My husband and his eggs, or rather his brains

This morning I asked my hubby if he wanted eggs for breakfast.

“Sure,” he told me.

In the kitchen I took out the frying pan, the eggs and the butter, and turned the stove on.

“What are you doing?” he asked me.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” I told him. “You wanted eggs, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’m running late.”

“So . . . what does that mean, huh? You don’t want eggs now?”

“I do,” he said, “but can’t you cook ’em in the microwave or something? It’ll be faster.”

He grabbed his coffee and work things.

I laughed at him. “Why don’t you just take two eggs and hold ’em out the window on your way to work and pray that the sun cooks ’em for you?”

He walked to where the eggs were. “What if I took three?”