Egg.

I tap the egg against the corner of the table. She cracks, and I groove out the slipslop through her toothy edge into a ceramic half-orb. The slipslop, clear and shimmering and alive, makes me feel nauseous. I spit -ptoo!- , my saliva absorbing into its hungry mass. How horrible. How obscene!

But... contained within the slipslop's gelatinous atrocity... sits the Golden King, round and glorious and all-welcoming. My eyes shine for His majesty. With trembling fingers I extract the Noble Yellow Master from the dead-jellyfish of slipslop and saliva and cradle Him, cool and beautiful, in my palm.

As I gaze into His illustrious essence, slipslop drizzles from between my fingers, painting the table in its pornographic viscera. But even that eggy-blaspheme cannot keep me from the tranquility, the magnificence of this moment.