It’s almost too early for coffee and the sun glares at me as it pulls itself over the windowsill, but I’m happy. I’m making an omelet. I’m standing in the kitchen, whistling in my boxer shorts, and my testicles are swinging in perfect time. It’s going to be a great day. It’s already a great morning and the first egg I broke was a double yolk. The rest of the eggs are quite normal, as is the milk, and the butter, and just when I reach for an onion to liven things up, three mice appear from behind the toaster. They are dressed like Mexican bandits and they demand my cheese. They have little sombreros, little pistols, and the one in the middle has its whiskers waxed into a handlebar mustache. As I stand there pondering the intricate mechanics of their tiny firearms, they inch across the counter and repeat their demands. No one moves. The only sound is the slow suck of hot water through coffee grains. Just then the toaster goes off and we are all struck by the image of hot toast framed against a window full of angry sun.
Source: www.pith.net, 2004.