Wheat Germ
I don't mean to brag, but I make a pretty mean fried egg and toast. The yolks crack just so and sog all over the toast in just the right way. Serve it up with orange juice, and, well, I'm the man. The Man.
If you consider people complimenting you on your eggs and toast being The Man. Which I have to, some days, as otherwise I'm an unremarkable type of guy. I put my pants on one leg at a time, comb my hair with my fingers, wash it just enough to keep it from being greasy, and burp. A lot. Which, as I found out, isn't really a valuable skill, once you get older than, say, fourteen. Twenty-five, in some cultures and most definitely in certain types of company. But the type of company I wanted to start keeping, well, they didn't find it as impressive. And so a lot of people I knew now thought I had some sort of convulsive lung behavior or something, judging by the amount of time I spent with my fist covering my mouth, body rocking with the force of pent up belches. You know your life in college hadn't prepared you for the "real world" when you're spasming in a business meeting with your boss shooting you looks that oscillate between concern for your welfare and concern for the impression you're making on the client.
I'm in marketing, by the way. So you'd think I'd be able to sell myself better, being in a field that's express purpose is to make you really want things to the point that you can't do without them. But I can't. Back to the eggs for one quick sec, that particular skill did help me out, once, as I got to fry a couple of eggs quick when they were needed for a photo shoot on the next floor down, and the photographer was complaining the chemical/plasticky substitutes they were using downstairs were unacceptable. The photographer was just running around, complaining loudly, like this photographer does, about how the eggs were "too stiff, too stiff!" I just leaned back in my chair, stuck my head out into the hallway, which is normally a very dangerous thing to do, as convenient as it is as a means of seeing who it is is talking to you. People just fly up and down those hallways in marketing firms. I don't know if it's like that in other industries, but I've seen a couple near fatalities in the hallway just due to an inopportune head bob, as I like to call it. At any rate, so I did it, I head bobbed out into the corridor, and mentioned, loudly, as well, that I could fry a mean egg (but that I didn't like to brag... I know, much more and it'll seem suspiciously like I do like to brag), if that was any help. The photographer's head bobbed around the end of the hallway, and the next thing I knew, I was downstairs, frying eggs while topless models walked around. I saw a few of the chemical-based eggs, as well, and I have to say, "Definitely too stiff."
So frying eggs. It comes in handy. Not often, sure, but have you seen topless models, who were sooner rather than later wearing your own fried eggs across their breasts as they got their picture taken for some ad campaign or another? No, I didn't think so.
Lesson learned, kids. Thanks for having me to show and tell.
Summary
disclaimer:
Kids, listen, be good, we're off for a few weeks. Off like not in the office. Off and out with Clare girls in bikinis.
But the issues will still be here, we have our trusty robot doing the sort of magic stuff they do to publish the issue next week, written by a Real, Live Human, and you'll be able to enjoy your usual buffet of Sane Magazine-y goodness. Fortified with vitamins, if you read it while you're eating vitamins.
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