Thursday, January 28, 2016
Desiring danger, I boiled me some eggs.
This is big news right now, because I am knotted and en-bolused by the worst kind of intestinal mutiny.
Too many eggs boiled too hard, and I will surely be sporting a camel hump below my rib cage just in time for Valentine’s Day.
At the moment of pan-2-boil, such was the available narrative — uninterruptible, and spooling on into the future like a tapeworm playing red carpet — that I gladly cast eggs into water, unthinkingly consciously retrieved eggspoon from cutlery array, and readied the salt and pepper with the pre-emptive gusto of a pop hunk who insists he will “never dye” his ‘hair’.
But this is not how things play out in the real world, where metaphor is as an Aussie simulacrum of Christopher Biggins — only with subtler florals.
There was never any risk of increased abdominal bulgiture.
Not from these eggs!
Because these eggs were unpeelable, so fresh and spunky was the plasticity of the membrane twixt shell and pre-breakfast.
If babies got born this way, they would end up skinless, and pocked with more gouges than tentative chisel chips on a boulder intended to become an international monument.
The future of my pseudo-alcoholic laxative guzzling spree went tits up the moment I committed albumenic genocide in my desire to neutralise the devastating effects of an overenthusiastic membrane by using the only available equipment.
Because, yeah — I think on my feet like the rest of you.
Quick as a flash.
Bang on the moment.
So, I grabbed the grapefruit spoon from my Cutlery Array (previously italicised, now it may be capitalised), and screamed Buggerpipes!!! Blitz the shell from the egg from the membrane from the fucking bastard fucking thing!!!
‘Twas warfare such as I have never known, the peeling of these eggs — danger on a par with deep throating a Mars bar in the company of wolves — but as I swell on here, cannonballular, I cannot help but think that the poor baby’s lungs and kidneys I mangled in my wrath (the unseen feathers of some bright, new Miracle Drudgehouse Farm Bird) — cut from my gut by petulant fancy — constitute an inspired absence, an unsquirting of the previously constipated narrative so as to prompt subsequent future advance.
I write here in the hope that perhaps you may be able to capitalise on my plight, just as I have capitalised on my own misery and stupidity to help me write this inspired blog post instead of leading with the one-size-fits-all pre-Valentine’s villanelle I had planned.
Ever must we pluck our chances from the jaws of pre-happenstance, lest only previously written scripts be sung from eyries.
(Someone tell me — is that hyperbole, or catastrophe?)
I am blocked by abdominals to the point of being unable even to slip on my trousers without appearing to be a gymnast racked by poison, but, as of this suspended moment, all I submit here appeareth to be true.
Even the fucking flash.