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Toast Drag

Falquan is right. Foodies cannot help but talk about food when they be conversatin.  Just so you don’t get the idea

that each conversation is filled with words like macerate [read: soak in booze, baby!], dragée [read: tiny, silver

balls.], or Scotch Woodcock [read: what’s under that kilt?], here’s a chat excerpt regarding eggs and the perverts

who like make eat them:

me:            Ah. I just finished a paper, tried to upload it on WebCT, which had logged me out. I logged
back in  and tried to submit it at 12:01. The inbox was locked at 12:00. I hate school.
falquan:     Lol. Screenshot and be like, eat it bitches.  [n.b.: first mention of eating]
And or just be like “eat a dick.”                          [specific item to be consumed]
me:              That was plan B.
falquan:      See, this is where you’re supposed to bribe people like me who write these things to leave
back  doors such that inboxes don’t close for specific people.
And also invoke digital time travel.
Disguise it around a time zone bug, and voila.
me:              What would you require in a bribe? (taking notes)
falquan:       Well, that’s the down side. Since I try to plan ahead, I suppose I need enough that if I get
caught, I can be independently wealthy enough to live out the rest of my life without another
job.
3-4 million should do it.
I have sources for good investment advice with those amounts of money.
me:              Riiiiggght.
falquan:      Or a sandwich.                                                         [alternate consumable is proposed]
A really good sandwich.
Ideally the Broodwich.
me:               I give the best sandwiches.
Lol, the Broodwich.
I mean, I make the best sandwiches.
I also make the best eggs. Didja see my tweet?   [reference to Huevos Fritos post]
falquan:      I did not, but I shall look now.
That is a tiny photo, but they do look good.
How much butter was required?                                [obligatory butter mention]
me:             Unfortunately I took it with my phone, so yes – tiny.
falquan:      I hear that all the time.                                                   [obligatory genital size reference]
me:               It was a tiny little pan, so about three tablespoons worth?
falquan:       That’s probably a large enough amount. My problems stemmed from tryign to use too little
and  I  failed miserably.
me:               It was large enough, because my eggs rocked!
falquan:       And all the white was cooked, and the yolk was all sexy and runny right?
Cause that’s my key to success in fried eggs.
Er… qualification for
Whatever.                                                                [food + sex = epicuriouswhores]
me:              My sexy eggs bring all the boys to the yard…
falquan:        I…I’m not sure which egg is a sexy egg now…
There’s a reason I said “NOT THOSE EGGS PERVERTS!”
me:               ALL my eggs are sexy eggs. Dammit.
falquan:       Well played.
me:                 I  XXXX our little XXXXXXXXX.                           [redaction]
falquan:         Lol
me:                 But yes – my eggs slid right out into the bowl, connected by a light, crispy, buttery egg white
halo  and the yolks were gently cradled in just enough “skin” to avoid them running before the
toast drag.
drool
I win.
falquan:         Oh, I just noticed in said tweet… you have to be careful with the stupid screen name — the
screen  name “epicuriouswhores” was too long for twitter to handle
(that’s what SHE said, thought me)
So it’s “epicuriouswhore”
I’m so addicted to the term “toast drag”        [inventing new foodie terminology]
me:              It’s impressive how toast in drag can resemble celebrities like Cher and Marilyn so much.
I smell a webcomic.
Oh wait, that was a cinnamon roll I made for my mom.
Nevermind.
Although, I often utilize the “toast smash” – it’s like Hulk smash, except, toastier.
falquan:     And hopefully less green.
me:             Yes, my eggs were less Seussian.
Less Seussian, but more Freudian.
falquan:       Eggs have penis envy?                                              [next obligatory genital reference]
me:               Uh, that sounds like a topic for in depth research.
Perhaps you could return to school and get another degree?
falquan:       Ah yes, I’ve always wanted a Masters in Flaccid Gastronomy.           [seriously, third?!]
Whatever that is.
I’m fairly certain it doesn’t involve Serrano and Bleu Cheese though.
me:               I would think not, lol!
Well, I have to skedaddle. I’m taking my car to the shop to repair a broken door lock. It’s
broken  because it stays locked and I have to exit via the passenger door. This involves
establishing  an intimate relationship with my gear shift, and as much as I’m a fan of intimate
relationships … wait,  where was I going with this?
falquan:     Gearshifts need love too.                                             [no more food references, but it’s funny]
me:              Yeah, but they gotta pay.
falquan:      Actually, apparently you do since you’re getting said door lock fixed…
me:              Touche.

What? I can’t let falquan have all the fun of writing irreverent posts.

Hmm.   Blogging + food = flogging.

What? I can’t let falquan have all the fun of flogging.


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