Once, there was a boy.
And the boy loved an egg very much.
Nobody knew that he loved the egg, though. And this was hardly surprising, because when the mother responsible for making his lunch hard-boiled the egg and peeled it and put it in his lunch, he ignored it outright. And then, when she, ever hopeful, later that evening put the ignored egg on the dining room table — nay, directly on the boy’s dinner plate — the boy very firmly took the egg off his dinner plate and explained, in no uncertain terms, that he did not want the egg. Oh fickle heart.
Because the boy, in fact, DID love the egg. In fact, he loved the egg and only that egg more than anything in the world and knew utterly that, without the egg, he would be doomed to a life of misery and despair and unending want.
He knew all these things at the precise moment that his younger brother picked up the discarded egg from the table and took a bite out of it.
And, oh: the PASSION. Oh, the FURY. Oh, the utter VEHEMENCE with which the boy defended his rapidly disappearing egg. “It was my egg, my egg,” he wailed, “my only, only egg, my favourite egg, the only egg I wanted. My egg. My eeeeegggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHH!”
The brother, meanwhile, had crawled into the boy’s other mother’s lap and happily — if not entirely innocently — popped the last bite of egg into his mouth, which ratcheted the boy’s histrionics to new heights. The boy suggested, passionately, furiously, vehemently, that the egg would now have to be surgically extracted from his brother’s stomach, and that perhaps a butter knife might be an appropriate implement with which to perform this task.
His mothers suggested that they disagreed with this suggestion. In fact, they suggested many things, but all their suggestions were handily dismissed. The situation continued for quite some time until one mother or the other suggested that the point of “enough” had been reached. The boy disagreed, but the mothers prevailed, and peace was once again restored to the household. More or less.