Saturday, April 17, 2004
As much as I love the furry little guy he has made me change my life, and not always to the better. I miss good omelets the most.
It started when he was watching the dang discovery channel and they were talking about birds. Monsa asked me about eggs and I pulled out the old health book and gave him a little lesson on eggs, and babies.
Big friggin mistake. For you see, he was born from an egg and that gives him a certain empathy with all eggs. I did not know this until one day while cracking a big pile of eggs for my wife's famous wild west quiche. I heard this "epp!". I looked over and there stood monsa hand. His one eye was open wider then I had ever seen it, a look of horror crossed his face. With a scream he took off running to the basement, with me in pursuit.
"Don't eat me! Don't eat me! Don't eat me!" all the way down the stairs. I cornered him in his closet where, in a panic, he curled into the tribble like ball and closed the bad bad world out.
Damn! So after getting him uncurled, I spent the next hour counseling a poor sad monsa, who in his eyes had just seen mass murder. I explained that the eggs I buy were not fertilized and would never ever become a bird or monsa hand. At this point I had to go on the net and show him the entire chicken industry of America. That was a very unpleasant evening.
We tried in the following days to show him that the eggs were not monsa eggs, and that no baby chicks were inside. But no matter how prepared he was, even under the fur I could tell he grew pale and shivered with every crack of the shell.
So we gave up. We now live in a egg free house.
Well here I sit knowing my wife is cooking a cake using the most foul egg substitute ever created by man. Egg beaters.
I miss my quiche, I miss scrambled eggs. I feel guilty whenever I buy a sausage egg and cheese biscuit.
But I do love the little furry guy, so it is worth it....Mostly
It started when he was watching the dang discovery channel and they were talking about birds. Monsa asked me about eggs and I pulled out the old health book and gave him a little lesson on eggs, and babies.
Big friggin mistake. For you see, he was born from an egg and that gives him a certain empathy with all eggs. I did not know this until one day while cracking a big pile of eggs for my wife's famous wild west quiche. I heard this "epp!". I looked over and there stood monsa hand. His one eye was open wider then I had ever seen it, a look of horror crossed his face. With a scream he took off running to the basement, with me in pursuit.
"Don't eat me! Don't eat me! Don't eat me!" all the way down the stairs. I cornered him in his closet where, in a panic, he curled into the tribble like ball and closed the bad bad world out.
Damn! So after getting him uncurled, I spent the next hour counseling a poor sad monsa, who in his eyes had just seen mass murder. I explained that the eggs I buy were not fertilized and would never ever become a bird or monsa hand. At this point I had to go on the net and show him the entire chicken industry of America. That was a very unpleasant evening.
We tried in the following days to show him that the eggs were not monsa eggs, and that no baby chicks were inside. But no matter how prepared he was, even under the fur I could tell he grew pale and shivered with every crack of the shell.
So we gave up. We now live in a egg free house.
Well here I sit knowing my wife is cooking a cake using the most foul egg substitute ever created by man. Egg beaters.
I miss my quiche, I miss scrambled eggs. I feel guilty whenever I buy a sausage egg and cheese biscuit.
But I do love the little furry guy, so it is worth it....Mostly
