So here’s what happened to me. First, the parasites got me, and they got me good.

Then, in a beautifully timed attack, my carton of eggs went bad.

All body aches and bad stomach pain and sometimes the full chowder-blow, parasites or bad eggs who knows. But seeing as I wasn’t really recovered from the parasites and I’ve never had parasites before to know, I figured it’s part of the process.

As they say, the best thinking is done in the bathroom. At three in the morning Sunday in the bathroom I set to doing some really good thinking and realized that my carton of eggs was bad.

Up till three in the morning Sunday, I’m pretty sure I’ve never actually felt honest anger in my heart towards a food item.

I threw them in the garbage. But I’m still angry.

I fear that the beloved American Easter traditions will never be the same for me. The next time I see that giant white and pink two-eared harbinger of those hideous illness-bearing ovalish-spheric white weapons disguised in garish pastel-themed paint, the twin-barrel is coming out quicker than you can say Cadbury’s. Three and a half inch magnum.