As I’ve traversed this ‘cruise’ to find “her”, I’ve decided our brains are like eggs, I kinda sorta think.. .My preference, and my usual brain description - scrambled. Wake up, ain’t sure what daya the week it is. Have a major appointment time/date/something one should remember - and forget.
Poached. In hot water. Mebbe wanna steer clear of these. Play the game “ain’t it awful”, and nine times outta ten, it’s their actions/behaviors that get them here/there.
Over easy. Please close your ears here. These are women with no self worth, tremendously in need/want of another.. Their desperation flows over to their zipper… well, just think peanut butter.
Fried eggs. At my age, could be old hippie fried eggs. Did so much acid in the 60’s/70’s, they need help just gettin’ dressed today. Or, could be so burnt out on men, life, “ends”, the end result is assuredly the frying pan.
Hard boiled eggs.. These are women who been bit in the butt a time or two. Very sensitive to anything you say. Justa waitin’ with that roundhouse to knock the crap outta ya should you make a linguistic slip. Can be a good mate, just make sure the one you pick ain’t bigger, packs a better wallop than you.
Coddled eggs. These are generally Johnson County ladies who’ve been thru the cessation of that kinda vehicles - station wagon, mini van, SUV, now Lincoln Navigator. They’ve basically gotten by on their looks.. They tell the breadwinner “have a nice day” every morning - then proceed to play golf, get the nails done, or whoop it up at Starbucks with other coddled eggs. The day comes their breadwinner runs inta someone with a heart they love - and the coddled eggs are out on the doorstep - with halfa breadwinner’s retirement - and their looking for someone in the $100,000+ range… Imagine that.
Steamed eggs.. These women are kinda sorta similar to poached egg women. Usually, their mate has run off with the office secretary, their best friend, or, they doinked their younger sister. With time, can be ok, but please - make sure you’re they’re up to snuff on their rabies shots.
Sunny side up. Ah, my favorite. They’ve probably been kicked, landed right side up. You can’t knock the smile offa their face. They simply “get it.” Screw the astrology charts, I wants me onea these.
Egg omelettes.. Now them are hard to figure women. They’ve been around, seen it all, probly even dated outsidea their race, religion.. Smart.. They’re smart folks. I’m a good ole of average intelligence feller, and these ladies scare the shit outta me. Know a little about everything, and a lot about most everything. I’ma wantin’ to spend these last 20 years relaxin’, not trying to keep up intellectually. Good women, but not for me.
Deviled eggs.. Kinda sorta similar to over easy eggs, but they hide it better. Ya hookup with onea these women, makes sure ya gots a pre-nup. They’re planners. Sneaky. Up to no good, ceptin for themselves. They are the yoke of the universe.
Ok, I had fun anyways. I’ve been with poached. Over easy (sorry) Omelettes. Steamed. Fried.
I thinks I’ll have mine either scrambled or sunny side up. Ahm, then we can make some bacon. Sharea potta coffee.. Play footsie whilst we turn the has browns.
Now all you women. (Victor, you had two views yesterday.. ‘both’ would suffice here.).. Now both you women, please don’t be pissed at my blog today. I really DO like/love women. You ARE what keeps me going. I was just funnin.’ Paybacks are hell, go ahead, do ya one up on bananas if u like. “Short shelf life.” “Can be bitter.” “Sometimes very green.” “Turn soft, yucky fast.”
I am eggcited about “her.”. Eggstatic even. She’ll be a good egg, surely. (Pervert. I never mentioned flipping her… you thought that.) I hope she’s all she’s cracked up to be. (A yoke, a yoke).. Medium egg, I’ll take a medium egg. (Oh shit, here come the emails)..
Once again, I’ve cooked myself in a corner, and I have no way outta here. The spatula is no help. The GD bacon grease isa burnin’ me. I put too much water in the coffee-maker, it’s overflowing. The phone is ringing. I’m late for work. Did I put deodorant on? Is there enough left on my GD debit card to purchase $3.47/gallon gas to make it to that hell hole (said with love, and hell hole used ‘cause we ain’t had a raise since ‘06)..
So Mr. Barker. About this seleggtion. I’m eggcited. I’m eggstatic. I’m not eggotistical. I believe I will take door number three.. With hadshbrowns, white toast, grape jelly, some salt, black coffee.. And… ya sell today’s newspaper?
Yours for eggver. Love, Victurd.
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