All the egg jokes the universe has ever made

This is a blog post the purpose of which is to use all the possible egg jokes in the universe. Once all these egg jokes have been made for once and for all, it is hoped we will be able to move on, to become involved in other fruitful and fulfilling activities, to forgive, and to forget.

For reference purposes, here is an egg.


It would be no eggsageration to say that this is an eggslempary eggsample of an egg. It doesn't matter whether you show this egg to your eggs-wife or your eggs-husband, all will agree it is simply an eggstrodinary egg. You may think I am just egging you on, but the yolk is on you. You can save that one for the albumen, for, after all, just how many yolks is it possible for someone to crack? It's all-white if you're a pavlova or just frankly discustard with the eggstenuating circumstances I have eggsaustively listed here, for omelette you get away with whatever you want to say now, because I officially declare these egg jokes ova. You can search all the way through your leggsicon for related egg-corns or whatever, but I'd be surprised if you could eggstend the yolk much further. Though, good Cod, I suppose you could roe out to really deep waters, but if you could make omelette out of caviar, that would be a real beat up, and we'd all end up with egg all over our face. Though now that I come to think of it, a positive Googolpleggs of words now occurs to me, so I might be some time....

To be continued....

Pleasing things

Round baskets.

Spotty animals. All spotty animals in general, but especially irregularly spotted animals as it is fun to look at them and try and guess where the next spot will be. If you are with friends, you could make a game of it.

An open window with a cat sitting on the sill.

Going for a walk in a nice area and passing by a street which you could decide to walk down. Even if you do not, the little glimpse of this street is soothing to the eye and remains as a future possibility for exploration.

A summer day when it is cool enough for you to wear a jumper, or lie in bed in the morning with a blanket on.

Wearing socks on the couch.

Hereby offering my services to farm out slogans for community radio

"Welcome to community radio! The station for the whole community to ignore!"
"It's got the word 'community' in it!"
"Something something something something vibrant something something something!"
"Help! We're trapped in your radio! Let us out!

Horehound!

"An invasive species", says Wikipedia, "is a plant or animal that is not native to a specific location (an Introduced species); and has a tendency to spread, which is believed to cause damage to the environment, human economy and/or human health." So when we're talking about weeds, it's a plant that's everywhere you don't want it to be, taking up all the space for every plant that you want to be there. Basically, all the best plants are weeds here in Victoria. Dandelions are weeds. Apples, hilariously, are weeds. Fennel is a weed - at the shops the other day to buy some fish I saw fennel sprouting up out of the pavement, causing me to have visions of plucking fresh fennel to go with the fresh fish that I was going to get - though, as it turned out, the shop was all out of fish. Nettle is a weed, St John's Wort is a weed, blackberry, delicious blackberry is a weed of national significance, and horehound is a weed too.

I've been searching a lot for horehound lately, with very little success: posts on this forum and that forum asking if anyone had some in their backyard, searches on the Weeds databases on government websites, and so on. Horehound, as it turns out, is an invasive weed that is actually quite difficult to find - except, I suppose, if you don't want to find it. Perhaps a better definition of 'weed' in this case would be 'a plant that's everywhere you don't want it to be unless you want it to be'. Yes, well, I'll keep working on that one.

You might ask, at this point, why did I want this plant to be anywhere anyway? Yes, well, good question. You see, horehound is a brewing herb, a good base bittering component for ales. It's in the mint family, so on top of that bittering you'll get a minty, almost desserty flavour out of it - very well-suited for the darker ales. They used to make lollies from it (the weed, I mean, not the ale). I picked up some from an Organics store in Bright last year which I now suppose must have been shipped in at preposterous cost from an exotic locale far removed from these fair shores, which, considering it's a weed that can go invasive here in Australia, does seem rather eccentric.

Anyway, finally, we found a source of the allegedly-invasive horehound yesterday. A few posts on the Permaculture forum on Facebook and we found a wonderful permacultural-minded soul who had a few back paddocks full of the stuff. On presenting ourselves in aforementioned paddock yesterday afternoon, we did indeed find this dreaded weed, quietly marauding its way over acres of land, with a bunch of cows standing about apparently ignorant of the dire situation they were in, and a peppercorn tree in a similar state of denial. Who knows what would have happened to us if we hadn't picked the horehound we needed, stuffed it in bags, and went on our way? Probably nothing, which is what is all the more scary about it.

There's not really much to tell in this story - it's really another one of my endless anecdotes that never goes anywhere and takes a long time about it as well - but this is why this morning found me binding up sheaves of horehound and hanging it up in the shed to dry out. 

Hey, it was either the weed or me, man.

Critic speak

The poems are full of fine moments of attention and crystalline, lucid images and overall the poems work to discover value and meaning in the world.

Crikey, I thought when I first read this, who talks like this? I mean, people have a go at poets for not using ordinary language (and we don't) but this slip - from a judge - sounds to me like it's coming from another world. I mean, if you're reading a book of poetry, could you imagine someone coming up to you in the street and asking, "Are the poems full of fine moments of attention?" "I'm looking for something with images that are crystalline, but also lucid". Huh?

Critic speak I've called it, because obviously, critics do it too; it's something critics and judges do in common - apply their critical faculties to a work of art and then describe it evaluatively. This isn't a particularly bad example - questions about just what 'fine moments of attention' are (is the attention 'refined', or are the moments of attention just 'fine', ie, good)? You see the same tics in music or art gallery reviews or whatever - the problem is simple, and hard: how to convey something of the experience of a work of art without, you know, actually reproducing the work of art? You can't, obviously, though you can try, which is why critics and judges tumble over themselves to produce language which tries to be both descriptive and coolly analytical, all at once.

Just this morning Dr Cat spotted the following phrase critically applied: "achingly gritty". Not so much mixed metaphor as mixed cliche - though at least it has more spring in its step than "grittily achy", or whatever. Mind you, once I was watching one of those ABC list programs where readers vote on their top ten favourite whatevers and the host - in this case Myf Warhurst - attempted to find the adequate critic speak for each of the books (okay, it was books). The top book was one of those predictable bestsellers, and Warhurst described it as "A guilty pleasure which we can all read without guilt". Um, okay then...though personally, I rather like the sound of the phrase, "A guilty pleasure which we can all read without delight", and I feel certain there are plenty of books this can be applied to accurately.

It might be fun to ask these sort of questions of critics at critics festivals, or wherever it is that they all hang out, though: "the book you're reading - is it achingly gritty?" "Does it cast a coruscating eye over the post-industrial subjectivity we are imbricated in, or is it more a lazy summer afternoon read that we should all make time for?" "Do you give it four stars, or is that the television guide?" Go on! Try it yourself! Let me know how you go! I'll just be right here waiting for you to report back.

Poem for over-interpreting

Poem for over-interpreting

She was healthy and wealthy and fair beyond words,

He was handsome and witty and tall

Together they went for a night on the town

And did absolutely nothing at all.

UPDATE! -

Poem for over-interpreting #2
They talked about Shakespeare and poems and cats
She thought him to be quite refined
As they stood all alone in the library stacks
And - wipe that image from your mind.

NOTANOTHERUPDATE! - 

Poem for over-interpreting #3
He said that he couldn't.
She said that he might.
She thought that he wouldn't.
He said "it's not right".

So he ordered the fair-trade Latte instead. 

From the Romance of the Weed

CHAPTER ye NINTH
CONTAINING ye MOST NOBLE ADVENTURE of ye BLACKBERRY

And yt came to passe that BARON VON HARLOT and SQUIRE TIM did essay forth up ye mountain in search of further heroic exploits and noble deeds. For there, they heard tell, lived a puissant LORD who had come into these parts from landes afar, and brought all the villages to meek subjection and cowardly abasement.
And yt was passing strange, for, some of the people did say he was a cruel and fell tyrant, who did wreak devastation and waste upon ye face of ye land; but, contrary, did some of ye people say, he was a kind and generous Lord, with gifts of bounty and plenty, and many fared from afar to marveil at his great richnesse of heart and plentiful spirit.
And for some of ye year, he did make his presence known thorough ye land, with sundry messengers and knights; but, for many months, he did keep withinne his demesnes, and whether he slept, or was sicke, they wot not.
So, ye BARON said to TIM, let us see this puissant Lord for ourself, and, God wot, some good may come of yt.

 

The Baron's hands staineth vermillion with the blood of 
our enemy

Ye day was fair when they set out on their journey, and there were but few welkins, and TIM did say, My Lady doth wear her blue mantle right well this day, and ye BARON said, who is this lady thou talkst of? And ye sun was high in ye sky and they began to pant and weary and wish for a drink to slake their thirst, for their provisions were but few.
And presently, they came to a mountain pass, and right by that pass there stood a fearsome GIANT, bearing a sword in arm outstretched, so that they did think ye way was barred. But then ye giant did say,

Step under or over, do what ye wille,
Yet I will stand here guarding stille. 

 So, after much debate, they walked under ye arm of ye giant, who for his part moved not from his spot. And so they fared forth up the mountain.
Ye road was but bare and worn, and presently did it give way to a rough pass. But on either side of ye pass did stand two GIANTS with fearsome visage, both larger than ye giant before them. And they did hold their swords before them, pointing unto ye ground, and say,

Further travel, if ye dare
Into my MASTER'S lands to fare.

Then with much trepidation did ye BARON and TIM venture forward, stepping gently over ye swords, and yet ye giants moved not. And so they fared on up ye mountain.

 

Markes of friendes

Now, high above ye fair town of BRIGHTENING, did they come to a castle ypight in Stately Gardens, most plenteously endight with every good thing of Goddes creation.
But bespread over the garden grounds were one hundred and one fearsome GIANTS, each one large than ye other.
And some did carry sword or sabre, and some did carry mace, and some did darrain themselves with javelin or spear, or prepare for wrestling, in armour bespread all over with spikes, and all did roar defiance, crying

If our MASTER you would see,
Why then, SIR, you must pass by me. 

 And they did wail and snarl and gnash their teeth most terribly, but, being giants, did move but slowly, so ye BARON and TIM did draw their swords and hope to come to ye castle still. And as they pressed onward thorough the garden, lo, did this giant press on one side, and ye other press on ye other side, and this giant in spiked armour did lay hold of TIM's hand, and then three more enclosed in around them, emprisoning them in a wall of spears and of swords, but still, by dextrous manoeuvre, did they escape, and come to the castle gate.
And, behold, yt did open for them, and as yt did open, as one did ye giants fall back. And there in ye castle was a fair table, well bespread with all manner of sweetmeats, and fine red wine, and fruit of every description, and amidst it all stood LORD BLACK, laughing with arms outspread.
And he did welcome them in, and ply them with many welcome refreshments and giftes for their own Lorde.
And they stayed that nighte and many nightes after at LORD BLACK'S castle, passing ye hours in song and poetry and in ye making of witty jestes and hearty catches and rondelays.

Our puissant foe.

Naked

Have been having some field days yesterday and today with the Baron and the Baron Mother, in Bright and Beechworth and surrounds. Speaking of field days, Freud would have a few himself if he heard half of the Freudian slips made, or maybe he wouldn't, because the Freudian slips aren't slips at all, they're all deliberate and unabashed and loud and clear. Allow me to present a small sample:

"Oh, look, naked ladies!"
"Another naked lady!"
"There's some naked ladies!"
"Naked lady, naked lady, naked lady!"
"Nice naked ladies in that front garden".
"Perhaps we should have some naked ladies on our nature strip".

The naked lady, as I'm sure you're all aware, is a flower, though that doesn't stop all of the sentences above sounding like the lubricious exclamations of a person with autism in a brothel. The last sentence sounds particularly lascivious, creating an image of sportive nymphs performing exercises from dawn 'til dusk upon the lawn. Oh, and walking up the hill today, the following dialogue occurred:

BARON: "Look, those naked ladies are hiding under some bushes."
TIM: "Now you're just doing it on purpose."

Is there such a thing, then, as a reverse Freudian slip, where a person uses a perfectly lewd phrase and actually means something completely innocent, like 'gardening' or 'doing a lovely bit of embroidery'? Because maybe that's what's happening here?


Va va va voom....

In conclusion, NAKED. LADIES.

(If that doesn't get the salubrious gardening types visiting this blog, then I don't know what will.)

UPDATE! -
"Look, naked ladies outside the church!" 
"Hey, there's a lot of naked ladies in this town!"