Omelets? They’re—GASP!—Overrated

Time for your weekly edition of the Defector Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. And buy Drew’s book, The Night The Lights Went Out, while you’re at it. Today, we're talking about skull caps, undercooked bacon, sports dadding, and more.

Your letters:

Alex:

I can’t rank the egg preparations, Alex. Come on. That’d be like ranking my children. Sure, Joe Burrow is obviously my favorite child, but I can’t just say that OUT LOUD. That would be uncouth. The other kids have done some stuff too, you know. One of them even fed the dog the other day. I can’t just ignore that.

I eat eggs nearly every day, because it’s good for my heart and colon. I’ll even eat the sad hotel buffet eggs with little compunction. I love all my eggy friends, and I love to mix up the preparation so that I don’t get tired of any one recipe. Sometimes I make scrambled eggs like my mom does: slow on the stove top, with an extra pat of butter mixed in toward the end for extra goodness. This is how I make midnight eggs, and it always reminds me of Mom, which makes me happy (she’s not dead or anything; I just like the reminder). Sometimes I make dry scrambled eggs for tacos. Sometimes I make toad in the hole. Sometimes I soft boil an egg in my ramen. Any salad I order that has a poached egg on top of it elicits an instant boner. Truly, there’s no wrong way to go. Unless I break the yolk by accident. Then the world must pay.

That said, I’m paid to answer the tough questions here, so let do my dirty sinful business and reluctantly grade the egg styles, as Alex requested. Please note that I will revise these rankings in my head on the hour, every hour, after they have been published.

1. Scrambled
2. Fried in bacon, sunny side up
3. Deviled (NOTE: I have discounted my hatred of mayo from these rankings because I respect deviled egg fanboys too much to punish them for mayo’s sins)
4. Over easy
5. Soft boiled
6. Hard boiled
7. Poached
8. Over hard
9. Omelet
10. Baked
11. Quiche (I don’t like quiche but I know I’m an outlier on that one)

I’m sure I’m missing a few in there—like when an egg is stir fried into my moo shu pork, for instance—but this is my best initial effort. I usually favor whichever preparation yields the MOST eggs for me to eat, but that’s nonsensical on at least two different levels.

But there is one thing that I know for certain here: omelets are forever overrated. They are not BAD, and I won’t indulge those who say so. I’ll eat an omelet. I’ve ordered omelets, often by default because I didn't want anything else on the menu. I’ve stood at a breakfast buffet and marveled at the stupid omelet station. But the end product is usually dry, boring, and better off as a big ol’ mess of scrambled eggs plus fillings. There are superior omelets, like Japanese tamago or this French-style omelet that takes a lot of time and effort to master. But in general, most omelets are boring as shit. I’ve lived long enough to know this truth.

Matt:

I don’t care. I’m happy for them personally, but I don’t rock a half-and-half jersey or anything, like some pining loser. Even when Randy Moss, my favorite player of all time, got traded away, I didn’t fan-stalk him. If Moss had won a ring with the unbeaten Pats, I would have been happy for him, but I still wanted the Pats to lose that game and I’m happy that they did. Once you’re off my team, you’re off my team. You’re not my concern anymore, and there’s no point in me being like MEW MEW HE COULD HAVE DONE ALL THAT COOL SHIT WITH US IF HE WAS STILL HERE because I know that isn’t how it works.

This makes me a mercenary fan in many ways. I’ve been trained by The System to view my favorite players less as my favorite players and more as—deep sigh—assets, whose value is ever fluctuating. In a purer world, I tear my hair out anytime one of my favorite players leaves and, worse, flourishes in new environs. But that’s some serious 1960 shit. We have free agency. You have to embrace the turnover. Keeps things fresh. I never wanna be like Seinfeld and go, “Ew, I’m just cheering for laundry!” I’m old but I’m not THAT old. Shit changes in life. You get used to it.

Andy:

Stop going. I’m not saying that to be judgey, I’m just saying it’s the right move both for you and for your son. He’s so young that he and his friends are only beginning to learn what sports are. They don’t understand the rules yet. They don’t care about winning. They may not even grasp the concept of winning yet. All of that takes time. So it does you no good to stand there expecting him to play like an athlete 10 years older, and it does him no good to be out there knowing his insane dad is watching his every move. You gotta let go and let your son learn the game on his own, at his own pace. It’s not a clean trajectory. He may even quit after a while. All of that is perfectly normal. He’s learning, and you have to give him the time and, in this case, the distance, to do that learning. You don’t wanna be the Sports Parent everyone reads about.

I remember when my daughter first started playing basketball, all the kids would congregate at midcourt and just hang. During games. And I’d be like, “Hey man, you guys need to play.” But they were all, like, second graders. This was their first time playing an organized sport, and my first time watching one of my kids play an organized sport. NONE of us knew what we were doing. So I let go and chilled the fuck out. To this day, I never coach my kids from the stands (you get tossed for doing so). I just cheer and shout GREAT PASS! and other anodyne niceties. It works. Their games are their own now.

Peter:

Is he, or is he merely a modern chef who prefers his pork belly on the toothsome side? Big Restaurant has conditioned many young urban upstarts to eat a whole slab of bacon like it’s a piece of steak, you know. I’ve eaten such things. I’ve made porchetta, which is crispy on the outside but does have less rendered pork belly toward the center. It’s fucking delicious. The key ingredient … is fat.

So no, your BIL isn’t a monster. He at least still likes bacon and isn’t some “Bacon Isn’t Good!” dipshit looking to start a fight on Twitter (my omelet take, by comparison, is highly intelligent and nuanced). If he takes it on the rare side, that’s between him and his tapeworms. My own kids didn’t like crispy bacon at the outset. They liked it “chewy,” which sounds repellent until you remember that nitrates and fat still factor heavily into the recipe. I ate some of their chewy bacon, and I’d do it again. Any bacon beats no bacon.

Isaac:

Noooooooooooo. No, it does not. Teams should be where the people are. I don’t want fucking Laramie to get an NBA team just because it’s mean that California already has so many of them. We already have the U.S. Senate set up that way and guess what? It fucking blows. I hope the Senate is destroyed in a gasoline explosion.

I don’t want my sports leagues reflecting some bullshit ideal of how the country ought to be laid out. These are not egalitarian endeavors. These are the big leagues, god dammit. I goof on Colin Cowherd and other professional yappers for endlessly going on about market size when they’ve got radio time to fill. But secretly, I’m as indifferent to a backwater NBA matchup like Spurs/Pacers as everyone else. Gimme the big towns. Everyone else can eat a bag of shit. THAT MEANS YOU, GREEN BAY. If you don’t like New York or L.A. dominating the conversation, tough shit. Wait till an election year and you’ll hear plenty about Bumblefuck America and all the precious, hardworkin’ folk who live there. They are not an attention-deprived lot.

Dave:

I care! I find it interesting. I don’t want people to go full Jill Stein Mode on me and detail every dream they’ve ever had. But usually, when someone in my family tells me about a recent dream, it’s a rare occurence and it’s usually because they found the dream notable. Like if we fled an earthquake in it, etc. Then we’ve got something to talk about, rather than them simply unloading their subconscious ephemera onto me simply to waste my attention.

Also, if I was in your dream, I automatically care. How was I in it? Did my hair look good? Did everyone else in the dream know that I’m cool and famous? These details are important. They may portend something vital about your life and what your future holds.

HALFTIME!

Dave:

If your wife doesn’t like the skull cap, I have bad news for you, amigo: its days are numbered. You’re gonna have to find an alternative. My first suggestion, of course, is to see a doctor about your ear, since it sounds like a rather serious problem that could potentially be solved with the right treatment.

But let’s go ahead and assume you’ve already done that, and that your ear is what it is. In that case, your hat is essentially a prescription remedy. You need it, so I have no other recommendation other than trying on different hats (no metaphor intended). Even a different color skull cap. That way, your old lady knows that you’re making a concerted effort to look better, but she also understands that you really do need some sort of covering to keep your ear, and your head by extension, protected from rogue elements. Maybe you can rock a headband, a la Chris Gatling. Maybe throw a few elbows whole you’re heading toward the fridge. Let people know that you’re into a more physical brand of snacking.

Back when I went deaf, I had to wear hats routinely because I still had swelling from cochlear implant surgery. My hat kept the implant processor stuck to my head. But then the swelling went down and I no longer had to do that, which was good because I’ve aged out of hats. I used to love to rock baseball caps. Rocked them all the way through high school and college. Wore them backward to let people know I was cool. Sometimes wore a winter hat inside so that people knew I was a deep-thinking kind of guy. No longer. My head is too fucking hot to wear a hat all day long. My hair gets matted with sweat. My scalp gets sore. I’ll wear a hat outside for sun protection, but that’s strictly a medical dad thing. In general, I need my head to be free. I don’t judge other guys for wearing hats, but I’m old enough to know what’s comfortable and what isn’t.

Oh! What about a visor for Dave? Probably a dealbreaker. Usually is.

Drew (not me):

Well yes, but that doesn’t necessarily coincide with career longevity. Kurt Cobain was one of the most talented musicians to ever live but his career only lasted a few short years because he, uh, died by suicide. Not a flawless example, but you get the idea. Some brilliant stars burn hot and bright. Some average performers know how to deftly manage their careers so that they stay gainfully employed for a while (this is what agents and managers are for). And then you have people like Meryl Streep who last forever and also happen to be the best in the world at what they do. Regardless, I wouldn’t ascribe a star having a lasting career to some kind of karmic imbalance in the universe. It’s just a matter of luck, with a few smart choices mixed in.

Please note that the above paragraph does NOT apply to coaches, team executives, NFL broadcasters, or NFL team owners. All of those people stick around forever because God is an illusion.

Matt:

No but I remember being excited anytime I saw any team merch in any video. Like when Dr. Dre said, “Got my chrome to the side of his White Sox hat” in the “Dre Day” video, and ran his fingers along the brim of a White Sox hat? I was like I KNOW THAT TEAM! THESE GUYS LIKE SPORTS LIKE I DO! WE COULD BE FRIENDS! We were never friends. A pity.

Anonymous:

Not at all. You’re not obligated to become a Dolphins fan or whatever just because your father’s brother’s nephew’s cousin’s former roommate was just hired as their assistant quality control executive. I have one nephew who’s a Chiefs fan and one who’s a Niners fan (this made for a tense Super Bowl for my sister three years ago). I love both boys and I text them words of support whenever the Chiefs or Niners have a big game. But I didn’t disavow the Vikings for either team. That would have been going way overboard. In fact, whenever my team plays their teams, I hope my team wins by 1,000 points. I lead by example, as we all should.

Matt:

I still hate paying for apps. I’m like, “Three bucks? Are they joking? I can’t even eat this app!” Also, my eyes light up anytime I see anything on sale at the grocery store. If it’s “Buy two get one free” for a package of blueberries, you better believe I’m taking advantage of that deal. Plus it gets me extra gas points! I’m making deals all over the place, baby!

Meanwhile, I’ll hit a gas station on the road and toss an extra bag of chips in front of the register like it’s nothing. And if I want two appetizers at dinner instead of merely one (one of them can be “for the table”), you better believe I’m ordering them. I still have money-scrounging reflexes in me that were honed from decades in the workforce, freelancing, and the constant worry over health care/child expenses that all of that entailed. But when I get horny for an extra package of Nespresso capsules, my defenses weaken considerably. Sometimes you gotta treat yourself.

Carson:

You’ll have to wait for the commenters to weigh in below to know for certain. All I know is that I don’t do it, and that’s because I suck with jersey numbers. I really do. I remember obvious jersey numbers like Jordan (23) and Moss (84), but that’s it. I can barely remember CURRENT jersey numbers. Like Shohei Ohtani’s number? No fucking idea. Giannis? Nope. I think Aaron Rodgers is 12, is that right?

[checks]

OK I was right but I wasn’t 100 percent certain on that one. The point stands. There are too many jersey numbers for me to keep track of, especially when X guy will sell his jersey to Y guy for a new Ford Fiesta or whatever. Just knowing the names of guys is enough for me. Once you’re really into jersey numbers, you become one of those weird sports numerologists who thinks it’s no coincidence that the number of stars in Orion matches John Elway’s jersey number. I can’t be one of those people, although I salute those who try.

Dave:

I’m oddly charmed by it. I drank milk by the gallon until well into my 20s. Every morning when I was a bachelor, I’d drink a fucking huge glass of milk with my breakfast, and sometimes with dinner. It’s why my bones are so strong and erotic. So I respect any country boy who still throws down big glasses of milk. It would make me shit for days on end, but that’s 45 for you.

Email of the week!

Andrew:

And now we do. Thank you for your service, Andrew.