The Daily Anal

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Lube or No Lube:  The Breakfast Scramblers

This morning I sat patiently in line waiting to order my breakfast.  Tuesday typically brings a fistful of hard boiled eggs and the special pancakes (this week: blueberries and cream).  I do this every week; I am predictable.  Well, unless the special pancakes suck like last week, then I order scrambled eggs.

Patterns aside, usually when I’ve got 10 minutes to wait in line for something I figure out what I want by the time I get up there.  There are a handful of situations where I don’t, but they’re usually extenuating.  For example:

  1. Somebody killed themselves earlier that morning
  2. I just discovered another life long virus living on my balls
  3. Or I showed up to work drunk and stoned, again.

Now, you see, most people don’t live the lives I lead.  They don’t show up to work high, they’re friends don’t die, or they just don’t fuck.  Given this incredibly enlightening former statement, sometimes I just have to wonder.

What the fuck?

What the fuck takes people so fucking long to know what they want for breakfast?

When there’s literally three things you can order?

Do you not know what you like in your eggs?  I mean you’re fucking 35 years old.  

Is this about maximizing your 3 dollars and 50 fucking cents by making sure you get as many ingredients as possible?  And, since you actually only like two fucking things, you’ve got to think long and hard?

Or, is it the extra 50 cents you don’t want to spend on the fifth ingredient inciting your short term memory issues.  Yes, let’s list off what you ordered, since you don’t know anymore.

Or maybe I’m just extra fucking hungry after the gym.  No Lube for the breakfast scramblers.  But I suppose spit is a reasonable middle ground.