From the desk of EnoggEggbert
Eggbert and I have always divided our fridge duties. We don’t split them along the male-female roles that humanz use. That’s ridiculousness from their hunter-gathering days.
The humanz freight train track brains would categorize my femmy-ness as my flip-up do, lipstick, and fabulous Prada pumps. But you, my dear friends, need to remember this. I’m Enogg. The rest is all up to you.
Now Eggbert, on the other hand, is what humanz like to say is ‘fluid,’ and is not gender identified. But if you have to know, he is probably a dude-egg. He flows as a tankard of molasses spilled over pebbles on a rooster farm. Typically he’s really slow, but he can move fast in the day’s heat. I’m sure that’s not what humanz intended as the meaning of fluidity, but this particular blog is not about sexual orientation, a la humanz. We’ll get into that another time.
Now, where was I?
Oh, right, we were talking about our duty-dividing-brilliances.
The fix-it deal
I like to fix things because Eggbert tends to break them. He’s coordinated, mostly, but sometimes he’s absent-minded.
So that particular day, I was fixing the refrigerator door and the clogged sink in his bathroom. He dropped his discarded razor nub down the drain. He shaves and models his good looks in his big bathroom mirror. I bought and installed his colossal mirror to keep him happy. He spends hours there.
We don’t share bathrooms for obvious reasons.
He told me he had plans to go to a garden festival with his friend Finigus Foghorn. He informed me of this little tib bit while I was lodged under his sink with a crescent wrench (yes, I know what that is, even while donning my Prada pumps) in my hand and a small flashlight wedged between my pretty pearly whites.
He dashed out the fridge door before I had time for a lengthy commentary.
Finigus Foghorn tends to booze it up. Ok, fine, he’s a fun-loving drunk. But he’s a drunk. A big, charming, dart-throwing drunk. Sometimes he plays Bocci ball with Eggbert, but that’s when he is really drunk. The balls usually wind up rolling down the street and into someone’s front lawn. One time a ball jumped the curb and took out a front window.
Indeed, he is charming, but Eggbert likes to bend his elbow and drink right along with him. His little egg gang enjoys black and tan beers at their local pub, Peacock and Feathers. Eggbert tells me that Guinness is high in iron, and it helps his anemia. We may have had words over that one; he’s not anemic, just eager to sneak off and drink with Finigus.
I pop that flashlight out of my mouth as fast as possible and shout, “Don’t you dare come home drunk.” I’m not paying for one of your Bocchi ball mishaps.
“I won’t, honey-love. I’ll be home soon, and I can bring you some of those Star Gazers you love.
Eggbert isn’t a fibber. He had wholly intended to go to his garden club’s festival. But as they walked by the Peacock and Feathers, they heard raucous sounds from inside. It couldn’t hurt to check it out. The Peacock and Feathers hosted a dart round-robin and a Bocchi ball tournament that day. It must have slipped Eggbert’s mind, even though he is on their monthly newsletter list.
One Guinness couldn’t hurt.
What fun! They drank, ate Shepherd’s Pie, and played many rounds of darts. Finigus and Eggbert were so drunk they had to walk to their homes wobbly. Eggbert kept a palm over one eyeball to stop from seeing double.
Closer to home, he tumbled into his neighbor’s cactus patch. He stumbled repeatedly, and multiple thorns cracked open cuts in his shell.
In his drunken state, he slowly opened the fridge door, thankful Enogg had oiled the squeaky hinges. His wounds weren’t deep, nothing a slice of ham bandage couldn’t help heal.
Ham sandwich in hand, he gingerly tiptoed to the bathroom to tend his wounds. Studying the image in his lengthy mirror, he saw multiple cracks. Eggs use ham for many things. In this situation, Eggbert used the ham slices as band-aids. He was smart. Oh yes, very smart. He slapped the ham chunks on multiple cuts and would explain to Enogg the following day that he cut himself shaving.
He woke up with a significant headache bringing one eye to life at a time. Enogg was calmly sitting on her favorite egg carton, crescent wrench in hand.
“How’s the sink coming, darling? I bet you fixed it already.”
I tilted my head, tapping the wrench with my long, manicured fingernail like a guillotine inching down slowly.
“So you went out drinking Eggebert instead of attending your garden club’s festival.” It wasn’t a question.
The ham giveaway
“Why would you say that, darling?” said Eggbert, in a pebbled hungover voice. He smacked his head and said, “Oh darling, I forgot your Star Gazers,” He flashed me his innocent face that normally appeased mortals. I’m no mere mortal.
“No, that’s not it.” A tad too much snottiness slipped into my voice.
“OK, dearest Enogg, love of my life (he meant this one, no shenanigans in that proclamation), I may have had a few drinks. But I barely got tipsy.”
“Oh really,” said I giving him a sidelong glance.
“No – really, I had a few beers and walked home with Finigus.”
“I doubt that.”
As indignant as a hungover egg can be after a Peacock and Feathers night of tossing back beers with his egg besties, he says, “Now, why would you say that?”
“Because there is ham all over your mirror.”
Clearly, it was a Bocchi ball night.
