I Do Not Like Green Eggs and Ham

Few were happier than good Samaritan Rok Finger when Lee came out of his coma. Sure, Camembert appeared happy about it—a little too happy, if you ask me. But I was the one who had loaded him up with alcohol and convinced him real men can knock back a few dozen Harvey Wallbangers and then drive with no problem, so the guilt was more than enough to make me hope for him to pull through—and when he did, I expected a few questions. Where am I? How did I get back here? Why didn't you take me to a hospital? Why can't that kid walk? But this is not what I expected.

Lee after the crash did not really seem all that different from Lee before the crash (let's refer to him as Lee B.C.). Yes, he's taken to speaking in rhyme and wearing a three-foot peppermint-striped hat, but I thought it a phase we all go through. What really bothers me is he won't answer to Lee anymore and insists I eat rotten meat and eggs.

Okay, they may not actually be rotten, but they're bright green. You tell me what your first assessment is of the quality of this ham and eggs he's pushing. I wake up, my first guilt-free sleep in a week (besides my afternoon naps), and find Lee cooking breakfast. Fantastic! It appeared at first the crash actually improved him—the old Lee never cooked breakfast, woke up early, paid rent or bathed. I considered taking Camembert for a ride like Jeff Bridges took Rosie Perez in Fearless, hoping for the same great results as with Lee; or Rosie Perez herself, if I could get her in the car. That is, until Lee revealed his true colors—bright green.

I politely refused to eat his foul-colored eggs and porkskin, but that wasn't enough. He kept offering to make the setting more presentable in any way to make me eat them. A bigger or shinier plate, a glass of milk, bringing a fox to the table or threatening to trap me in a box. I'm not sure what either of those would do to improve my appetite, but he was pretty insistent. He already had the fox locked in my bedroom. I still tried to politely reject it, then I resorted to the F-word—flatulence; odd-colored food makes me gassy. But he would not be thwarted.

Even going to the office didn't stop him. He popped up in the backseat of my car and tried to shove them in my mouth. I later found him stuffed inside a drawer of my desk, which at his full 5'5" height made it uncomfortable for him, I'm sure, yet he still was trying to force these emerald eggs and bacon down my gullet. I told him I wouldn't even eat them on a train, or on a plane—though it looks an awful lot like travel food. I beat him to the punch as well by telling him I wouldn't eat them in the rain, a sewer drain, off a yellow stain, if served by Billy Zane, while listening to the Clash's "Train in Vain," wrestling Tom Payne, or if I was insane. This impressed him to no end, I believe.

Then, finally, just to be left alone, I tried them. Nobody was more surprised than I was.

I was made horribly, horribly sick. They rushed me to the emergency room and pumped my stomach, and when they found green meat and eggs, let's just say the doctors and nurses chided me into humiliation in front of the whole emergency room. They said it was obvious Lee had a severe head trauma and needed medical attention as well. And me, well, I was just an asshole for eating green eggs and ham offered by a man with a critical concussion.

So I've learned my lesson. Or maybe I haven't. I won't eat any food that isn't the right color anymore, I know that. Sometimes your instincts are dead on, and men in peppermint hats can't be trusted.

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