“Cooking My Eggs” – a (belated) valentine’s day story.

Witness The Editor hard at work.

hard at work.

Is it school work? Is he drawing a picture or writing a poem in blank verse? Is he actually editing something?

No, The Editor is hard at work putting the final touches on a Valentine’s Day card for his honey, whose arrival is eminently immanent.

It is worth describing this Valentine’s Day card. It is not of the standard Hallmark variety (though due to liberties taken with trademark, Hallmark is written across the back). The card is in fact four cards, cunningly arranged so that they form a book of sorts. The four cards were handcrafted by Mr. Campbell and Mr. Lecky (both of boxlor fame), as well as Mr. Coll (he of the Cadre) and yours truly.

It is worth describing their contents in some detail. The cover of Lecky’s work reads “Happy Valentin Day,” the inside of Campbell’s piece is adorned with the words “wet my fatty,” and Coll’s oeuvre consists of a photo-essay in which people (the four mention above) are punching The Editor in the arm. Mr. Coll’s card does deserve some extra explanation, but will not get any.

My card, in its entirety, reads: “Baby, I could really go for some eggs. How’s come I don’t smell nothing cooking?” Please note that this card reflects no misogynistic tendencies on my part. I would have anyone cook my eggs, rather than cook them myself.

Ok. I’ll admit that I’d rather have a woman cooking my eggs, but simply because if she is willing to cook my eggs there is a chance that she might also be willing to have sex with me (how’s that for logic?). While I might have equal chances vis-à-vis sex were it a man cooking my eggs, I am not so much interested. I am concerned that the phrase “cooking my eggs” has taken on new, and not entirely wholesome connotations. But I digress.

happy, happy, happy.

So the card has been assembled, and The Editor has added his words. He is smiling and pleased and none of us know why, as we are all certain that he is a dead man.

Lest I leave you with the impression that The Editor is unthoughtful or unkind, I should point out that he did enclose a ten dollar bill with the card – something the rest of us would likely not have done. Something we suggested that he might not want to do either. But what, in the end, do we know? He is The Editor.

Happy Valentine’s Day