reserved.