Thoughts on the one egg frying pan

The “one egg” frying pan puzzles me, because its marketed existence implies that it's heavily inconvenient to cook one egg in, say, a two-egg frying pan, or even a “however many you can shove in there if you don't mind 'em touching” frying pan, also known colloquially as simply “a frying pan.” A one-egg frying pan doesn't heat up any faster than a regular-sized frying pan of similar weight and materials (a lighter pan will heat and cool faster. That's all it is.). Yes, it's got an advantage over the Giant-Ass Skillet you pull out to feed a family (or one late-teenage male), but here's the thing: for one egg the Giant-Ass Skillet is every bit as ridiculous as the one-egg frying pan.

I guess the ultimate point, though, is that people buy them. They may never use them, but nobody makes things just because someone will use them. This is the modern era: we make shit because someone will buy it, and I have to say that inherently puzzling as they are, a well-put-together one-egg frying pan is pretty darn cute.

(Cute, as any parent, girl, animanga fan, 4chan denizen, or inhabitant of East Asia will know, is a major selling point. Companies are bought and sold on cute.)

TV Tropes speaks of “fridge logic.” I don't have fridge logic. Either I think those thoughts at the time, or I tend not to think them at all. This is why I can drive behind a bus and think that the hospital ad on the back really didn't take the bus's brake lights into account (SINISTER RED GLOW OK GO) and never wonder how Santa Claus visits every opted-in house in the world in one night.

As near as I can figure this makes me somewhat adventurous to talk to, and the fact that this is not a regular (well, heck, for all I know it is regular, I just don't see the pattern. It's not CONSTANT is the point I'm getting at) feature of my speech and syntax makes it all the more adventurous still. I'd like to say I lull one into a false sense of security before pulling out the tangets. That would be a shameless lie. What I do is be reasonably incomprehensible from very early on, and right about when a listener has either 1. given up completely or 2. begun to get pretty good at stringing together the tangents into some facsimile of coherent narrative, I get weird. In the first case, this usually makes them pay attention again through the sheer gravitational strength of the brain's “....wait, what?” reflex. In the second, it drops them completely from anything even vaguely resembling what I was getting at, which, let's be honest, sometimes I can't even identify.

Sometimes like now, in point of fact.

Welcome to my life.