How will this impact my daily omelet?
By ALLISON KELEHER — adkeleher@ucdavis.edu
Late one night, I left the library around closing time (since I am a nerd), and I noticed something peculiar in the distance. Looking toward Mrak Hall, I saw a team of doctors in hazmat suits rushing toward the Eye on Mrak egghead. They sprung into action and quickly set up a quarantine tent around the egghead. Even more weirdly, the doctors then assumed their places at each corner of the tent.
I took my glasses off to rub out a little smudge, and then I went home.
The next day, the campus was buzzing about the quarantine tents: They were set up around each and every egghead on campus. Some brave students attempted to approach the doctors for more information, but a loud siren noise would go off if anyone got within six feet of the tent.
“They won’t tell me anything either,” Chancellor Gary May whined when asked for a statement.
Apparently, this whole operation is bigger than we will ever know. Some students are really worried about this, but my nonchalant nature doesn’t allow for that.
I strolled over to my economics lecture and took a seat. As my professor started talking about supply and demand, he referenced the current supply shortage of eggs due to the avian influenza, or the bird flu. Then, my professor let out a little giggle and said: “Although we won’t have to worry about that now…”
This was suspicious, because people with doctorates in economics shouldn’t be giggling over people not being able to afford breakfast. Luckily, I didn’t need to say anything because my classmate asked, “What does that mean, professor?”
“I’ve said too much!” my professor exclaimed. Then, he abruptly ended the lecture and rushed out of the hall.
I decided to follow him since I had nothing better to do. He went straight to the Stargazer egghead and, surprisingly, the alarm didn’t go off for him. The doctors pulled open the tent flaps to let him through, abruptly closing them afterward. Since I couldn’t see inside the tent, I decided to linger on a nearby bench.
When my professor eventually emerged, he was carrying a large syringe full of what looked like egg whites. He tucked it under his trench coat and rushed off toward his lab. Luckily, I had already been stalking his lab in an attempt to get hired, so I knew exactly where to go. In fact, I made it there before my professor did. I watched through the windows as he started running tests on the egg white goo from the syringe.
After what felt like hours, my professor left his lab with a wide smile on his face. Unfortunately, he ran into me hiding in the bush outside. Since my cover was blown, I said, “I have a quick question from today’s lecture.”
“Ma’am, it’s 9 p.m.”
I ignored the fact that he called me “ma’am” and started to follow him as he walked away with a pep in his step. “What are you doing to the eggheads?” I asked, for investigative journalism purposes.
“You mean what are the eggheads doing for us?” he countered maniacally. I honestly had no idea what this could mean. I didn’t even realize there was goo inside of the eggheads. While I was pondering these thoughts in my head, my professor vanished into the night air. I didn’t see him again for the rest of the quarter.
A month or so later, balance had been restored on campus and the doctors left. Everyone seemed to collectively forget about the weird egghead incident in February. That was until swarms of paparazzi made their way onto campus and surrounded the eggheads. Flashes of light blinded the poor eggs, who couldn’t consent to having their picture taken. My professor was at the front of the mob, seemingly directing the paparazzi to the best angles for taking photos.
Later that day, I got a notification for a news article titled, “The Avian Flu is Over.” When I opened the link, I saw a large image of my professor smiling over an egg. Within the article, it outlined how the eggheads contracted the bird flu and how their antibodies were unlike any other. Apparently, the eggheads held the cure, because the eggheads aren’t chickens, but they are eggs themselves.
From the article, it seemed as though my professor cured the avian flu for chickens and solved the supply shortage of eggs. Sadly, the career fame got to his head, because in the image, he was wearing a large gold chain around his neck, a gold watch and Gucci sunglasses. He even had a gold-plated egg. My professor is the golden goose of the eggheads.
Once we finish rejoicing over the anticipated lower price of eggs, I think we should shift our focus to the real question: Since when did the eggheads become alive?
Written by: Allison Keleher — adkeleher@ucdavis.edu
Disclaimer: (This article is humor and/or satire, and its content is purely fictional. The story and the names of “sources” are fictionalized.)
