A blog about a superhero named Tony
Tony is an old pal of mine and his blog so far is witty. I love the mix of literalism and seeming-surrealism. (If I've started my blog in a literal vein, am I allowed to turn it surreal if I want to? I've been to too many writing workshops and have imbibed too much about how you have to "prepare the reader" for what comes & etc, you know, if you're making a good little capitalist product that the people will know how to take.) Anyway, I hope Tony keeps it up.
posted by Evie P. @ 11:00:00 AM
10 Comments:
Thanks to the whisky it appears that Tony will remain in that odd position on the couch indefinitely. (Don't worry, we know a good drycleaner.) I'll tell him you said hello. I would like to make an omelet but it appears he ate most of the possible ingredients. Is it still an omelet with nothing inside?
As it happens, I know the answer to this question, and it is: yes. I am under the impression that the "omelet" is the technique: the air whipped into the eggs, the careful cooking so that the inside is _just_ dry, but only barely. Like custard.
I will capitalize on the slobbery snoring for one more brief minute (even if he wakes up he probably hasn't learned about clicking on links) and point out to you that you suggested I eat egg custard. Would you want to eat egg custard? Sounds as suspect as figgy pudding if you ask me. (It is a bit rude to point out that Tony NEVER asks me. I am well aware of the fact.)
Oh, come on! Egg custard! It even sounds, well, French!
With my newbie cooking skills, I dig any kind of food that requires technique. And eggs do.
And so few Frenchy foods are opened to ovo-vegetarians.
Call it a fried egg if you want. But I know better.
Mmmmmm, egg custard....I love egg custard....
I wish you'd get off this egg kick. Sigh.
CV
Perhaps you would like Tony to kick you instead?
It would only be fair, since I once bit Tony in the armpit. We were wrestling. We were boys. He had me pinned. What was I to do?
CV
A word to the wise, he still remembers that incident. To the point that it seems to haunt his dreams. Some nights he actually yells out in pain. You might not want to bring it up again, even though I'm sure he would have done the same thing in your position.
Spitfire turn and pop a wheelie, burn and evil chasing
I'm waving bye, bye, bye, bye, bye
I got a card in my spokes
I'm practicing my joke, I'm learning
...
Now I have to go home and listen to that CD. At high volume.
And if the neighbors complain, I'll just say, "Pish Tosh..."
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