My Omelets Are Too Good

My omelets are too good to eat, I've decided. They're just too fantastic. Nobody can eat them anymore. It was getting dangerous.

People who have had my deluxe homemade cheese omelets are at risk. They can hurt themselves, for one thing. They snap vertebrae in their necks flinging their heads back in rapture at how utterly delicious they are. They say MMMMMM so loud that they rupture their eardrums and the vibrations cause aortic palpitations. (If I ever have a band, it's going to be called the Aortic Palpitations.) They close their eyes so tightly in their ecstasy that sometimes they can never open them again and they have to get a seeing-eye dog. (Why can't deaf people have a hearing-ear dog?) Their taste buds freak out and leap off their tongues onto the table and run for their lives, never to be seen again. My omelets are downright hazardous to people's health.

Also, they ruin other food for life. Once you've had my omelets, nothing else is palatable again. Filet mignon tastes like a stale Big Mac. Smoked chinook salmon tastes like guppy. Escargot tastes like...well, escargot. My omelets raise the succulence bar so toweringly high that, for the rest of your born days, everything else is about as delicous as the inside of a Soviet weightlifter's jockstrap. Um...I've heard.

I used to make omelets in the morning for overnight lady guests. But I had to quit doing that. I never saw them again. Pleasure overload, I guess.

So people can't actually have my omelets anymore. They can gather 'round to look at them. They can take pictures of them. They can paint them, often in their own blood, in touching tribute to their magnificence. When people make arduous pilgrimages from distant lands, trudging over rough terrain on their lips for a single fleeting glimpse of my omelets, I sometimes take pity on them as they throng piteously in the hall outside my locked door and let them sniff them through the mail slot. But that's as far as it goes. I had to set limits. People were dying.

I put things in my omelets that don't normally go in one. Cheddar, feta, mozzarella and parmesan cheese. Bacon bits (real, not artificial). Garlic powder. Bits of turkey breast. A hint of barbecue sauce. Wine. Hot dogs. Whatever occurs to me. It all adds up to one truly transcendent experience. The English language has no words to describe it, although the Farsi word 'fnork' comes close. I don't recommend that you even think about my omelets, lest you be rendered inert by the overwhelming wonderfulness of the very notion.

No, your best bet is to put them out of your mind. Just forget it. In fact, eliminate from your recall the memory of reading this blog. Move on with your lives. You'll be better off. People who have tasted my omelets are like those who have had near-death experiences, getting a glimpse of the pure Valhallan bliss of perfect joy and then being brought back to 'life' by doctors who ruined everything by 'saving' them. Trust me on this. You're better not to know what you're missing.

But it's different for me. In fact, I'm going to go have one right now. My boys get to have one, too. All day long, they beg me for another one. They can't get used to it. The thrill never wears off. There's no immunity to heaven. But I figure they and they alone deserve it.

The rest of you? Not so much.