For the first time in two years I’m up to my ass in eggs. I’ve just been taking the ones the pullets crack, because they won’t keep, and I’ve still got more than I can use. Landlady is going to grit her teeth, pretending it’s a smile…
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They say that Louis XIV had the inscription Ultima Ratio Regum cast into all the cannon of the French Army. It means “The Ultimate Argument of Kings,” and that always struck me as one of the most honest and up-front things any ruler or would-be ruler ever said. “We can dress it up prettier than this, but when it comes down to the unvarnished truth this is what it’s about: You’ll do as I say or I’ll send my goons to kill you.”
I thought about that for a long time. If there’s an ultimate argument, it seems only logical that there must be an ultimate answer. For years I thought the ultimate answer must be the bullets in my rifle, but it never seemed quite right. I’ve got bullets – he’s got frigging Cannon Balls. I mean, if there were three hundred million rifles throwing bullets at him, then maybe. But we all know that’s not going to happen. So if there’s an ultimate answer to his ultimate argument, it sure as hell ain’t bullets.
It finally came to me – and that’s when I abandoned the city and most of my stuff, and gave all that was behind me a good stiff Randian Shrug.
The ultimate answer to kings is not a bullet, but a belly laugh.
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I suspect that LB might enjoy some fried eggs. Or scrambled eggs. Of course, you might need to ventilate the Lair a while later, but what the heck.
If the shell is cracked but the membrane’s intact, I keep it for consumption the next morning.
If the shell is badly broken but the egg isn’t leaking, I give it to LB who eats it with pleasure.
If the whole thing’s totaled, I toss it back to the chickens. Who fall on it like starving cannibals.
It”s funny about your issue, I was just talking to a neighbor who has the same problem with his small chicken operation. One thing he has going for him is a couple of kids who will do the work for an allowance. He is rather paranoid about it because if word gets around to the township he will get his knuckles rapped. Our little slice of goodness isn’t zoned for farm animals. Being the nice guy I am I keep my yap shut so every now and then I get a dozen eggs and once a year I get a chicken to put in the pot. I know I’m a bad person but hey, there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.