Jen is egg Yoda.

Call her Yolka. (Do you say “yolk,” with the L or “yoke,” without?)

She runs the diner on Huevoba.

She’s an 8th degree black belt in chewdo.

The breakfast Buddha.

The Jehova of the ova.

The french fried hakuna frittata.

And Maddy?

A scrambled eggs Jedi master, Maddy is.

She’s received the congressional medal of eggcellence.

Really, people, these chicks can cook some eggs, and I count myself, before I hatch, among the eggceptionally fortunATE (albu)men to roost among such protein prowess.

Even Kate, the crack-head Springer Spaniel, loves the eggs. However, Jen simply can’t handle the sound of the licking. (If Kate were a foley artist, her egg-plate-licking might be used for a carcass-sluruping octopus monster, or perhaps a National Geographic special on the movement of slugs on the ground with ultra-high-definition recording equipment. I’m sure you can come up with something grosser, or funnier. Take a listen.)

We talk about asiago (“Awe-zee-awe-goh” in Pittsburghese), lying about the Cheese-Its, and shame eating.

We stumble upon a profound insight: Just because your name is Gary Glitter doesn’t mean you’ll end up in jail for child porn. But there he sits, perhaps composing, “Rock and Roll, Part 3” while clinching his anal sphincter for dear life. Unrelated to Mr. Glitter and his horrendous behavior, we land on puberphonia. Odd, that.

But I digress.

And what did we drink? Two delicious brews. Like, exceptionally delicious, people. Get these. They’re fairly easily obtainable in Pennsylvania and New York. Voodoo Hoodoo and Southern Tier Crème Brule.

And the music you’ll be enjoying? “Egg Song” and “Egg Man.” They have parallel grammatical structures, but are otherwise unrelated in almost every way conceivable.

Have fun, we present to you, “The Jehova of the Ova.” 

(You know nothing, egg man.)