chicken placentas in a blizzard

I don’t like eggs. Oooh, gross, eggs is what I think when I think about eggs. I like eggs baked into delicious treats, but I do not wish to consume them straight-up (Paula Abdul-style). Eggs: Icky icky yuck yuck is the slogan I’d write if I wrote egg slogans.

But when Foul Weather strikes, and it’s bitch-slapping much of the middle part of our nation right this very minute, there’s always-alwaysALWAYS a motherfucking run on eggs.


Milk? Understandable, if you drink milk. Bread? Yeah, that’s kind of a staple. Sandwiches and toasts and whatnot. But eggs? Really?

This picture was on the front page – THE FRONT PAGE of the newspaper today:
The caption reads something* like “This lady is calling every other store in the county to see if they have any motherfucking eggs, because this one don’t.”

PERSON LADY IS CALLING: Thank you for calling Jim’s Hardware, how can I help you?

LADY: Uh, yeah, hello. Do you got any eggs?

PERSON: Uh. What?

LADY: Eggs! Do you got any?

PERSON: Eggs? Like…egg-eggs?

LADY: Listen, mothafucka, I’m asking you a simple question: DO. YOU. GOT. ANY. EGGS.

PERSON: We’re a hardware store, ma’am.

LADY: I don’t care if they hard-boiled eggs.


But, no, seriously: Eggs? Do regular folks crave omelets when the weather turns foul?**And what if they lose power, as these Doomsday Predictions are predictioning? Milk and bread require no preparation, but you don’t eat raw eggs. I’m no chef, but I don’t think you’re supposed to just crack ’em open and shotgun the egg goo. Triple icky icky yuck yuck.

*Eh. -ish.

** Oh. That’s almost a pun. Heh.

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