Hello, and thank you for coming. Please be seated.
We are gathered here today to discuss something that has changed all of our lives, the kind of substance that would alleviate your spirits following a long day of walking to class and dodging “hoverboards.” But now, this thing is gone.
I am, of course, referring to the omelettes at late-night dining. They are now served just once a month, if at all.
I still remember the first time that I saw the option for this scrumptious meal. It was my freshman year, and all of my friends said, “Hey dude, let’s just get chicken fingers and grab a booth.”
But I, encapsulated by love at first sight, replied, “No, I think I’ll stand in this long line and make you wait 20 minutes for me.”
It was worth every second. I don’t usually even like eggs, but it didn’t matter. They were fluffy, and the ham and cheese married in my mouth perfectly, like Khloé Kardashian and a husband she hasn’t seen in six months.
Frankly, we’ve all been there: you went to breakfast (at noon) and dinner (at eight), and none of the “Chicken-Fried Chicken” tasted like a bird. But the sweet, runny omelettes were there to anchor your evening at midnight.
Naturally, I noticed that omelettes were dwindling as a late night staple this year, so I decided to attend late-night dining and ask the “omelette guy” about abandoning his flagship cuisine. How dare they take away the nom-nom-nom-elette.
“The avian flu hit hard this year,” Chico the chef said. “Too many eggs were infected, so we had to stop ordering so many.”
“Of course, that makes perfect sense,” I said. Wow, what a noble, mothering dining hall we have, always looking out for its students.
“Also, taxes went up.”
Okay, nevermind. Same ol’ dining hall.
But who cares about the money? These yellow love pockets brought happiness to the students.
“The omelettes were the fuel for my brain,” junior Brendan McBreen said. “Life is just pointless without my fluffy.”
Even the freshmen knew they missed out on the golden age of golden eggs. “I’ve only had two late nights with omelette,” freshman Jordan Hill said. “It was like my first wet dream about Ella Eyre.”
A British freshman chimed in. “Write about the fruit instead,” Oliver Constantine said. “It’s dreadful.” Okay, I don’t know how that last one got in there, but he has a point.
Nevertheless, it seems like we have to accept that our beloved omelettes have become an endangered species.
It’s time to move on, guys.
So, next time you enter the Stanford-Hecht dining hall at 12 a.m. and you see just some gooey chicken drowning in cheese … say to yourself, “Omelette this go.”
Danny New is a junior majoring in broadcast journalism. The Maturity Column runs alternating Mondays.