You, kid who we pelted with six dozen eggs, may hate the memory of two carloads of punks egging you on Halloween night in 1996, but understand we had no choice. There are times when the universe demands hilarity and we don’t dare deviate from fate.
When you and your friends launched one solitary egg at our cars, splattering albumen across the rear quarter panel of our grey Hyundai, how were you to know our car and the one following contained six punks and thirty dozen eggs? You had no idea that an employee at the local supermarket, a kid from school eager to impress, loaded a case and a half of free eggs into the trunks of two compact sedans. We only intended to purchase a few eggs and punish an inconsiderate employer, but the unexpected boon of such a cache of ammunition unleashed a torrent of adolescent mayhem. At the moment you hurled your measly egg, you had no foreknowledge of your target’s prior rampage involving broken windowpanes, two people knocked over by ovum to the head, a near escape from police, homes and businesses and even places of worship slimed. Pre-embryonic chickens flew from our front and back seats, covering the rural New England hamlet with mischievous ejaculate. Like you, we were kids with eggs energized by the spirit of Halloween. We just had a lot more eggs.
When we passed the grassy street corner leading into your subdivision and you egged us, you unknowingly faced a power imbalance akin to an arrow launched at a battleship. We planned to bypass your subdivision, so cops wouldn’t corner us in a cul-de-sac, but your egg toss was an invitation we could not refuse. We braked, pulled over and retaliated with overwhelming force. The universe gave us no choice. What other outcome could there be?
You could have run and minimized your punishment, but, as your friends fled into the safety of an arborvitae hedgerow, you stood your ground, arms defiantly crossed, taking shot after shot as we exited our vehicles and ran closer to hit the unmoving target – you – with more accuracy. You maintained a stoic posture as your grey t-shirt and blue jeans darkened and ectoplasm globbed your hair and yolk erupted on your cheek, shell sticking to the impact site. Don’t blame us that your misguided attempt at dignity forced the universe to manifest cliché in all the egg on your face.
So, kid we pelted with six dozen eggs on Halloween night in 1996, we hope you remember your noble stand with pride. That would be hilarious, too. We will not ask your forgiveness, nor do we suffer residual guilt. Witnessing slapstick reality is a type of miracle, and we are grateful your mysterious obstinance brought that miracle into being.