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Peeve Farm
Breeding peeves for show, not just to keep as pets
  Blog \Blôg\, n. [Jrg, fr. Jrg. "Web-log".
     See {Blogger, BlogSpot, LiveJournal}.]
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Thursday, March 7, 2002
20:46 - Hee hee hee!

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Lance and Zjonni and I were standing in the kitchen; they were combining the ingredients for a cheesecake, and we were all discussing the incidents of the day. At a fairly random lull in the conversation, I looked over at the edge of the counter, where a lone brown egg was sitting.

"Why is that egg sitting there?" I asked, quite innocently. As opposed, of course, to being in the refrigerator.

"Because if it were floating in midair, we'd be in space!" "Because its molecular density is higher than that of the countertop!"

Yeah, yeah. "So why is that egg sitting there?"

"Because it's hard-boiled," Lance finally gets serious enough to tell me.

Now, it's a surprise to me that eggs are okay to sit out if they're hard-boiled. But no, they both assure me that they can last several days-- that even raw eggs don't need to be refrigerated until a couple of days have gone by.

"Are you sure it's hard-boiled, then?"

In answer, Lance picks it up, brings it over to me, and cracks it on my forehead.

Amid the guffawing that follows, and the disbelief that I would actually let him do that when there's some doubt as to the physical state of the egg's albumen, I sheepishly admit that Lance is seldom wrong about these kinds of things. He roars with laughter while peeling the egg. "Woo-hoo! Carte blanche! Carte blanche! I wonder how I should spend this one..."

We continue talking about the merits of eggs, including Zjonni's samizdat about how you go about culturing bioweapons (inject a needletip full of bacteria or virus culture into one end of an egg, put it down very very very carefully, step through the sealed doors, wash yourself off with about fifty gallons of bleach, get out of your Level 4 hazmat suit...). And just as he mentions hazardous materials, Lance goes urp.

"Shouu'a 'eem rrfrig'rated", he says, pointing at his cheeks. He then begins to expectorate the remainder of the egg into the garbage, gagging, washing his mouth out with San Jose city water, shrieking about how foul that was.

"I was gonna say," mentions Zjonni. "I did seem to remember that egg being there last Saturday."

So while we cannot help but giggle helplessly at the writhings of the unhappy Lance, I finally note that the carte blanche has been very short-lived. The karma that fell to my account when he cracked it open on my forehead paid itself off in full, in very quick order. What bounces off my head, after all, comes around.


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