Okay then. So this is the first in what I hope will become a series of written and illustrated adventures detailing the warped, illogical, and ultimately mislead shenanigans carried out by me and my friend Burrito. Unfortunately, this adventure is only half illustrated, as the idea of taking pictures of the ensuing nonsense hadn't occurred to us until things started getting really strange. So join us in the first chapter of what is sure to become a giant book of ridiculousness and damnation: Good Fucking Christ.

2:16 AM: Safeway
Whether the eggs were truly on sale or there had been a winter mirage of the moonlight reflecting off the epitome of what it is now to be known as a price tag, destiny could only discern. Nevertheless, seventy-two eggs were bought. Grade A, mind you. These were high quality eggs, for if we had bought shit, we probably would have been pitching it into a fan instead. We bought a box of sixty, and then another carton of twelve, just to be sure. Miles before we reached the checkstand, we had anticipated the reaction from the cashier. Teenagers don't buy seventy-two eggs at 2:16 AM unless they have lots of vampires to feed, and our last vampire had gone off on a pilgrimage to Colombia in the hours of the preceding fortnight. "What are all these eggs for?" the cashier asked. Burrito, in all his glory, proclaimed: "The world's biggest omelette."

2:32 AM: Burrito's House
Twas time to find a bat. We found one of those metal ones that will truly murder your hand in the game of baseball. We were not about to play baseball, however, so we set forth wrapping a towel around this reverberating death wand. The reason for this was not clear. I figured Burrito had a thing for Arab-looking bats. I'll admit, that towel-wrapped bat was quite the looker, but appeared more African in its persuasion as the towel had been decorated with delightful artwork of a sunrise in hot reds and yellows (it was still no Beyoncé). The Nigerian gods of harvest were to be with us on this shell shattering, egg splattering, chick embryo slaughtering transition from manhood to beacon of foolishness¹.

2:41 AM: The Park
Dark and barren. Truly the place for children to get their play on if you wish to raise your little bundle of joy into one of our very own drug-trafficking, frequent flying vampires. Teach your insomniac-stricken child of the night to walk to South America; what they save in health and wealth they lose in dry roasted peanuts and the chance to listen to pre-released movies starring David Spade through a pair of rubber straws in the midst of a turbulent flight through a violent white haze of overly dense death gas perceived by your confused son to be something that tastes like candy.

The park was next to the river. Our plan was to strike the eggs with our Arab-African bat and send their disassembled chickenjizz remains soaring into the river. We started with our independent carton of 12 eggs; the box of 60 looked too pretty to open. As we took turns swinging the bat, we realized it weighed slightly less than a mid-sized Ford truck, and as such, could not be accelerated from 0 to 5mph before the time it took for an egg to plant itself in the immediate snow. A frustrating problem to say the least.

As we unraveled our Arabian friend, his weight was lost at lipo-speed, and we were off! *WHACK* Egg everywhere! ... Not into the river. All over our clothes and feet. There now stands eggplants in the few places where the eggjism actually managed to make contact with the snow. There also stands Rupert, the west-Guatemalan farmer with a spunky attitude and the scars to back it up, planting eggplants periodically so people will actually believe me when I say I planted eggplants with eggs and an aluminum termination beam.

It was cold, our clothes were yucky, and either a moose or a sniper was peering at us from the riverside, and if the volume of those swishing sounds were any indication, was doing a piss-poor job at whatever he/it did. In the case of a sniping moose, well, I'm not sure how loud sniping moose typically are, but if someone was paying it by the decibel, I hope he wasn't making more than $2500 out of the deal. We decided to go back to Burrito's house and decide what to do with the box of 60 remaining eggs.

3:04 AM: Burrito's House Part 2
Something was in the air, and it sure as hell wasn't love. The sheer velocity with which this idea conglomerate into our collective head was worthy of the special olympics (Gold medal. We have the power to retard the retarded). A week or so before this trusty day of misadventure, some people and/or peoples had stolen Burrito's dad's beer off his deck. It was neither I nor Burrito, but we had no objection to pretending our big box of eggs was a present from these teenage hooligans.

3:04 AM: Gift From The Beer Thieves

Harmless and inviting. These beer thieves meant no ill will, they just wanted to get drunk to the point of buying forgiveness eggs a week after the fact. If Jesus were alive today (or if someone dug up his body from my back yard and fed him coffee), he'd probably be able to turn beer into chickens. I have my doubts that he'd be able to produce that liquid eggshit, and wrapping a fragile shell around the whole glob would probably be as difficult as a mere mortal trying to build a tower of cards. But going the route of the full chicken could probably get him laid at a gothic nightclub (where else would a coffee-driven dead Jesus hang out... besides Colombia with the vampire or at the park with those scary pale little shits).

April Fools! ... In the middle of October! The top three dark blobs were either our signals to Colombians far and wide: Give us Shakira² in exchange for our washed up vampire. Blood suckers don't have bulls-eyes; damn albino heroin fiend... or the blobs were a sign that we fucked up the word April, being high on nothing but our own stupidity and all. To Hell with the gold metal, I demand platinum. All jokes aside, neighbors were already putting up their pretentious, motion-simulating Christmas lights (alas, there's twice as many blue as every other color³) and I had seen Santa dumpster diving with Captain Planet. This couldn't possibly be April. Captain Planet was a mess, looks like he gained weight, is starting to go bald, and got a pink Power Ranger tattoo on his lower back, not that I was looking (I was).

Eggs are the key. Not the key to the blue door, the door to the ninth piece of the triforce. Probably not the key to your lost beer either, for that would be the sewage system. What we have here is a key, nay... an invitation to lose your fucking mind. Follow the eggs' guidance, dig deeper. Let me give you one piece of advice. Be honest. He knows more than you can imagine.

Meet the Morpheus egg. His faith is strong and he believes in you, beer-thieved egg journeyman. Although not the official councilmen of Zion (formally Eggsfield Gev TcT, before the fellow with the eye patch labelled the name insensitive to the ex-slave egg community, whom, among other things, spent 14-hour days in the fields reproducing via the grapevine extrapolation vertical timesex conundrum technique, code named G.E.V.T.C.T. Coincidence was never a consideration), Morpheus Egg holds a sort of patchwork power over the society of pseudo-anarchy and social unrest. Morpheus was the one who chose the word Zion to shroud the new generation from the dark past of Eggsfield Gev TcT.

Shunned. Outcast. The STD egg; absolute center of attention. Sexually transmitted diseases were nearly unheard of up through the late '90s. Tramp. Whore. City of eggs, call this fellow what you want, but remember this little guy was once as happy-go-lucky and care-free as the rest of you. It only takes one bad needle. On the other hand, when you're experimenting with injecting crunchy peanut-butter into your upper cranium, your life isn't exactly headed down pleasentville lane. In due time, STD Egg will become another offering to Colombia to up the ante on Shakira².

The birds-eye-view of this tightly-knit community, demonstrating in clear view their prejudice against those citizens with the Funky Blood⁴. Deep are the secrets in this town. The egg wearing the top hat bears deep within him the shadowy secrets of his home life. Nasty things are on his mind; specifically several plates of shell he had beaten off of his wife during the early afternoon preceding this picture. His salvation lies in the stillborn fetus encased in his bowels, for if the chick were still alive, his secrets would spill out for all to see.

Non-beer-thieving egg givers cast long shadows in the heart of winter. I found myself overwhelmed by the feeling of losing loved ones. The future of our little yoke-hoarding ellipsoid biological bastard children fell on the shoulders of no one in particular. Burrito and I were merely pawns in a plan long forsaken by the lord, and Jesus had indulged himself in liver amplifying substances to the extent of improvising his 19-inch moon unit into a makeshift power saw. Life as you know it is over, my children. The time has come to find peace in accepting the fate of the powers that be. This photo was taken for dramatic effect, we actually put the box of eggs on the deck, where the beer had been stolen.

10:00 AM: The Awakening
The events that took place the following morning, as they happened, are a little hazy. Nevertheless, they happened something like this: Burrito woke from his slumber, and headed up to the kitchen, where his dad was cooking eggs for breakfast. "Burrito, take a look at what I found this morning on the deck." ... "What is it father?" ... "The beer thieves came back and left me these eggs. You gotta be careful, there's some strange fucking people out there." ... "Where'd you get the eggs for breakfast?" ... "I'm not gonna let those eggs go to waste." ... "Lord in heaven."

¹Beacon of Foolishness

²Shakira

³Blue and purple Christmas lights look the same to me!

⁴Funky Blood: The alias of AIDS' fabled, mutated twin. Born of industry and riches, thriving on the lifestyle of the stars, infectious on a scale many orders lower than that of humanoids. A threat to any ecosystem in which it can find itself present. A breeding ground for paranoia and prejudices.