By: Aalam Singh Batth
Reader discretion: Coarse Language, and innuendos
All I wanted were poached eggs, I don’t know how much more clearer I could have been to the waiter. It was a simple wish, a lustful desire for my dry mouth. I told the waiter exactly what my palate desired and how its wishes were to be satisfied, he had a clear set of instructions, which were to be relayed to the cook. So, you wouldn’t believe my surprise when I was confronted by a Chicken (Chic), her husband Cock and their owner Mr. Dickinson. I heard a deep but low whisper in my neck, “Hey, I got a question, Why did the chicken cross the road?” And my stupid ass asked, “Why?” Rather than being bejewelled by the notion of a hen wearing women’s clothing, telling me a ‘chicken cross the road joke’ in the middle of December. I was more interested in the punchline of the joke. Now, I’d be very disappointed if it was the usual answer, that is, “To get to the other side.” Or the rather apparent, “To know what this joke is all about.” Or the one I found on the official blog of The Harvard Physics Department mimicking Ludwig Boltzmann, “If you have enough chickens, it is a near certainty that one of them will cross the road.” What I heard next was finally enough to bring my senses to reality, the hen said, “To beat your candy ass for eating my eggs that you poached, bitch I ain’t got time for this nonsense, I already be workin 6 am to 8 pm. You humans are such lazy pigs, hell, even pigs are more active than y’all. First you want me to cuckroo-kooo my lungs out and then you eat my poached eggs, my babies!” Cock put his feathers on Chic’s neck to calm her down, she took a few deep cuckroo-koos and regained her composure.
“You see me and my hubby have been at it for year trynna make an egg that hatches but no sir, but to no avail, either the egg never hatches or it magically disappears! Sir, I have a reason to believe you poached my eggs, and now you have the audacity to fucking eat it.”
Everyone in the cafe was listening to Chic’s misery, I was getting bombarded with bombastic side-eyes from all over the room. Now let me get it clear, I ain’t no thief and I ain’t into the business of stealing this chic——, uhm he——en? Or uhm this lady’s eggs, I just wanted to eat some poached eggs. Did I regret ordering poached eggs, yeah definitely but it was the best option I had especially assuming that on that day the confrontation with this lady was inevitable. Boiled eggs, not a good idea, don’t want to them to be subjected to second degree burns. Fried eggs sunny side up 3 times worse, double side fried, 4 times worse. Eating it raw, no I am not a psychopath. Scrambled eggs, would mean that I brutally mutilated her egg. Marco Pierre White style scrambled eggs would just mean a slow and time consuming graceful beat down, like performing a ballerina and slowly succumbing on the stage. Bhurji/Akuri would mean that I took the eggs on a peaceful Indian pilgrimage and then induced them to a spice full hyperthermia. Poached eggs? I didn’t poach her eggs. I thought that next time whilst ordering my eggs, I ought to inquire into the genuineness and legality of its procurement.
I said, “See, I ain’t the one who poached your eggs, Maam you should talk to the owner of this cafe, who looked the eggs as well as the person who sold your eggs.”
The owner of the farm, Mr. Dickinson cleared his throat as if to diverge the topic said, “Hey, Chic c’mon let’s look again in the farm, we might have missed a few spots.”
Chic rebutted, “Whether these are my eggs or not, you’re eating something that could have been a baby!”
I told her that I was not going into an unprecedented debate bordering along the batter of ‘pro-life or pro-choice’ argument garnished and whisked with dilemma of “whether an egg fits in the veg, non-veg or eggetarian category’ and poured delicately onto a frying pan to be capriciously consumed by the conservatives and liberals for voting benefits. In a nutshell, I was as sure as eggs is eggs that I didn’t want to walk on egg shells and risk the chance of getting cancelled in this highly volatile political environment where anyone can be made to look like a bad egg.
Luckily I was saved by the bell, a bell was rung indicating that my order was ready to be served. Luckily it was the owner of the cafe serving me the poached eggs. The owner who was already acquainted with Chic, simply enquired, “What’s the issue here Chic?” As if it’s completely normal to have a conversation with a hen, her husband and their owner whilst I devour Chic’s allegedly poached eggs or would be children. The Hen ironically named Chic asked, “Well mister what’s your good name?”
“My name is Robinson, Theeve Robinson.”
Ok, so hold on a moment, I don’t care about my breakfast, it doesn’t matter if suddenly pigs can fly and fart rainbows at the same time, I’d want to sit and listen to this conversation during a Zombie Apocalypse. I had Chic; whose eggs got poached by Theeve Robinson! Fuck the fiction behind this argument, the wordplay is just so diabolical. So, sorry there were too many eggs to crack, I got carried away, let’s resume; the conversation went as follows for I was simply an innocent bystander:
It was Chic confronting Theeve Robinson, on a sunny cold Sunday morning.
“So Mr. Theeve Robinson, you’ve robbed me off my potential son.”
Theeve looked at me and said “Ugh, Chic these days, my god.” Then he twisted his stache like a couple of tweezers and addressed Chic, “What’s youse talkin’bout? If you’re here to sell me youse eggs for half the market price, you better get off!”
“Uh uh, no bitch my eggs aren’t that cheap and even if they were whose to say I’d give it to anyone.”
“Well what do u reckon happens to your eggs Mrs. Chic?”
“Well I just assumed that one of us was infertile, I mean IVF’s so expensive these days. Cock and I, we both be chickening out”
“Maam, your owner Dickinson sold me your eggs for half a price in order to get him some good old imported Brandy, your eggs are worth less than a brandy, Dick drinks to help him sleep at night.”
Chic looked at Dick and said “ I’d be damned. Selling my babies for some cheap Brandy. No wonder you ain’t got no kids, Dick, bet you didn’t even know where to put it in.”
Her husband, Mr. Cock who was apparently all muscle and no talk looked at the floor all flaccid and pale, as if he had been worked day and night like a horse. Which was in complete contrast to the public persona which Cock had spread about him being all good and strong. When it actually came up to stand up and confront, all Cock could do was roll back into his skin.
As I was contemplating about the dichatomy of Cock’s persona, in a wild turn of events that no one saw coming, Chic bit Dick’s family jewels to rob him of his potential off-springs. As time passed after plethora of visits to the urologist, Dick would go on to be medically declared impotent. Theeve Robinson continued his ‘fowl play’ and would continue to sell brandy in exchange for cheap eggs and meat to a bunch of brandy addicted farmers he found at a local Alcohol Anonymous meetings. As for me, out of due respect for Chic, I didn’t eat the poached eggs (Dick ate it and poured it down with some brandy), I bought eggs from a poultry shop after duly inquiring about the legality of its procurement. The shop keeper was baffled and slightly amused at my line of questioning as if he’d rather believe Hitler’s alive and doing well in Argentina (more on that later). Chic and the other animals of the farm went on to topple the farmer’s tyrannical and inhumane or should I say ‘in-animal dictatorship’ and that’s how I think George Orwell got inspired to write Animal Farms.
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