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tell me how to suck eggs
03/10/2006 = 05:50 AM

Not only have I been blasted into space for the sixth time since the Blog in Space people got my URL, but, according to the email they sent me, they were minding the monitors and eating pad thai, when suddenly an extraterrestrial message came in for me:

a flashing light erupted, igniting the words, "Tell Golf Widow her blog smells like eggs."

Eggs? Is this an insult? Is this a compliment? Do aliens eat eggs? Again, we aren't sure. But we aren't taking any chances, and we therefore have invested all of our stock into Mr. Jiffles' chicken farm.

I personally load my website and I don't smell anything. Maybe my olfactories are used to it.

Rotten eggs, that's bad. If you smell rotten eggs on my blog, let me know — I won't hanging an air freshener or spraying Oust, but I will be looking for a source of sulfur (or brimstone, for the the more medieval- and/or dragon-minded amongst us).

The question of cooked, fresh eggs is one that requires some perspective.

My Friend Who Isn't But Is Sort Of claims not to like the smell of eggs cooking. However, he has been witnessed partaking of that beloved stack of layered death known the world over as Bacon-Egg-and-Cheese-on-a-Hard-Roll.

I'm not sure if he's overlooking (oversmelling?) the aroma only for the opportunity to raise his cholesterol, or if he really doesn't have a problem with it but says he does, in order to increase his high-maintenance factor. It could go either way, because his being one of the best boys in the world doesn't change the fact that he is, indeed, a Boy.

I do like the smell of cooked eggs, particularly fried. It reminds me of the fried egg sandwiches my dad used to make for me when I was a tiny kid. (He made prettier fried eggs than the Mom made. His had brown lace on the edges.)

Speaking of which, has everyone seen the commercial for Jif peanut butter where the dad makes his kid a piece of bread with peanut butter and it's supposed to show what a great dad he is?

My dad used Skippy. AND he toasted the bread for me. So you are not all that, Choosy Dad Who Chose Jif.

I digressed again, Kimmy.

Er, where was I?

Oh, yeah. Outer space.

Eggs.

I wonder if this is in any way correlated with the fact that I posted a picture of Jamie Hyneman the other day, and then started to watch (but turned off because I could feel the Shark-Jumping™ in progress but was powerless to prevent it) an episode of Mythbusters wherein Jamie's partner-in-crime, Adam Savage, was harvesting flati in a gas-collection jar for lab analysis.

Asking why Hayseed Dixie wasn't the theme music for the fartcatching episode of Mythbusters is akin to asking why Brokeback Mountain wasn't a Broadway musical: sometimes you get the underlying theme without needing further evidence.

Digressed (or digested) again.

Righto. Outer space.

Where real men are real men, real women are real women, and real eggs are just plain cracked.

Like Robin Williams.

Who played Mork. Who came to earth in an egg.

When's Easter, again?

I guess I'm not all the way better yet. But I think I might sort of like it that way.

drinking: coffee
listening to: celtic folk music on musicmatch
latest blingo win: movie ticket whilst searching for "live action simpsons", about an hour ago