All this talk about eggs being too expensive gets me going. When I think about it, why do we have to deal with eggs in the first place? What led us to this madness? It’s some form of tradition that needs to go away in my humble opinion. One report comes out and says eggs are good for you. Another is published saying eggs are as dangerous as a f*****g time-bomb.

All that said, I’m about to go on a f*****g tirade so profound, so earth-shattering, that it will make your breakfast table shudder like jelly in an earthquake.

Eggs. That little f*****g orb that is bequeathed to us by the hen. It sits there in its shitty carton mocking us with its f*****g simplicity. It looks to be innocent and submissive, but that’s how it ensnares you. Playing upon your peckishness like a f*****g drug dealer does to a helpless addict.

The egg is inescapable, a f*****g omnipresent nightmare, and I, for one, am deeply f*****g suspicious of its motives.

Why the f**k does it annoy me like this?

First, let’s consider from where the menace originates.

The egg is shat out by the chicken, a feathered avian dimwit that, when it squawks, sounds like a rusty accordion tumbling down the stairs.

We, in our naive eternal optimism, decide to eat the damn thing. Why? Why would we decide to depend on a nervous, filthy f*****g bird for our sustenance?

What caused someone to choose a f*****g lunatic chicken to pick on? Why not try to wrestle crows or rattlesnakes to wrangle eggs from? Now that’s a challenge! The path of least resistance doesn’t take a f*****g genius and is the least f*****g rewarding.

Now that we’ve discussed the chicken’s fuckwittedness, let’s shift our attention to the egg’s malevolent characteristics.

Consider the shape of it.

That should be the first sign. The egg is designed for human failure. Any absent minded, not in the f*****g moment, human movement will cause the goddamn thing to roll off the countertop and splatter on the linoleum like a slimy f*****g yolky warhead.

And the shell! Holy s**t, the f*****g brittle assed shell! The most fragile kind of s**t that cracks if you so much as sneeze when it’s in your hand. You can put a carton in the back of your car and, if you don’t drive like you’re carrying nitroglycerin, a f*****g crack will appear and soak the carton causing you wonder what led you to that point and question your entire f*****g existence.

Cooking an egg reveals the true absurdity of our human f*****g condition.

You can boil it, fry it, scramble it, poach it while coddling the b*****d, but it’ll find a way to f**k you over.

The boiled egg is a f*****g manifestation of culinary despair.

If you boil it too short, you’ve got a runny, gelatinous horror that looks like it poured out of a B-movie swamp monster.

Boil it too long, and it’s a rubbery f*****g dodgeball you need to salt the f**k out of it to get any sense of taste.

And peeling a boiled egg? That’s not cooking. That’s a f*****g psychological gauntlet.

The shell clings to the egg like it’s got separation anxiety, leaving you with half the egg shredded and the other half stuck to the shell like a clingy ex who won’t take a f*****g hint.

You’re cursing, fingers shaking, dreams in the f*****g dumpster, wondering why you didn’t just grab a Pop-Tart.

But the egg fuckery doesn’t stop there.

The little b*****d has infiltrated not only our language and culture but also our f*****g souls.

We call intellectual types “eggheads,” as if having a skull full of f*****g yolk makes them more intelligent. That doesn’t make any goddamn sense.

We warn against “putting all our eggs in one f*****g basket,” a metaphor so f*****g obvious it’s a wonder we don’t just say, “Don’t be a total f*****g idiot. Wow, thanks for the groundbreaking advice, Ben f*****g Franklin. We’d have never figured that out without your Mensa-worthy wisdom.”

And then there’s “egging someone on,” as if these oval s***s are whispering from their carton, “Go on, you f****r, tell your boss his tie looks like a multicolored clearance rack reject. It’ll be a f*****g riot.”

Despite its treachery, we cannot evade the f*****g egg.

The cornerstone of breakfast, that noble institution uniting us in our love of bacon grease and f*****g regret. The star of the omelet, the souffle, the quiche, dishes that are just fancy f*****g dressed up eggs, trying to distract us from their fundamental eggy fuckness. It’s even the secret weapon of the Key Lime Pie, lurking like a sneaky little f**k beneath a sugary veneer like a culinary mobster.

So, what the f**k do we do about the egg? Banish it? Storm the hen houses, shouting, “Down with the slimy f*****g menace!” while armed with AR-15s?

Should we rise up with pitchforks, demanding the end of tyranny? Or do we just bow down, accept our fate, and keep frying, boiling, and scrambling our way into f*****g oblivion?

I confess, I got no f*****g clue. The egg is too vast, too f*****g enigmatic, too… eggy. All I know is that tomorrow, as I sit down to my coffee and hash browns, I’ll eye that f*****g egg helplessly like it’s my lifelong nemesis.

And as I crack that shell, I’ll whisper, “This time, you little f****r, the yolks on you.”

Thank you and have a good f*****g night.

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