I once attempted to make a long egg.
It was a quiet Sunday morning and I was all alone, given the fact that my wife had left me the previous evening, claiming I didn’t love her as I once did, claiming that the reason was my bizarre preoccupation with chickens. Harsh words were exchanged.
Needless to say, when I awoke, all I had was a deep sense of loss and the 348 chickens I kept in the back yard. I loved my wife, and I wanted her back. I also loved chickens, but in a different way. With them it was platonic. Well, mostly.
Thus I come to the tale of the ‘long egg’. I had heard talk of this fable when dining with other chickenheads (no not that kind) at a local bar where I went to discuss my latest prize Rhodesian Red and why people should stop calling us cockheads. But I digress.
A twitching gent wearing a striped cardigan and carrying a clearly ill hen under his arm, sidled up to me as I was sitting in a corner, sipping on my illicit out of season eggnog. He winked at me and whispered, “Ahv isn’t hes rd of the leeng errg?”
Which translates to “Have you heard of the long egg?”
Clearly he had been hitting the old nog all day. This happens when a man fancies chickens too long. The mind goes, the nog is there, and after a while all there is, is nog. Long after the chickens are but a distant memory, the nog remains, like an offwhite yellow stain on your soul.
But I digress. Wish I could stop doing that.
The long egg. Beware, my poultry loving friend. Take heed of the word of one who has seen the glorious dream of the long egg, and walked into the eternal flaming pits of hell that lie at the end of that fantasy. There is no long egg. There is only an emptiness that will make you wish you had never looked at a chicken in the first place.
I cannot talk more. The memory, it burns me like, well, kinda like when you’re frying an egg, but you throw it in when you’ve used too much oil, and it jumps up and burns your FACE LIKE A LONG EGG
Oh dear God I’ve said too much. I’m sorry. So… sorry.
Just… beware the long egg.