A Scrambled Conversation

The Wheel Of Misfortune

A Scrambled Conversation


"Do you like your eggs?"

"Mmm ... very smooth, I have never had scrambled eggs quite so smooth."

"Yes, well, the secret is not to stir them."

"Sort of like an omelet, then?"

"No, not really. An omelet has to be flipped."

"Flipped?"

"Yes, flipped, you know, turned over sort of, tucked, kind of like making a pocket."

"But shouldn't scrambled eggs be scrambled, sort of, you know, like the name implies?"

"What do you mean?"

"Shouldn't scrambled eggs be stirred into little humps?"

"Humps?"

"I meant to say 'lumps.'"

"But you did say 'humps,' didn't you. A Freudian slip, I guess. You were probably thinking that you'd like to, well you know ... "

"God no, that hasn't crossed my mind for months now. I'm not at all interested."

"Really?"

"Really."

"More a Freudian slap, then? You're angry that I won't, you know ... so you're full of resentment."

"No, honest, I don't care. There was nothing Freudian about it at all. I just missed the consonant by what? By four letters. It's not like I said 'pumps.'"

"Where did that come from? 'Pumps' is worse than 'humps.' You really do have some issues, don't you?"

"Me? Me? You're one to talk. It's not me who makes scrambled eggs like a pancake. Not me who decides the ins and outs of our relationship. Not me who ..."

"Oh ho, there's the truth of the matter!"

"Pardon me?"

"The 'ins and outs,' as you so casually put it."

"I have no idea what you mean."

"Oh yes you do. You're frustrated. And you blame me."

"I don't blame you for anything."

"Yes, you do. You blame me and you taunt me for being, oh I don't know, purefect."

"'Purefect' is not a word."

"Yes it is. But you have to say it like this ... Purrrrrrefect."

"Sort of like a cat, then?"

"Again?"

"Huh?"

"Again with the passive-aggressive, uh, off-hand accusations?"

"I don't quite get your drift."

"A cat? A pussy cat? Pussy ... oh, you are something else. Is that all you think about?"

"Really, I had no intention of referring to anything sexual."

"So you say."

"Honest."

"You're a sex addict."

"No, I am just trying to get down these wonderful eggs, and be on my way to work."

"No you're not. You're stalling. Wait. Did you say, 'get down'? Did you really say, 'get down'? Oh God, all this buttery innuendo. You think I'll give you a three-minute quickie for the road, don't you?"

"Fat chance of that ever happening."

"Oh, there it is ... now the real aggression comes out. Fat? Now I'm fat ..."

"Excuse me?"

"Let's get one thing straight. It's not those eggs that you want. You want to scramble my eggs with your little beater until you have a bowl full of meringue."

"OK, now you're just being crude."

"You want to be the rooster in the barnyard. You want to be the cock of the walk. Well, listen carefully, Mr Cock-Of-The-Walk, listen very carefully ..."

"Yes ... I'm listening ..."

"This is one fat hen you're not going to be fluttering around any time soon."

"Got it. No fluttering. No problem."

"And if you want dinner tonight, bring home a Polish sausage, nice and firm, the biggest you can find."

"I hate to ask, but what, eggsactly, do you mean by that?"

Here's what I'm listening to this morning ...

"In My Secret Life" by Leonard Cohen