Rotten Egg Quotes

You’re a good guy, Caleb Drake.” “A man is only as good as what he loves most, right?” I flinched. Hopefully, that wasn’t true. I was about as rotten as a month old egg.

What if people really did that - sent their love through the mail to get rid of it? What would it be that they sent? A box of chocolates with centers like the yolks of turkey eggs. A mud doll with hollow eye sockets. A heap of roses slightly more fragrant than rotten. A package wrapped in bloody newspaper that nobody would want to open.

The people chased the Conservative candidate half a mile and threw him into a pond full of duckweed. People took politics seriously in those days. They used to begin storing up rotten eggs weeks before an election.

A man is only as good as what he loves most, right?”  I flinched. Hopefully, that wasn’t true. I was about as rotten as a month old egg.

When life hands you rotten eggs, don't eat the fuckers. Just throw them at someone you hate.

Suddenly, I ripped the book in two. And with it my heart. From the tear my insides came running out like a rotten egg. I became an empty, cast-off skin.

My mom yells at someone behind me. I spin with my hand on Pooky Bear, ready to pull out my blade. But it’s just my mom throwing rotten eggs at someone who took an empty soda bottle without asking.

We guard our bodies until they are old and tasteless, when we could have fed ourselves to claw and fur, been literally reincarnated in the cells of a lion sleeping in the sun, the wall of muscle that is a bear crashing through a rotten log in search of ant eggs. Why not return again and again, glistening, gilded every time?

I'm staying right here," grumbled the rat. "I haven't the slightest interest in fairs." "That's because you've never been to one," remarked the old sheep . "A fair is a rat's paradise. Everybody spills food at a fair. A rat can creep out late at night and have a feast. In the horse barn you will find oats that the trotters and pacers have spilled. In the trampled grass of the infield you will find old discarded lunch boxes containing the foul remains of peanut butter sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, cracker crumbs, bits of doughnuts, and particles of cheese. In the hard-packed dirt of the midway, after the glaring lights are out and the people have gone home to bed, you will find a veritable treasure of popcorn fragments, frozen custard dribblings, candied apples abandoned by tired children, sugar fluff crystals, salted almonds, popsicles,partially gnawed ice cream cones,and the wooden sticks of lollypops. Everywhere is loot for a rat--in tents, in booths, in hay lofts--why, a fair has enough disgusting leftover food to satisfy a whole army of rats." Templeton's eyes were blazing. " Is this true?" he asked. "Is this appetizing yarn of yours true? I like high living, and what you say tempts me." "It is true," said the old sheep. "Go to the Fair Templeton. You will find that the conditions at a fair will surpass your wildest dreams. Buckets with sour mash sticking to them, tin cans containing particles of tuna fish, greasy bags stuffed with rotten..." "That's enough!" cried Templeton. "Don't tell me anymore I'm going!

I took a big bite out of the slime ball. The texture was very soft and chewy-like, but as I chewed it in my mouth, it exploded with a flavor of unspeakable nastiness.  “YUCK! OH! GAH! GAG! It tasted like rotten eggs combined with some arm pit sweat.” Bob busted out laughing. “Ewww! That’s so gross,

Outsong in the Jungle [Baloo:] For the sake of him who showed One wise Frog the Jungle-Road, Keep the Law the Man-Pack make For thy blind old Baloo's sake! Clean or tainted, hot or stale, Hold it as it were the Trail, Through the day and through the night, Questing neither left nor right. For the sake of him who loves Thee beyond all else that moves, When thy Pack would make thee pain, Say: "Tabaqui sings again." When thy Pack would work thee ill, Say: "Shere Khan is yet to kill." When the knife is drawn to slay, Keep the Law and go thy way. (Root and honey, palm and spathe, Guard a cub from harm and scathe!) Wood and Water, Wind and Tree, Jungle-Favour go with thee! [Kaa:] Anger is the egg of Fear-- Only lidless eyes see clear. Cobra-poison none may leech-- Even so with Cobra-speech. Open talk shall call to thee Strength, whose mate is Courtesy. Send no lunge beyond thy length. Lend no rotten bough thy strength. Gauge thy gape with buck or goat, Lest thine eye should choke thy throat. After gorging, wouldst thou sleep ? Look thy den be hid and deep, Lest a wrong, by thee forgot, Draw thy killer to the spot. East and West and North and South, Wash thy hide and close thy mouth. (Pit and rift and blue pool-brim, Middle-Jungle follow him!) Wood and Water, Wind and Tree, Jungle-Favour go with thee! [Bagheera:] In the cage my life began; Well I know the worth of Man. By the Broken Lock that freed-- Man-cub, ware the Man-cub's breed! Scenting-dew or starlight pale, Choose no tangled tree-cat trail. Pack or council, hunt or den, Cry no truce with Jackal-Men. Feed them silence when they say: "Come with us an easy way." Feed them silence when they seek Help of thine to hurt the weak. Make no bandar's boast of skill; Hold thy peace above the kill. Let nor call nor song nor sign Turn thee from thy hunting-line. (Morning mist or twilight clear, Serve him, Wardens of the Deer!) Wood and Water, Wind and Tree, Jungle-Favour go with thee! [The Three:] On the trail that thou must tread To the threshold of our dread, Where the Flower blossoms red; Through the nights when thou shalt lie Prisoned from our Mother-sky, Hearing us, thy loves, go by; In the dawns when thou shalt wake To the toil thou canst not break, Heartsick for the Jungle's sake; Wood and Water, Wind air Tree, Wisdom, Strength, and Courtesy, Jungle-Favour go with thee!

People took politics seriously in those days. They used to begin storing up rotten eggs weeks before an election.

That swirling devil’s clot, that black maelstrom of cylindrical majesty. It is a swirling gray spider egg unspooling, filled with rotten teeth. A biblical monster, God’s vengeance. Whirring

People come out of hiding more for the rotten eggs that she passes out than the flyers, but Dee and Dum have assured me that that will change when people start feeling more human and less apocalyptic rat.

I knew that one of my sharpest memories of sixth grade was forever doomed to be that moment—sitting there with the overwhelming odor of rotten eggs, spaghetti, manure, dead dog, wet schoolbags, smelly socks, and the girly perfume of Amy Bellini’s shampoo … all filling my nostrils.

Cool.” Mai gathered her things and bolted out the door. “Last one to the car is a rotten egg.” Diode looked alarmed. “What?” “Relax.” I chuckled. “It’s just something people say.” He licked a front paw and smoothed the fur on his face. “People are, quite frankly, ridiculous.” “No argument here.

I think of bad news as a huge bird, with the wings of a crow and the face of my Grade Four school teacher, sparse bun, rancid teeth, wrinkly frown, pursed mouth and all, sailing around the world under cover of darkness pleased to be the bearer of ill tidings, carrying a basket of rotten eggs, and knowing- as the sun comes up- exactly where to drop them. On me, for one.

Outer space is fucking terrifying. I’m thankful for the ozone layer and the gravitational pull of the moon and whatnot, but they’d have to tie me like a spit-roasted pig to send me out there. The universe keeps expanding and getting colder, chunks of our galaxy are sucked away, black holes hurl through space at millions of miles per hour, and solar superstorms flare up at the drop of a hat. Meanwhile NASA astronauts are out there in their frankly inadequate suits, drinking liters of their own recycled urine, getting alligator skin on the top of their feet, and shitting rubber balls that float around at eye level. Their cerebrospinal fluid expands and presses on their eyeballs to the point that their eyesight deteriorates, their gut bacteria are a shitshow—no pun intended—and gamma rays that could literally pulverize them in less than a second wander around. But you know what’s even worse? The smell. Space smells like a toilet full of rotten eggs, and there’s no escape. You’re just stuck there until Houston allows you to come back home. So believe me when I say: I’m grateful every damn day for those two extra inches.

Babbitt looked up irritably from the comic strips in the Evening Advocate. They composed his favorite literature and art, these illustrated chronicles in which Mr. Mutt hit Mr. Jeff with a rotten egg, and Mother corrected Father's vulgarisms by means of a rolling-pin. With the solemn face of a devotee, breathing heavily through his open mouth, he plodded nightly through every picture, and during the rite he detested interruptions.

But why write such rotten scripts? If what you say is so, everybody’s where they want to be, even beggars with sores on their shins and starving children and guys being tortured in jails?” She nodded, watching me. I said, “I can’t accept that.” She waited a bit and then almost smiled. “Unacceptable?” She asked softly. And that rang a bell. “Unacceptable … ‘to accept the unacceptable.’ You said that, in the seminar. But I can’t remember why you said it.” “Yes you can,” she said, and waited. I drew a total blank this time, and I guess she knew it, because she gave me a nudge: “You say you don’t belong here. Is ‘here’—unacceptable?” “Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Then,” she asked, “why did you write this script?” “You mean—the me out there?” She nodded. I thought about that, and then mumbled, “I put it down to—curiosity? That’s all. I mean, throwing yourself into imperfect places, into pain and disappointment and well, the unacceptable—it just doesn’t make sense.” “It doesn’t?” “It sure doesn’t … unless …” I felt my eyes get big. “Unless those, uh, entities want to do what you said—to learn to accept the unacceptable. Even if they have to create it. That doesn’t make sense.” “It doesn’t? Suppose they can’t go on unless they learn that.” “Go on? Go on where?” She shrugs. “Everything living has to go on. Seed to shrub, shrub to tree, egg to bird.” “You mean—evolve. They have to learn to accept the unacceptable in order to evolve into—whatever’s next for them.” Surprisingly, she laughed. She said, “You keep on saying ‘they.

The Wretched Rulers of Freiland by Stewart Stafford A two-faced mirror, vainly warm, A beauteous sheen to a swinish form, Bloated with gold and wanton pride, As cormorants in cuckoo nests, they hide. They gorge on fabrication, binge on strife, Parasites living off another life, Suckers draining every dream, Like leeches in a poisoned stream. Shells crack, the rotten egg cabal; The bonfire of inanities banal, Power loosened in a fading grip, Fleeing the wake of freedom's ship. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

In early August, Bill Virdon was fired and replaced by Billy Martin. Virdon’s dismissal left Elston with mixed feelings: He was glad to be reunited with Billy, his old friend and teammate, but once again he was hurt because he had been snubbed for the job he so badly wanted. We loved Billy. At heart, he was a nice person, very generous. Billy’s problem was that he was an alcoholic. One time we were in Kansas City for the playoffs; he joined us for breakfast and ordered eggs and scotch. When Billy was drunk he could be a pretty rotten person; he got into fights. But

First rule of seduction. At least one of us has to get naked. Preferably you,” he murmured. Nervous apprehension replaced some of the excitement. It was silly. He’d seen her naked. Many times. They’d made love before. But for her it was like the first time all over again. “Hey,” he said softly. He drew away and tucked a finger under her chin, prompting her to look up at him. “We’ll take this as slow as you need. If I could make love to you with you fully clothed, I’d do it, but I think we both know that’s not an option.” She giggled and felt some of her unease leave her. “Let’s not take it too slow or we’ll both be old and decrepit before we ever make love.” “Mmm, I plan to make love to you until they put me in the grave. That’s what they make Viagra for.” She leaned into him and hugged him fiercely as another laugh escaped. “Make you a deal. We undress together. Last one naked is a rotten egg.” She yanked away as she said the last and immediately began peeling her clothes off. “Oh hell no,” he sputtered. “Maybe you don’t remember what a competitive family you married into.” “While you’re talking, I’m getting naked,” she taunted. A wicked glint sparked in his eyes. “I fail to see how I lose either way.

I’d be sixteen by now,” he said slowly. "Oh, Magnus!” Ragnor wailed. “That’s disgusting! How could you? Have you lost your mind?” “What?” Magnus asked again. “We agreed eighteen was the cutoff age,” said Ragnor. “You, I, and Catarina made a vow.” “A v— Oh, wait. You think I’m dating Raphael?” Magnus asked. “Raphael? That’s ridiculous. That’s—” “That’s the most revolting idea I’ve ever heard.” Raphael’s voice rang out to the ceiling. Probably people in the street could hear him. “That’s a little strong,” said Magnus. “And, frankly, hurtful.” “And if I did wish to indulge in unnatural pursuits— and let me be clear, I certainly do not,” Raphael continued scornfully, “as if I would choose him. Him! He dresses like a maniac, acts like a fool, and makes worse jokes than the man people throw rotten eggs at outside the Dew Drop every Saturday.” Ragnor began to laugh. “Better men than you have begged for a chance to win all this,” Magnus muttered. “They have fought duels in my honor. One man fought a duel for my honor, but that was a little embarrassing since it is long gone.” “Do you know he spends hours in the bathroom sometimes?” Raphael announced mercilessly. “He wastes actual magic on his hair. On his hair!” “I love this kid,” said Ragnor.

stop at the railroad crossing, I saw that most of the passengers were smoking. The atmosphere in there must have been roughly akin to the atmosphere of Saturn. Once the bus had gone on its way (leaving behind a smell of half-cooked diesel to mix with the rotten-egg stench belching from the Worumbo’s stacks), I crossed the street, wondering briefly what would happen if I were hit by a car. Would I blink out of existence? Wake up

Ha!’ cackled the fiend, ‘I expect you’d like revenge on that husband of yours. Murder shouldn’t go unpunished, and no creature enjoys delivering chastisement as much as I. What about giving him a taste of his own medicine? If you’d be so kind as to lend me your body, I’ll set him dancing to my tune.’ The wife’s spectre grimaced and nodded, at which the wicked Likho stripped off the nightgown, then the dead woman’s pliant skin, peeling back the flaccid folds. These it left in a slack heap. It gobbled her flesh and sucked the bones clean. These it hid behind the stove, before inserting itself inside the empty, wrinkled carcass, taking the former position of the corpse. Its fat tongue swiped the last juices from around its lips. When the husband returned home, all was as it had been; there was not a speck of blood to be seen, although the strangest smell of rotten eggs lingered

Domesticated animals like cats and dogs can look at their human companions’ facial expressions and discern their moods and whether the humans like them or not. The same is true for smart tigers in the wild. Why are those humans here? By coincidence or by design? They figure out human intentions based on behavior, expressions, and the energy radiated by people and take precautions or even attack accordingly. A jay once built a nest in the juniper tree at a temple I used to go to. Out of curiosity one day, a monk at the temple peeked inside and happened to meet the gaze of the jay brooding an egg. The monk felt sorry, as if he’d invaded someone’s privacy by looking into their bedroom. From that day on, the monk purposefully ignored the jay when he passed by the nest. The jay also grew to ignore the presence of the monk coming and going, and it was able to raise its young and leave the nest. In contrast, an azure-winged magpie once built a nest in my friend’s garden. Enchanted by its light blue wings and long tail, my friend looked in on the bird often. Not long after, the magpie gave up the nest and flew away, leaving behind a rotten egg. We

But what does that mean, protect, it’s only a word. I could make you, now, a detailed list of all the coverings, large and small, that I constructed to keep myself hidden, and yet they were of no use to me. Do you remember how the night sky of Ischia horrified me? You all said how beautiful it is, but I couldn’t. I smelled an odor of rotten eggs, eggs with a greenish-yellow yolk inside the white and inside the shell, a hard-boiled egg cracked open. I had in my mouth poisoned egg stars, their light had a white, gummy consistency, it stuck to your teeth, along with the gelatinous black of the sky, I crushed it with disgust, I tasted a crackling of grit. Am I clear? Am I making myself clear? And yet on Ischia I was happy, full of love. But it was no use, my head always finds a chink to peer through, beyond—above, beneath, on the side—where the fear is. In Bruno’s factory, for example, the bones of the animals cracked in your fingers if you merely touched them, and a rancid marrow spilled out. I was so afraid that I thought I was sick. But was I sick? Did I really have a murmur in my heart? No. The only problem has always been the disquiet of my mind.

Poet is Priest Money has reckoned the soul of America Congress broken thru to the precipice of Eternity the president built a War machine which will vomit and rear Russia out of Kansas The American Century betrayed by a mad Senate which no longer sleeps with its wife. Franco has murdered Lorca the fairy son of Whitman just as Maykovsky committed suicide to avoid Russia Hart Crane distinguished Platonist committed suicide to cave in the wrong America just as millions of tons of human wheat were burned in secret caverns under the White House while India starved and screamed and ate mad dogs full of rain and mountains of eggs were reduced to white powder in the halls of Congress no godfearing man will walk there again because of the stink of the rotten eggs of America and the Indians of Chiapas continue to gnaw their vitaminless tortillas aborigines of Australia perhaps gibber in the eggless wilderness and I rarely have an egg for breakfast tho my work requires infinite eggs to come to birth in Eternity eggs should be eaten or given to their mothers and the grief of the countless chickens of America is expressed in the screaming of her comedians over the radio

Whatever happens, I must be back in Somerset by Dec 1 when Mrs Shirley Williams comes to address a rally of the Social Democratic party in Bridgwater. Suitably enough, this hellish woman has chosen the local Comprehensive School as her venue. Rotten eggs and cowpats can probably be acquired locally, but stink bombs and more sophisticated devices should be brought with you. Hoax bomb calls and maniacal threatening letters should be addressed to Bridgwater Police Headquarters. Tea and biscuits will be served at halftime.

Later, while Andrew Demont was in hospital in Halifax, Ed White visited him and told him that the water had been up to Demont’s lips by the time White was able to secure him in the rope-harness. Demont told me that at the top of the shaft he could smell nothing, but that as he started down the ladder, a foul-smelling odor had overwhelmed him. As he looked into the shaft he could see Karl Graeser sitting underwater, with only the very top of his head showing. Andrew said he saw Bobby, his eyes closed, supporting his dad’s head just above the waterline. Andrew said he placed his hand on Bobby’s shoulder, and then he, too, drifted into unconsciousness. Apparently he stayed like that as the water slowly rose around him, until Ed White came to rescue him. Many years later I was told that the gas that overwhelmed the men was probably hydrogen sulphide, a lethal gas that can form when rotting vegetation is combined with salt water. Apparently, it can be odourless or have a foul rotten-egg smell, depending on the concentration. There is no doubt in my mind that there was salt water in the ground near the new shaft. Right beside it were two tall apple trees. The apples that grew on those trees looked like a type we call “Transparents” in Ontario. Those two trees looked exactly like others on the island, but they bore delicious, crisp, tangy fruit, whereas apples from similar trees were tasteless. A local woman told me that when apple trees grow near the sea in a mix of fresh water and salt water, they produce juicy, sharp, flavourful apples. Could the salt water that nurtured those apples have reacted with the coconut fibre, eel grass, and other old vegetation that had lain dormant for so long in the pirates’ beachwork, producing the deadly hydrogen sulphide? Could the “porridge-like” earth that was encountered only at this location on the island be in some way related to this toxic combination? We may never know.

When we would take the van to go places, the neighbor’s kids would throw things at us—rotten fruit, eggs—and eggs hurt. When you get hit in the face with an egg, that hurts, and sometimes it would actually break the skin. They would never let us go back in the house to change. I remember one time they took us to the beach to walk the boardwalk and we had gotten pelted pretty good. So here we are, a gaggle of pregnant girls marked with this stuff, and it smelled. I was thinking to myself, “You know, they tell us not to make a spectacle of ourselves, to maintain our dignity, but they go out of their way to make sure we’re humiliated.” We

leaders.’ Nebe snorted and went back round his desk. ‘You’re going to have to watch your mouth, Bernie,’ he said, half-amused. ‘Get to the funny bit.’ ‘Well, it’s this. A number of recent reports, complaints if you like, made to Kripo by those related to institutionalized people leads me to suspect that some sort of mercy-killing is already being unofficially practised.’ I leant forward and grasped the bridge of my nose. ‘Do you ever get headaches? I get headaches. It’s smell that really sets them off. Paint smells pretty bad. So does formaldehyde in the mortuary. But the worst are those rotten pissing places you get where the dozers and rum-sweats sleep rough. That’s a smell I can recall in my worst nightmares. You know, Arthur, I thought I knew every bad smell there was in this city. But that’s last month’s shit fried with last year’s eggs.’ Nebe pulled open a drawer and took out a bottle and two glasses. He said nothing as he poured a couple of large ones. I threw it back and waited for the fiery spirit to seek out what was left of my heart and stomach. I nodded and let him pour me another. I said: ‘Just when you thought that things couldn’t get any worse, you find out that they’ve always been a lot worse than you thought they were. And then they get worse.’ I drained the second glass and then surveyed its empty shape. ‘Thanks for telling me straight, Arthur.’ I dragged myself to my feet. ‘And thanks for the warmer.’ ‘Please keep me informed about your suspect,’ he said. ‘You might consider letting a couple of your men work a friend-and-foe shift on him. No rough stuff, just a bit of the old-fashioned psychological pressure. You know the sort of thing I mean. Incidentally, how are you getting on with your team? Everything working out there? No resentments, or anything like that?’ I could have sat down again and given him a list of

She struts into the hair salon, her mouth filled with a rotten egg of gossip, unshelled, filled with decay. As soon as she sits down she bites into the shell, and the stink of her lies fills the air, its goo dripping down her chin. With her new haircut she exits, leaving behind the putrid evidence that she’s as corrupt as the egg of lies she spread.

The Navalny case is a rotten egg momentum. Fine.

Laird had already gotten his board out of his inventory and tossed off his robe, revealing his surf trunks below it. “Let’s paddle out. Last one to get pitted is a rotten egg.

The cup of herb tea with which Rotten Eggs was washing down his roll and forcemeat fell from the table. A first-year physics student, Albert Solpietra, fell from a plantain tree in the academy grounds that he

That car is the color of a faded quinceañera ribbon in a small highland town in Mexico. Which makes it sound far more romantic a color than it actually is,” Roland intones damningly with a nod. The car remains unassuming, vaguely like a rotten chicken egg in the background, if rotted chicken eggs came with ‘Wash me!’ written faintly across the rear window and Vancouver Canuck vanity plates.

Please don't let it be really hot here.' New Orleans in August was about as hot as he wanted to deal with. And he definitely didn't want to smell rotten eggs for eternity. He'd had enough of Kyrian's dirty laundry for that.

Casey rested his forehead on his hands and began to recite his list of get-rid-of-my-erection-now things. "Wrinkly old testicles with masses of gray hair. Applying hemorrhoid cream. Rotten eggs broken in the house. Tennis shoes that haven't been washed for years. Moldy cabbage. Three-day-old roadkill. Toilets that don't flush properly. Accidentally using sports rub for lubricant.

Asparagus contains a sulfur compound called mercaptan. It is also found in onions, garlic, rotten eggs, and in the secretions of skunks. The signature smell occurs when this substance is broken down in your digestive system. Not all people have the gene for the enzyme that breaks down mercaptan, so some of you can eat all the asparagus you want without stinking up the place. One study published in the British Journal of Clinical Pharmacology found that only 46 percent of British people tested produced the odor while 100 percent of French people tested did. Insert your favorite French joke here:________________________________.

When the police came to San Lorenzo they were fired upon by children and grandmothers with rocks, buckets of water, rotten eggs. There was more of the proletarian shopping, as it was called, that I’d seen on the Via del Corso. Jeans for the people. Cheese and bread and wine for the people. Umbrellas for the people, because rain fell and fell that week.

Spindletop Fishtails flap and screw through earth’s cradled womb through heaving sands and ocean floors for fortunes crude and wildcat dreams for days of easy living. Earth retaliates with rotten eggs and busted drills but her resistance spent the caprock crumbles and exhales and like a newborn slapped she screams the scream which marks the birth of a spanking new-sprung era. Jubilant the fathers dance Stetson’s tossed high into the air their faces flecked with bootblack gold their hair slicked back with glistenin’ oil. Their upstart child’s a heifer to milk until it moos then trade unto the butcher’s block for meat when it goes dry. Enriched in the meantime between breakdowns rain and air turns to poison rivers flood the poor starve. We’re all wildcatters with the gleam of gold in our eyes and the spray of crude on our faces.

Outside the Pacific Northwest, Florida is among the most bustling areas for bigfoot, according to BFRO reports, getting as much activity as Ohio and Texas. In Florida, though, the creatures are called Skunk Apes, smaller, leaner, and far-stinkier cousins that have a strong, foul odor reminiscent of a dead skunk mixed with cow manure and rotten eggs.

Here is America Now: smoke, greasy fumes, the friction of tire rubber, the memory of terrifying refineries with their rubbery rotten-egg smells.

When life hands you rotten eggs, don't eat the fuckers. Just throw them at someone you hate.

Sage doesn’t chase away spirits,” Iris continued, “but it does mask their scent. Spirits carry an ozone scent, and demons smell like sulfur or rotten eggs. A person might not even consciously register the smell, but they’ll sense it on some level. It’s that awareness that the spirit can use as a doorway to return to the environment.

(What if people really did that--sent their love through the mail to get rid of it? What would it be that they sent? A box of chocolates with centers like the yolks of turkeys' eggs. A mud doll with hollow eye sockets. A heap of roses slightly more fragrant than rotten. A package wrapped in bloody newspaper that nobody would want to open.)

From the bottom of his nostrils to his right ear there was evidence that when Mikey had a runny nose he used his sleeve instead of a handkerchief. When he became excited he passed a gas which pierced surprised nostrils like needles dipped in rotten eggs.

Spirits carry an ozone scent, and demons smell like sulfur or rotten eggs. A person might not even consciously register the smell, but they’ll sense it on some level. It’s that awareness that the spirit can use as a doorway to return to the environment.

Once upon a time, there lived a man who had a terrible passion for baked beans. He loved them, but they always had an embarrassing and somewhat lively reaction on him. One day he met a girl and fell in love. When it was apparent that they would marry, he thought to himself 'She'll never go for me carrying on like that,' so he made the supreme sacrifice and gave up beans, and shortly after that they got married.      A few months later, on the way home from work, his car broke down and since they lived in the country, he called his wife and told her he would be late because he had to walk. On his way home, he passed a small cafe and the wonderful aroma of baked beans overwhelmed him. Since he still had several miles to walk he figured he could walk off any ill affects before he got home. So he went in and ordered, and before leaving had three extra-large helpings of baked beans. All the way home he farted. He 'putted' down one hill and 'putt-putted' up the next. By the time he arrived home he felt reasonably safe.      His wife met him at the door and seemed somewhat excited. She exclaimed, 'Darling, I have the most wonderful surprise for you for dinner tonight!' She put a blindfold on him, and led him to his chair at the head of the table and made him promise not to peek. At this point he was beginning to feel another one coming on. Just as she was about to remove the blindfold, the telephone rang. She again made him promise not to peek until she returned, and she went to answer the phone.       While she was gone, he seized the opportunity. He shifted his weight to one leg and let go. It was not only loud, but *ripe* as a rotten egg.        He had a hard time breathing, so he felt for his napkin and fanned the air about him. He had just started to feel better, when another urge came on. He raised his leg and 'rrriiiipppp!' It sounded like a diesel engine revving, and smelled worse. To keep from gagging, he tried fanning his arms a while, hoping the smell would dissipate. Things had just about returned to normal when he felt another urge coming. He shifted his weight to his other leg and let go. This was a real blue ribbon winner; the windows rattled, the dishes on the table shook and a minute later the flowers on the table were dead. While keeping an ear tuned in on the conversation in the hallway, and keeping his promise of staying blindfolded, he carried on like this for the next ten minutes, farting and fanning them each time with his napkin.      When he heard the 'phone farewells' (indicating the end of his loneliness and freedom) he neatly laid his napkin on his lap and folded his hands on top of it. Smiling contentedly, he was the picture of innocence when his wife walked in. Apologizing for taking so long, she asked if he had peeked at the dinner. After assuring her he had not, she removed the blindfold and yelled, 'Surprise!'      To his shock and horror, there were twelve dinner guests seated around the table for his surprise birthday party.

Plan for the day when all your plans fail, when those you trust betray you, when your certainty cracks like a rotten egg and you are alone in the storm.

OBIT FOR THE CREATOR OF MAD LIBS On Tuesday, in Canton, Connecticut, a town famous for the stickiness of its boogers, a stinky old man died of a good disease at his home at 345 Rotten Lane. Mr. Preston Wirtz, whose parents, Ida and Goober, ran a small jelly farm, died in his yellowish toilet. Mr. Wirtz was hated in Uzbekistan for the series of wordplay books he created for slippery children, books known far and wide as “Mad Libs,” beloved by hairy grumps and farty grampas alike. These books were never appreciated by tall elves, selling over two per year for one decade. When asked to describe Mr. Wirtz, his jealous wife, wearing nothing but an egg carton and flip-flops, called him “in a nutshell, the most sour-smelling, bacon-licking, pimple-footed crab-apple I have ever known. I will never always miss him and his broken underwear.” Then she cried herself to sleep in her fart-house.

Love letters to the depressed and the future heart broken I’m leaving the light on in my old street Hoping I see some surrender on the other side of town Blink twice if you can see me. Blink thrice if you need me. We’ve been walking alone for too long, putting all our rotten eggs in the same basket Skipping in the dark, singing do rei (forget) me.

Two bad eggs do not make a rotten omelette, of course,

At present, I allow, we must have forest for the atmosphere. Presently we find a chemical substitute. And then, why any natural trees? I foresee nothing but the art tree all over the earth. In fact, we clean the planet." "Do you mean," put in a man called Gould, "that we are to have no vegetation at all?" "Exactly. You shave your face: even, in the English fashion, you shave him every day. One day we shave the planet." "I wonder what the birds will make of it?" "I would not have any birds either. On the art tree I would have the art birds all singing when you press a switch inside the house. When you are tired of the singing you switch them off. Consider again the improvement. No feathers dropped about, no nests, no eggs, no dirt." "It sounds," said Mark, "like abolishing pretty well all organic life." "And why not? It is simple hygiene. Listen, my friends. If you pick up some rotten thing and find this organic life crawling over it, do you not say, 'Oh, the horrid thing. It is alive,' and then drop it?

The overwhelming scent of rotten eggs fills the car, and I groan and cover my nose with my shirt. I glare at Hoot, who couldn’t give two shits about the ass bombs he keeps dropping.

When I have pictorially captured smell, the most palpable of the senses, the next thing will be to imprison sound- vulgarly speaking, to bottle it. Just think a moment. Force is as imperishable as matter; indeed, as I have been somewhat successful in showing, it is matter. Now, when a sound wave is once started, it is only lost through an indefinite extension of its circumference. Catch that sound wave, sir! Catch it in a bottle, then its circumference cannot extend. You may keep the sound wave forever if you will only keep it corked up tight. The only difficulty is in bottling it in the first place. I shall attend to the details of that operation just as soon as I have managed to photograph the confounded rotten-egg smell of sulphydric acid." The professor stirred up the offensive mixture with a glass rod, and continued: "While my object in bottling sound is mainly scientific, I must confess that I see in success in that direction a prospect of considerable pecuniary profit. I shall be prepared at no distant day to put operas in quart bottles, labeled and assorted, and contemplate a series of light and popular airs in ounce vials at prices to suit the times. You know very well that it costs a ten-dollar bill now to take a lady to hear Martha or Mignon, rendered in first-class style. By the bottle system, the same notes may be heard in one's own parlor at a comparatively trifling expense. I could put the operas into the market at from eighty cents to a dollar a bottle. For oratorios and symphonies I should use demijohns, and the cost would of course be greater. I don't think that ordinary bottles would hold Wagner's music. It might be necessary to employ carboys. Sir, if I were of the sanguine habit of you Americans, I should say that there were millions in it. Being a phlegmatic Teuton, accustomed to the precision and moderation of scientific language, I will merely say that in the success of my experiments with sound I see a comfortable income, as well as great renown. A SCIENTIFIC MARVEL By this time the professor had another negative, but an eager examination of it yielded nothing more satisfactory than before. He sighed and continued: "Having photographed smell and bottled sound, I shall proceed to a project as much higher than this as the reflective faculties are higher than the perceptive, as the brain is more exalted than the ear or nose. "I am perfectly satisfied that elements of mind are just as susceptible of detection and analysis as elements of matter. Why, mind is matter. "The soul spectroscope, or, as it will better be known, Dummkopf's duplex self-registering soul spectroscope, is based on the broad fact that whatever is material may be analyzed and determined by the position of the Frauenhofer lines upon the spectrum. If soul is matter, soul may thus be analyzed and determined. Place a subject under the light, and the minute exhalations or

had a strong scent memory and could conjure the atmosphere of that conference room as if producing it from a filing cabinet and spreading it across my kitchen table. Freon, dust, hot plastic, paper. Corporate office accord. The egg salad, sulfurous with a sharp note of sweet vinegar for the emerald studs of relish. The barest hint of stale tobacco. Whisky breath, which was peat, fermented sugars, rotten meat. The smallest trace of orris root and musky jasmine for the whisper of sex

It is well within the capabilities of current technology to create a stratospheric haze via any of a number of methods, including additives to jet fuel or artillery shells that disperse the gas hydrogen sulfide (H2S, which smells like rotten eggs) at high altitude. This would not be a onetime exercise: the haze would have to be refreshed constantly, as the particles settle out over a year or two. The amount of sulfur that would have to be added to the stratosphere each year would be only about one-tenth of that humans currently emit at much lower altitudes, so direct health impacts would be minimal. And projected costs are low enough that a small nation or even a single wealthy individual could carry out the entire project themselves.

Rotten eggs that will never hatch

A man is only as good as what he loves most, right?” I flinched. Hopefully, that wasn’t true. I was about as rotten as a month-old egg.

A second major problem appeared early in the work on the Nevada. It was the discovery of a deadly gas, generated within the ship. This poisonous gas was hydrogen sulfide. It was formed from a mixture of salt water, paper products, and other organic materials. In low concentrations it produced an odor much like rotten eggs, but in high concentrations it was odorless and highly toxic.

I pictured the eggs inside of my body like they were grapes gone bad. Sour, rotten fruit, skin bruised and fuzzy with mould, caving in on themselves.

I pictured the eggs inside of my body like they were grapes gone bad. Sour, rotten fruit, skin bruised and fuzzy with mold, caving in on themselves.

Golly! Bigger than the summer feast?” “Far bigger!” “An’ you’re all goin’ to cook right through the night?” “Oh yes, that’s why we don’t want you under our paws. Otherwise we might not have it ready on time.” “Got it, marm. All the weary warriors sleep while you sportin’ creatures cook up a whackin’ beanfeast. Right?” “Right!” Basil shot out of the Abbot’s study like a rocket, calling over his shoulder as he went, “Last one in bed and fast asleep’s a rotten egg. Yaaaah!” Foremole entered the study, rubbing his nose. “Oi jus’ bin a-runned over boi a mad creatur’. Hurr.” Orlando laughed so hard he hurt his jaw.

The cyanobacteria, a group of photosynthetic bacteria tinted blue-green by chlorophyll and other pigments, harvest sunlight and fix CO2 much like eukaryotic algae and land plants. However, when hydrogen sulfide (H2S, well known for its “rotten egg” smell) is present, many cyanobacteria use this gas rather than water to supply the electrons needed for photosynthesis. Sulfur and sulfate are formed as by-products, but oxygen is not.

Gossipers are two faced people that you should avoid. Filled with jealousy they can talk behind like a troll. Like awkward fools they smile in your face. But laugh at you behind your back like monkeys in the zoo. Their lives are so shallow and hearts rotten as eggs. They have nothing else to do other than discussing you. If they look at own flaws they might gain some sense. Let me tell you one thing what goes around comes back. Find something better to do and change.

What're you going to write about for English?" Vicky asked. "They're a rotten lot of subjects. I don't want to do any of them." "I don't mind the one on Macbeth." "You must be crazy! It doesn't mean a thing." "What is it?" Mrs. Stanford asked. "About how the witches knew Macbeth was going to kill Duncan," Chris said. "No it isn't. It's whether Macbeth would have done anything about it if he hadn't been told he was going to be king," Vicky said. "What's the difference? They told him the future, didn't they?" "But what's interesting is whether he'd have murdered Duncan if they hadn't said anything." "But he did murder Duncan. He couldn't have been king without it," Chris said. "Only did the witches make him do it by telling him first?

Keep away from her,” said Ameer Merchant, but once the inexplorable dynamic of the myth has been set in motion, you might as well try and keep bees from honey, crooks from money, politicians from babies, philosophers from maybes. Vina had her hooks in me, and the consequence was the story of my life. “Bad egg,’’ Ameer called her, and “rotten apple” too. And then, dripping and bruised, she arrived at our door in the middle of the night, begging to be taken in.

And do not, by all means, abate your anathemata simply because today happens -- just happens -- to be our birthday. We were not expecting any presents anyway, but if you should take a notion to pelt us with tomatoes and rotten eggs, we will try to interpret them not as missiles but as missives conveying -- and in turn soliciting from ourself -- many happy returns.

YUCK! OH! GAH! GAG! It tasted like rotten eggs

it seemed that a hundred thousand smashed rotten eggs, poured over a hundred thousand spoiled fish heads and dead cats, couldn’t have reeked they way it reeked here.

After the path of bones, the next sign was the odor. They made a game of trying to describe what it smelled like, and settled on “somebody cooking rotten eggs and broccoli in a microwave.