I’M SICK AND I LIKE BREAKFAST!
I have been sick with a cold or some shitty thing for the past few days. I don’t get sick all that often, and I always forget how much it sucks. When I learn that someone I know is sick, I often feel at least a slight jealousy, knowing that person can shirk responsibility in favor of lying in bed watching gameshows and cartoons and funny infomercials all day. I forget about the part where both consciousness and unconsciousness are at least ten times more horrible than usual from every possible aspect for a indeterminate period of time and there is not much you can do about any of it.
All of the things I like to do involve brightly lit electronic screens, all of which have been hurting my eyes bad. I have a Target bag full of mucus beside my bed as I type this. My mouth tastes like a thousand wet farts from multiple donors, and nothing I encounter makes a lick of sense. In the shower I had to stare at the body wash for a good thirty seconds before I realized that it was not shampoo, and normally it only takes me about ten seconds to figure this out. I slept pretty much nonstop from early Friday afternoon after coming home early from work to late this morning, but there was little genuine rest to be had because I worked my ass off in my dreams, repeatedly solving inconvenient and unglamorous mysteries for one dream person after another. Thanks, Coricidin.
I feel a bit better today, though. A nice big “Snowmobiler’s Breakfast” from Dysart’s may ultimately have been the thing that cured me. The power of bacon and eggs should never be pooh-poohed. Even the most slapped-together, lovelessly prepared breakfast (so long as it features actual breakfast foods, and not, say, cat heads and rocks) will in every situation make you feel better than you did before you sat down to eat it. To prove it, I’ll google “worst breakfast in the history of mankind” and I guarantee you it won’t look all that bad.
You know what, Google and I are about done. I don’t think Google is even looking at what I’m typing into its thing anymore. It’s just throwing any old concept at me. Seriously, let’s say you and I are having a friendly chat, and one way or another we end up on the subject of gross breakfasts we’ve been subjected to in the past, and I, being the curious type, ask “Say, if someone held a gun to your head and asked you what the worst breakfast you ever had consisted of, what do you suppose your response would be, in such a particular and deadly situation?”. Would there be any circumstances under which you, a perfectly intelligent human being, would reply “Why, I can answer that in .11 seconds! The worst breakfast I ever had in my life would, without a doubt, have to be the 1995 knockabout Damon Wayans vehicle ‘Major Payne’ “? That is not an acceptable answer to the question I posed.
But then again, what do I really know of Google’s past, let alone what terrible breakfasts it may have been served in the past? If there came to pass a morn in which I sat down to a breakfast prepared by my wife, and she placed in front of me a plate with a DVD of “Major Payne” on it, I would more than likely dub it then and thereafter the worst breakfast in the history of mankind. I daresay even Cream of Wheat is better tasting than “Major Payne”. So it’s looking like I’m not able to count Google out just yet as a useful resource for looking stuff up, although you really have to make an effort to find the logic in its results. But in any event the above scenario is ridiculous and hardly worth considering. My wife would never make me breakfast.
Jeez, sick blogging is a waste of time for all concerned. Let me get you a picture of a real breakfast to make up for it.
There, that don’t look too bad. I’d cut back on the onions. Otherwise, that looks pretty good. You know, finding a picture of a tasty looking breakfast online is a more difficult task than you may imagine! There are a lot of losers out there who seem to think that fruit is a thing that belongs on a breakfast plate. Fruit should be exclusively used as punishment for children who have misbehaved and are now requesting a chocolate dessert. The only fruit I want on my breakfast plate is the tomato in the ketchup with which I’ve drowned my aborted chicks. They never got to know life, but I got to eat them, so who cares!
Seriously, here are some of the things people are calling breakfast:
Whoa! Wowie! Okay, that’s sort of beautiful, I guess, but that’s not breakfast. I only trust various shades of yellow and brown when it comes to breakfast. Wee-wee and poot coloring only for my morning meal, please and thank you. Rainbows are for candy. Nobody likes limp, fruitwatery French toast. Looks like someone actually sliced a single green grape in half and flopped in on the top there for a garnish. There’s an idea. Not a good one, but, well, one. This is an artless, overconsidered mess! And the butter should be in a little bowl beside the pancakes or in individual packets, not glopped onto the top pancake like a melting beige baby toad. If you ever ask anyone for breakfast and they give you this, heave it at their pants and angrily demand something more suitable. You might think about tacking on a sarcastic comment as they shamefacedly head back into the kitchen, something like “Why don’tcha just give me a DVD of ‘Major Payne’ while you’re at it?”. That’ll be the snide cherry on the comeuppance sundae.
Gahhh! Dammit! This affront to everything everywhere is what’s known as an “English breakfast”. Leave it to the Brits to ruin breakfast. This picture hurts my feelings. That lonely sausage to the right there is the only thing on the plate that looks worth bothering with, and that would be solely out of politeness. Blah. This breakfast is like watching a tape of the first time anyone ever picked on you. I’m all for baked beans at breakfast, but not when they’re swimming in a creamed blood brine. Everything about this breakfast screams malfeasance. The two tiny tomato slices are weird and somewhat insulting, and the mushrooms on top border on gross sexual misconduct. The eggs look like crap. Like a new kind of egg invented by jerks. I’m not the world’s biggest ham fan, but if I order a breakfast and either don’t notice ham is included or forget to ask for a substitution, I’ll eat the ham. Hog flesh of any sort goes well with breakfast. But that ham looks bad, man. Looks like you could blow a bubble with it. Fuck that ham.
This horrendous picture of a cat is what comes up when you google “wonderful breakfast”, by the way. Again, I have never eaten that cat during the morning hours. It might taste wonderful. I’m working overtime here to give Google the benefit of the doubt.
This is what happens when you begin to express interest in the cuisine of other countries. If a plate of this had been placed in front of me at my table at Dysart’s today, I would have started screaming while looking back and forth at the waitress and the food repeatedly until they took it away. For all I know that could be delicious, but I know for a fact that if I put even one forkful of this into my mouth, I’m pretty sure my intestines would become sentient and consciously straighten themselves in an effort to expedite the “breakfast’s” journey from esophagus to tooter. So essentially I’d take a bite, become twenty feet tall for a few seconds, then shit on the floor. At best, I’d be banned from Dysart’s.
God, I hate it when people try to get cute. You see where creativity gets you, kids? Embarrassing breakfasts and the scorn of observant bloggers. I’d rather eat eleven filthy medallions than these bilious cross-sections of terror. P.U.!
I apologize (but do not sympathize) if any of these breakfasts look good to you. It takes all kinds. One man’s suicide impetus is another man’s breakfast. Call me unadventurous and closed-minded (and I’ll nod sadly as these days I find it’s a fairly accurate assessment), but when it comes to breakfast, make mine as conservative and down the middle as possible. A hearty American breakfast, that I could enjoy at a booth with George Washington, Jimmy Stewart, Ronald Reagan, and Rambo.
There we go. Throw on some toast, maybe a nice muffin, some orange juice and coffee, and by cracky you’re starting the day with a bounce in your boots and gobs o’ gumption in your get-up-and-go. I never eat it during its intended hour of the day, but no meal fills me with more anticipation beforehand and contentment afterwards. I give it an A+, and I don’t hand those out willy-nilly. So if you’re feeling poorly and have a few bucks or a few eggs, why not rustle yourself up some good old-fashioned breakfast? It makes supper look like a school bus accident.
That’s the ticket! Have one on me! That’s just a figure of speech; I am not going to buy you breakfast.